Soy un Cabrón

Been A While....So What?

2009-05-26T21:47:00.000-07:00

I had nothing to say. Losing a friend, then hearing about the loss of a lot of people's friend, then being bogged down feeling nowhere to go but down gives a brother time to pause. But you know what? Life, it goes. On. And hearing that the boys is back, it gave me a little hope for the su-su-summertiimmme. For all you rockheads, thirty and over, this oughta put a little spring in your step, circa '92.

I got a new joint coming, blogspot style, so keep your lids peeled. Changes afoot, kiddies. Bigtime changes.

But enough about me. Let's talk some MCA, Ad-Rock and Mike D!

Feeling it!

In Memoriam

2009-04-01T06:50:00.000-07:00

A very great man and good friend of mine, Mr. Alfred Boozer, passed away March the 7th, from complications due to a heart attack. He was 50 years old. He was a former marine officer, and one of the most well liked and respected securty guards at the museum. He leaves behind a mother, step-father, two sisters, a wife and four children.

Mr. B made every day a little better. He was a queit man, with a great sense of humor and a morality to him that made everyone feel good. We mostly just shot the breeze, but he was always so interested in how my 'career' was going. He was a true gentlemen, according to every female coworker I know, not that I wouldn't say the same. Losing him was a real tragedy. Just having people like this out there, knowing that there is goodness and kindness and love in the world, it helps make everything if not great, than a little more bareable. He touched many many people around him with his gentle grace and goodness. He will be and is, sorely, sorely missed.

To you, Mr. B.

Much love.

So Excited!

2009-03-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

In lieu of a much more serious post that will be coming tomorrow, I will instead offer up this little slice of aural heaven. The band, The Broken West I discovered last year after hearing them on NPR. I bought the album, 'Now or Heaven' on a whim, and I can honestly say it's one of my favorite albums of the last 5 years. Period. No qualifiers, no I like it in an ironic, Squeeze is the soundtrack to post college ennui kind of way. If you dig great pop songrwriting with witty and charmingly sad lyrics, this band is for you. It's not heavy or country, like most of the stuff I like. But it's a welcome dose of guarded optimistic sunshine, which I think we all need.

Anyhow-

These guys are playing Sunday night in Brooklyn, and I am more than a little stoked!
Here's the video to their single off the album, "Perfect Games".

Enjoy!

And A Wee Happy St. Paddy's Day To Ya!

2009-03-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

In lieu of getting good and ripped, puking on your Uncle Seamus and punching your dear ole' Ma, instead watch this gem of a movie.
One of my absolute favorites, and the one that most definitely let me know that I was choke full o' soul
Say it once, say it loud,
'I'm black and I'm proud!'

Remember

2009-03-06T05:18:00.000-08:00

3/6/1836

The Battle Of
The Alamo.

Good Night, Sweet Prince

2009-03-04T16:43:00.000-08:00

Horton Foote, 1916-2009

The American Theater has lost a true giant. A true Texas original. Although I was a bigger fan of his screenplays, just knowing that he was out there, year after year with yet another well written, emotionally truthful play, made me happy.

'I don't trust happiness. I never have and I never will.' - Tender Mercies

'Hey Boo.' - To Kill A Mockingbird

From The 'It's About Effing Time' Dept.

2009-03-04T09:20:00.001-08:00

Too bad it can't be my BoSox, but as the Dodgers are my adopted team, this will do just fine.

God, I Can't Wait For Hot Hot Heat

2009-03-03T12:26:00.000-08:00

So's I can have me a bunch of these.
Yum.

I mean the snow's nice and all, but still....

Been Meaing To Say This For A While....

2009-03-01T07:10:00.000-08:00

GO SEE THIS. I had an opportunity to do a reading early on, and it's something else. Something wonderful and scary and strange and true. Kudos to you,lady!

Things I Want

2009-02-26T08:18:00.000-08:00

Cuz it's classic, yo, and my old one broke.

This just seems badass. And I need a new one.

My New Favorite Obsession

2009-02-25T08:22:00.001-08:00

Frisky Dingo is where it's at.

