Its been a while and I always wondered who read this blog. Checked back now in 2009 after months of being busy with everything else and whoopee. To anyone that reads, and wants to continue to read, check back here periodically and also, Alternavox is my new podium for internet banter, and myspace is still a regular rant place to date.
Can someone send me Red Yellow Green 's myspace link? I cant seem to find them online and remember listening to their tracks and digging em, just can't find em in any search engines anymore.
Got to play at the Horseshoe tavern with City Sirens, Acres of Lions, Wormwood Scrubs and We See Lights a rockin band from Scotland. I am not a music critic. We had a solid time. There was another guy that popped by circa 3am - Dean Lickyer played a set into the wee hours, but by then I was in bed trapped inside my own head.
I kind of dwell on the shitty end of things, and while the gig went splendidly, I wanted a bad review or someone to throw something, or say something ballsy to me at the end of the show like "your set was alright, but your G-string was out of tune" so I could punch them in the face from all of the built up nervous tension of the night. But no such thing happened.
Still waiting for either a punch to the face or a fairytale happy ending and neither seem to be materializing to date. Gotta push those buttons harder I guess.
To anyone who was at our last gig and needs to know if the man in the monkey suit was a hired goon - He was not, he came dressed like that because he knew the album title and he wanted to show support and we love him. Honorable mentions also go out to the mobs of happy dancing people up at the front of the stage, and especially the giddy Korean's - it was a spectacle to say at the very least.
We have an LP out called Monkeys With Guns. It includes the songs: Basement, Gridlock, Up I Go and Childlost. It will be available for sale up on IndiePool later next week.
Happy reading and internet bleeding.
OR
Friday, March 13, 2009
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Orifice
I spend between 8AM and 5PM every day checking the internets for retail and new music. I am not sure what I am supposed to do here at my job, but I think it has something to do with being a “people person” and lending out my red stapler. (I don’t even have a red stapler - I swiped one from the receptionist’s desk)
Today I had a can of tuna for lunch and now my office smells like cat food. Occasionally I will get up and make coffee and small talk, and it is then that my supervisor likes to storm past me and slam the door shut. It doesn’t matter what door to him, he just likes to slam doors and storm in and out of peaceful places startling people.
Last week, he called me into his office and showed me a website, explaining “you will have to register with this association in order to get accredited with the government”, so I did. Today he slapped a 25page letter on my desk - it was from the same web site, addressed under his name, signed off by the same woman I had just spoken with over the phone with days earlier. Clearly he had gone ahead and done it all himself, but then, what is the point? Why did I fill out all of those stupid forms? WHY AM I HERE?!
I am a space monkey that types away facing a stack of meaningless busywork daily. I punch in and out every single day, and it does not matter how long it takes me to do something, as there is always something more to do afterward. I have learned to stop extending myself and really trying and I have taught my handlers to expect less of me to avoid disappointment.
Inter-office politics don’t touch me because my office is the furthest away from the rest and people rarely come to visit me except to say “what are you doing all the way over here? I didn’t know they put you over here.” I am like the hunchback they locked away in the clock tower, except I do not have a hump or any ambition to leave really.
It used to be freezing in here, I could see my own breath in the morning when I got in – so they brought in a space heater for the space monkey. Now I sit in my office and sweat and eat at my desk for 9 hours a day. My greatest challenge this afternoon was peeling a grapefruit and not getting the pulp and juice all over my keyboard. Riveting - absolutely riveting.
I imagine hell to be like this. Isolated from others like me, I will roast behind a desk as papers stack up to the ceiling and doors slam randomly while I type chained to my computer, with (gasp) no connection to the internets or the outside world.
Occasionally, someone will pop by to rhetorically ask me how I am doing and walk away before I can reply, and my telephone will ring, but only the instant I decide to get up to go to the bathroom. Then I will punch out, go home, and go to sleep – only to wake up to do the same thing, over and over, all of eternity spent at my desk, counting down until 5PM.
I mentioned “I am back at the office” to a friend earlier this week. He asked me if I wanted to kill myself yet.
“Yes, every day I want to blow my brains out. I just don’t have time to pull the trigger.”
Today I had a can of tuna for lunch and now my office smells like cat food. Occasionally I will get up and make coffee and small talk, and it is then that my supervisor likes to storm past me and slam the door shut. It doesn’t matter what door to him, he just likes to slam doors and storm in and out of peaceful places startling people.
Last week, he called me into his office and showed me a website, explaining “you will have to register with this association in order to get accredited with the government”, so I did. Today he slapped a 25page letter on my desk - it was from the same web site, addressed under his name, signed off by the same woman I had just spoken with over the phone with days earlier. Clearly he had gone ahead and done it all himself, but then, what is the point? Why did I fill out all of those stupid forms? WHY AM I HERE?!