Getcha Jesus On!

2009-02-25T06:44:00.000-08:00

Time for this....

..and no more of this. Happy Lenting!

'You Can't Make A Record If You Ain't Got Nothing To Say'

2009-02-24T07:11:00.000-08:00

This is my latest tshirt find. I have this deep seated hope that Willie will one day be recognized for the renegade genius that he is, in my opinion much more so than Johnny Cash ever was. He was alt-country before there was alt-country, he was covering old standards and making them uniquely his own long before Rick Rubin jumped all over that twenty years later, he was making New Balance sneakers the sneaker of choice for hipsters before hipsters were even born. In short, a veritable bad ass. What does any of this have to do with anything? Well,
I'll tell you.

When I went home last month, I took a trip to the holy trinity of South Texas culture: The best little brewery ever, one of the best good eatin' places known to man and then stopped by the original mecca of Texas honkey tonk. It was one of the best days of my life. I was surrounded by a culture I know and love, with my family who I never get to see, and got to see the beauty that truly is the Texas hill country, which I haven't for quite sometime. I felt at home. At ease with myself in a way I hadn't in the last year or so. I felt like for the first time in forever, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Driving home after a long day of out and aboutedness, the old man started singing to himself 'John T. Floores sits around in his underwear.' He then chuckled wildly and got to talking about the history of the honkey tonk we had just visited, as opposed to the Floores country store, another great bastion of live music in South Texas. He meant to be singing "Shotgun Willie sits around in his underwear." No matter. The old man had unwittingly brought up one of my favorite Willie songs, the title track from his 1973 record, 'Shotgun Willie.' It's a silly little song that sticks with you forever, and shows just how *effing* cool ole' Willie really is. Big Stax sounding horns, the sound of a needle popping on viyl, this half time guitar strumming, it's an indelible song that sticks with you forever. Listening the old man cackle, taking in the majesty of the South Texas hill country, sated on BBQ and beer, I was so. fucking. happy. It had been so long since I felt that way.

I get so bent out of shape at the state of my life lately, because I feel this way or that, feel like I'v been overlooked, feel like directors keep making the wrong choice by not casting me, I feel like it's some sort of karmic overload for all the 'bad' shit I've ever done, and it's too, too draining. I chose this riduculous path, I chose to try and make friends with people who are never going to have time for me, I choose to keep working for a company I hate because it's easier than actually finding a new job. In short, I have probably made a lot of my own bad luck. No one else did this to me. I did. Fuck those directors if they can't see how fucking good I am, but fuck me even more if I can't try and do something about it. Fuck me for being as old as I am and not being farther along and still having a job no one over 25 should have and all this debt and nothing to show for it. No one did this to me but myself.

Willie Nelson felt the same way. Tired of constantly being given the runaround by the powers that be in Nahsville, he instead chose to quit playing their game and picked up and moved to...Austin, TX, set up his own studio and did shit the way he wanted. And guess what? People followed his sound. He could have just stuck it out in Nashville, maybe become some middling songwriter for a hit factory, but instead he grew his hair out, traded the slick look for the real look, pulled out his trusty guitar Trigger and wrote some of the best albums of the '70's.

I'm thinking it's time for me to do that. My default mode is sort of defeatist, my emotional state can be a bit 'victimy', I like to wax poetic about all the times I have literally been the other guy in the 'it came down to me and the other guy' scenario. No more. Fuck that and fuck my friends who can't respond to texts or emails or facebook request to get in touch. I don't need it. If I'm not worth your time, than you're not worth mine. It's your loss. I'm tired of always being nice and trampled on. I've got more alpha dog in me than that. I think?

Anyhow, thanks Willie. I'm taking a page from your lyric sheet. Just can't let that whiskey river take my mind...her memory's gonna have to torture me, for the time being.

Terminating.

Mickey Brings It

2009-02-22T17:11:00.000-08:00

God I hope he wins in a few hours.

This Breaks My Heart

2009-02-17T04:59:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what to even say about this. Just totally choked up.

From The Department of Ambivalence

2009-02-12T10:20:00.000-08:00

'No, no come pick me up.'

File this under the huh? section of my day.
I used to love this guy so much. His music not only inspired me, but his whole rock 'n fucking roll attitude was simply awesome. I wanted to be like him, but with my acting and writing, natch. You can see how well this has worked out.
Now he's clean and sober and writing the same album over and over with increasingly uninspired results. At least he bagged the seemingly smartest hottie of the post-pop icon resurgence of the late 1990's. I wonder how Vinny Chase feels about all of this?

I feel old.

Sometimes I Hate The Interweb

2009-02-05T11:17:00.001-08:00

There's just some things you're better off not knowing.

The Good Stuff

2009-01-21T16:40:00.000-08:00

These are a few pics from my trip back home. It was something I desperately needed, as I never get to go home for the real holidays, and I had foolishly put the trip on hold longer than usual as I was under some delusional notion that I may be getting cast in something! But, it is what it is and here are a few things that always put a smile on my face.

Here's me and my mom and baby sis at the Spurs game. Ah, hometown pride. (more on that later.)

Now, here's me and the old man standing beside a Shiner Brewery delivery truck, just outside of the actual Shiner brewery. (It's just about the best beer in the world, and just a hop skip and a two step from my hometown. Ask any Texan transplant here in NYC, they miss them some Shiner Bock!)

And here's my Maw-Maw's pit bull, Maddy, short for Maddux, who is so ugly he's beautiful. He's so gentle and affectionate and loves to kiss me and sleep on my lap, it's hard to believe he's over 70 pounds and could kill you with his jaws!

And here's something beautiful that happened for all of the world to witness last night, as I was flying back to New York. What a perfect song they picked to dance to! God bless Etta James. And God bless the Obamas! Let's hope this is just the beginning!

And finally, this is the pandemonium I got to witness in San Antonio as my hometown Spurs beat the evil empire Lakers on a last second shot. This is the scene as we were trying to get out of the arena. It was fucking incredible!

***UPDATE*****
Blogspot sucks and is taking hours to post this video.
Fuck it.

Although plenty could be said about how stressful this trip was and how distance is sometimes the best remedy, nothing can compare to home and family. That unconditional, sometimes suffocating love can get us through the tough times, when it feels like it's all we have. True or not, there's most definitely no place like it.

In other good news, the LOST season premiere is mere minutes away!

Don't Let The Door Hit Your Ass On The Way Out...

2008-12-31T17:54:00.000-08:00

Without a doubt, these past 12 have been the hardest of my life.
But here's to a great new 12, with change we can believe in around the corner!
Some for me too, maybe.
To you and yours,
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

An Early Christmas Gift To Myself

2008-12-11T21:26:00.000-08:00

For all the b-ball heads. Circa '99. The first crown.

Something That Sounded Good And True

2008-12-02T11:06:00.000-08:00

Dear Karen,

If you're reading this, it means I actually worked up the courage to mail it, so good for me. You don't know me very well but if you get me started, I have a tendency to go on and on about how hard the writing is for me. This, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to write. There's no easy way to say this so I'll just say it. I met someone. It was an accident, I wasn't looking for it, I wasn't on the make. It was a perfect storm. She said one thing, I said another. Next thing I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the middle of that conversation. Now there's this feeling in my gut: she might be The One. She's completely nuts in a way that makes me smile, highly neurotic, a great deal of maintenance required. She is you, Karen. That's the good news. The bad is that I don't know how to be with you right now. And it scares the ---- out of me. Because if I'm not with you right now, I have this feeling we'll get lost out there. It's a big, bad world full of twists and turns and people have a way of blinking and missing the moment, the moment that could have changed everything. I don't know what's going on with us, and I can't tell you why you should waste a leap of faith on the likes of me. But damn you smell good. Like home. And you make excellent coffee -- that's got to count for something, right? Call me.

Unfaithfully yours, Hank Moody

The Sorrows Of Old TDawg

2008-11-15T13:16:00.000-08:00

What is the sound of one soul being crushed? And if no one is around to hear it, does it even matter?