I am a space monkey that types away facing a stack of meaningless busywork daily. I punch in and out every single day, and it does not matter how long it takes me to do something, as there is always something more to do afterward. I have learned to stop extending myself and really trying and I have taught my handlers to expect less of me to avoid disappointment.
Inter-office politics don’t touch me because my office is the furthest away from the rest and people rarely come to visit me except to say “what are you doing all the way over here? I didn’t know they put you over here.” I am like the hunchback they locked away in the clock tower, except I do not have a hump or any ambition to leave really.
It used to be freezing in here, I could see my own breath in the morning when I got in – so they brought in a space heater for the space monkey. Now I sit in my office and sweat and eat at my desk for 9 hours a day. My greatest challenge this afternoon was peeling a grapefruit and not getting the pulp and juice all over my keyboard. Riveting - absolutely riveting.
I imagine hell to be like this. Isolated from others like me, I will roast behind a desk as papers stack up to the ceiling and doors slam randomly while I type chained to my computer, with (gasp) no connection to the internets or the outside world.
Occasionally, someone will pop by to rhetorically ask me how I am doing and walk away before I can reply, and my telephone will ring, but only the instant I decide to get up to go to the bathroom. Then I will punch out, go home, and go to sleep – only to wake up to do the same thing, over and over, all of eternity spent at my desk, counting down until 5PM.
I mentioned “I am back at the office” to a friend earlier this week. He asked me if I wanted to kill myself yet.
“Yes, every day I want to blow my brains out. I just don’t have time to pull the trigger.”
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
One Too Many
What is it about the morning after One Too Many that makes my mouth taste like how a dirty daytime strip-club smells? One Too Many of what? Not one thing in particular, One Too Many is the straw that broke the camel’s back, it is the reason my head is imploding from the pressure and squeezing through my eyeballs slowly as the sun rises. One Too Many is the reason “have you ever picked up teeth with broken fingers?” comes out in conversation with the dude that just took my spot in line at the coffee shop. One Too Many is a good reason to get blacklisted by cab companies, bars, clubs and hotels.
One Too Many may have been the reason you were born. One Too Many is the way of the rock-star, the cougar, the sorority sister, the frat boy, the Karaoke stage-hog; it is the guy that sits in pervert’s row at the peelers, the middle-aged Xanax-popping-martini-loving house wife, One Too Many is how business gets did really. What do I know about business? I sit on a Committee that meets weekly, and I notice that the real talking starts after the minutes are done, the meeting is adjourned and everyone reconvenes at the pub nearby. One Too Many gets all the good stories to come out, and makes the most offensive jokes hilarious. But when you bring those gems back sober, people just stare blankly at you as though you’ve just eaten a newborn.
One Too Many is the trigger for too much information – a phenomenon that occurs when a friend opens your eyes to a truth you may not want to grasp, ever. “Don’t drink out of that mug,” he said as I sat in the hotel, pouring a drink into the teacup for myself. “Why?” I ask innocently, and he smiles. “Because, think of all of the horrible things that people do in cheap hotels, and live with the reality that they probably most definitely have done them, a hundred times over at some point or another…I have washed my dick in a hotel mug before.” And so there it is, I will never drink out of a hotel mug again, not a one star or a five star rating will convince me. And now you will probably read this and though you may put your lips on that mug, don’t deny that the thought won’t cross your mind.
One Too Many may have been the reason you were born. One Too Many is the way of the rock-star, the cougar, the sorority sister, the frat boy, the Karaoke stage-hog; it is the guy that sits in pervert’s row at the peelers, the middle-aged Xanax-popping-martini-loving house wife, One Too Many is how business gets did really. What do I know about business? I sit on a Committee that meets weekly, and I notice that the real talking starts after the minutes are done, the meeting is adjourned and everyone reconvenes at the pub nearby. One Too Many gets all the good stories to come out, and makes the most offensive jokes hilarious. But when you bring those gems back sober, people just stare blankly at you as though you’ve just eaten a newborn.
One Too Many is the trigger for too much information – a phenomenon that occurs when a friend opens your eyes to a truth you may not want to grasp, ever. “Don’t drink out of that mug,” he said as I sat in the hotel, pouring a drink into the teacup for myself. “Why?” I ask innocently, and he smiles. “Because, think of all of the horrible things that people do in cheap hotels, and live with the reality that they probably most definitely have done them, a hundred times over at some point or another…I have washed my dick in a hotel mug before.” And so there it is, I will never drink out of a hotel mug again, not a one star or a five star rating will convince me. And now you will probably read this and though you may put your lips on that mug, don’t deny that the thought won’t cross your mind.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Do you know who Ola Roks is?
Yeah, I know her, she's a bitch. Kicked me down a flight of stairs, then she walked all over me. I still have her footprint on my forehead...I will never wash my face again.
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