PLACE HOLDER

2008-11-08T19:22:00.001-08:00

So many thoughts, so much fear.
In the meantime, here's a snippet of what I saw Thursday last at Warsaw in Brooklyn.
Yeah, I know, you could care less.
But I care, and that's the point.

Cheers to you, The Baron

2008-09-17T20:50:00.001-07:00

I wanted to make sure and get this in, before you left, so you could be justly revered and fetted.

You made the MoMA what it has been, for far more good than bad.

You have been a cheerleader and confidant since day one.

You are truly a good soul.

You are extremely lazy.

You are one of the truest people I have ever known.

You have never met a drink you didn't like.

You helped me, and many others, through some extremely rough patches, that even just writing about don't do justice.

You are extremely bright, with a real love for bad jokes.

You will be missed more than this blog can say.

Join me, everyone.

TO THE BARON!!!

Salud.

May the city of lights give you all you need and more.

Bon chance, my friend!

Sounds From The Old School

2008-09-02T13:07:00.000-07:00

I always start these melancholy ruminations with some sort of grand proclamation about how weird things have been, how weird life is, and how something's bound to change. Needless to say, things never do. Consider this a place holder, yet another in a long line of them, meant to convey some sort of deeper meaning about life and what it is we're all here for, and more specifically, what it is in God's name I'm supposed to be getting up to. Forgot all that. I give up. It's useless to speculate and to wonder why and to wish away the days. Nothing's gonna change because I want it to; I'm the one that's got to do the changing. I'm just too tired to care right now. Oh I long for something,alright; the thing is,I just don't know what. Real men don't use semicolons, though, you don't have to tell me.
In the meantime, a little something that used to get me revved up back in the day.
I could use a little rev in my life right about now.

R.I.P. Sweet Sophia

2008-07-22T12:59:00.000-07:00

Estelle Getty Passes Away at 84

Estelle Getty, the actress best known for her role as the feisty Sophia on The Golden Girls -- though we'd like to remember her work as Sylvester Stallone's mother in Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot -- has died at the age of 84, according to reports.

On The Golden Girls -- which from 1985 until 1992 -- and its less popular spinoff, The Golden Palace, she played Sophia Petrillo, the mother of Bea Arthur's character Dorothy. She won an Emmy in 1988 for Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series and won a Golden Globe for the same role in 1986 (though she also won a Razzie Award for her work in 1992's Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot).

In a 1995 interview, the tiny Gettty -- she was under five feet tall -- admitted that many of her biggest fans were children.

"I think they look upon me as an old child, because I'm so little," she said.

It took Getty decades before she found fame on The Golden Girls -- which also starred Betty White and Rue McClanahan -- and in the same interview she pointed to her height as a reason.

"Being tiny has been difficult for me in a business that regarded physicality as the most important part of your life," she said. "And I always had to fight against the fact that I could do things even though I was small. And eventually I proved to them I could play mother to six footers."

She proved that size isn't everything when she appeared alongside Sly Stallone in the infamous action-comedy Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot -- directed by Canadian Roger Spottiswoode -- as a gun-totting mamma.

Her last role, according to IMDB, was an episode of the short-lived TV series Ladies Man, in 2000. Her other film and TV credits include: Stuart Little, Mad About You, Touched by an Angel, Blossom, and Tootsie.

I Always Could Finger Roll

2008-06-19T12:31:00.000-07:00

Dear God did I love this commercial 17 years ago.

The Stonecutter

2008-06-18T20:56:00.000-07:00

“When nothing seems to help, I go look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before.”
-Jacob Riis

ed. note: This is not a basketball post. Swear.

This is the mantra that hangs on the inside of the Spurs locker room. In five different languages at any one moment, for all the nationalities of players that compromise the team. The team uses it as their guiding philosophy, which is more or less, that you can skip no steps on the road to success. Every championship banner hung was put in the rafters with hours upon hours of practice, strategizing, drills, deliberating over how to handle late game situations, and so on. Every free throw Manu Ginobli hits in high pressure situations came from 10,000 before it in the gym after everyone else had gone home. Or anyone else's. You get the point.

I find this quote comforting, even though Riis was a social muckracker of the late 19th century who was possibly sexist and racist, because he was referring to what European immigrants had to overcome to gain livable housing conditions and wages at the turn of the last century, before unions and the rights of the individual masses. I cling to this in times of bleakness, which for some reason or other seems to be the purveying mood of 2008 for me, although according to some, I am always operating at this frequency. I don't believe this to be true, but time will tell. What I'm trying to say, this whole ascent into my thirties isn't at all how I envisioned it back in Austin, in my cool cheap apartment, listening to Luscious Jackson, Lauryn Hill, R.E.M. and The Afghan Whigs, thinking both L.A. and N.Y.C. were mine for the taking. I got the worst possible news yesterday from my boss. I was called into his office, and as always, automatically assumed I was in trouble, because that is yet another mindset at which I have always functioned, only to be told that I had received, because of my seniority, a mandatory pay raise of 5% over my already implemented standard of living 3.5% increase in May. For some this would be joyous; if you knew what I make, and what little difference it would make in terms of my legitimate standard of living, you would understand my dismay.

I never thought I would be in the situation I've been in this long. I thought by now something would break, some turn, some rough magic, some Dumbledore would come chugging down the tunnel of my dreams and tell me the dealie', yo. Such are the thoughts of children and drunks. I am most likely one, but probably both.
Everything I do, the job I keep, the apartment I stay in, the way I just carry on, is all so tied into one another, sometimes I can't make heads or tails of any of it. I keep the job so I can jolt for auditions, of heavens to betsy actual work; I stay in the apartment cuz' its cheap, and allows me to make so little money; I have refrained from big life choices because...well, why have I done that?

As I was watching JUNO tonight (forgive me, I am truly the last person in North America to have seen it) I got totally dusty during the last ten minutes, what with the montage of the baby being born, Michael Cera rushing to the hospital in his track duds, Juno's dad giving him the 'mutual respect for the enormity of the situation' dude shoulder grab, Jenifer Garner taking the baby and starting a new life, and then the two kids winding up together as the movie ends, at least for the time being. Oh yea, and lest we forget the orange Tic Tacs in the mailbox. Jesus. I thought it was because the whole thing was so sweet and true to the spirit of true love and what not, but I realized now, as I've been working on the mix to end all mixes, it's a certain longing and anger within myself. And not just for love, although that's totally part of it, but more so for the stuff I haven't done.

I was supposed to have a informal reading this week of a play that's been on my brain for far too long. It wound up not happening because I got cast in a staged reading, and I literally couldn't get out of it. Why? Because I couldn't get off of work one day and wanted to have two days off during the rehearsal process. Having been so desperate for so long for something to work on, I wholeheartedly acquiesced on my reading and only asked to be excused from rehearsal on the day I would have to be at work. This is not why I moved to New York. Which leads to wonder, have I given up?
Not in any immediate sense, but in a real, subconscious way. Have I decided somehow that this is the best thing for me? To work at a demeaning yet velvet glove like job that affords me paid time off, medical benefits and the off but regular chance to meet and charm celebrities? And do I think so little of myself, my talent (in the abstract) that I had to, just HAD TO, act in this staged reading? And more over, do I think so little of this play I've written that I'm content to let it sit and rot, happy enough to be told by the few that have read it that it's a great idea and should be heard aloud, rather then barrel ahead and make it be heard, by actors I want in it, consequences of people's reactions be damned?

Well I just don't know.

I fear sometimes that I'm too nice. I let myself be told far too often what's wrong with me and let it bleed at that, rather than sticking up for myself. I do it with my friends, lovers and with the work I care about. Oddly, I have no problem telling any ole' anybody at work off whenever I goddamned feel like it. Maybe it's because I care so little. Although, obviously I do, or I wouldn't be afraid to play hooky. So why do I play hooky in so much of my outside life? I don't want decisions made for me, by any stretch of the imagination, but at the same time I keep waiting for a little hoodoo voodoo to come my way. In the last year I've gained something like 30 pounds, which embarrasses the shit out of me, but I can't be made to do the things I should really do to shed some of it, like stop drinking all the time and cut out the smoking. Oddly I have no problem going to the gym everyday, but that's only part of it. Not to be pithy, but this struggle, internal and otherwise, grows super seriously tiresome.

I recently read this book on a lark, and I have to say it was, while certainly not life altering, rather spiritually consuming. It deals with mythologies, both personal and universal, and the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. It deals with the roles we assign to people in our lives, and the roles both religion and magic play in forming our worldview. It's also deliciously sweet and completely funny. I think it came along at the right time. It was written by this old coot:

and I can't recommend it enough.

I also just saw the fourth season of 'Rescue Me' on DVD, and there was this great moment in one episode that I was hoping was on You Tube, but no luck. What happens is Tommy Gavin, played by Denis Leary, goes to check on his firefighter buddy who has been injured and is on sick leave. He fears he is suicidal, so he breaks into his apartment, and finds him in a massive state of self-pity. He then drags his friend's sorry ass up to the roof of his apartment and forces him to jump. Of course his friend won't, so Leary then rattles off a long monologue about life, and how great it can be, and then how it sneaks up and disappoints you, and how it rights itself, and love comes through, and then guess what, the whole damn thing happens over and over again. More happens after that, but I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. It was some really, really powerful shit.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, well, maybe these things are a few strikes on the stone of disappointment and things are coming around? Or do I even know how to pick up the proverbial hammer?

Song For Summer Sounds - BBQ!

2008-06-14T08:19:00.000-07:00

A Triple Dose of Watson

2008-06-09T13:46:00.000-07:00

I just saw this video for the first time. I had totally forgotten how much I love this song. And how can you go wrong with a nod to Hee-Haw? Takes me back to Saturday nights at my grand parents un-air conditioned house, sweating my pre-pubescent nuts off and eating lots of red meat.

And in other news, my roomy's playing a nefarious booty pirate down in North Carolina!

Ladies, consider this fair warning.

David Vs. Goliath, or Why San Antonio is good for the little guys and downtown actors

2008-05-29T21:37:00.000-07:00

In previous posts, I made a 'homer' type plea for what's good about my hometown San Antonio Spurs. Watching them lose valiantly tonight against the Lakers in Los Angeles (or some suburb thereof; it's not really Los Angeles, let's face it) reminded me in a more immediate vein as to why they so dearly mean so much to me, probably more than any of my other, non-South Texan friends here in New York who follow sports can fathom. Eric and Chris and even Laura can understand.

Ladies and gentlemen, we ARE the underdogs. We come from a part of the country politicians forget, politically correct pundits don't want to touch with a ten foot (highly multi-cultural-all-inclusive) pole, and movies only care about in terms of legends about the dusty old West.(The Alamo, anyone?) But we keep on making it. All of us. Music wise, writing wise, acting wise, family wise. (shout out to little Sophie!!!) My dad has told me time and again that my time would come, and that when it did, I shouldn't expect anyone to care. Watching the Spurs dominate professional basketball the last ten years is to have watched the national media basically ignore a force of nature. I wondered if, and now can only come to the conclusion that, they did, in fact, ignore my hometown Spurs because they are located in, if not the, then certainly one of, the smallest markets in all of the U.S. You think it's coincidence that nobody outside of Sacramento was upset six years ago because of all the non-calls against the Lakers in the Kings series back then? I bet my good friend H-bomb could tell you something about that.

And more to the point, that's the problem. With sports fans specifically, but also with alot of people in general. They only root for winners. They only like the sure thing. Believe me, I know how hard this life is; hell, all I do is help 5,000 people a day and then come home to an empty apartment and wind up making mix tapes for myself, and wonder why no one cares what I think. So, why, when everything out there, all the bills, and war, and uncertainty coming at us a million miles an hour from every direction (do I stay in the arts or not?, do I get in a long term relationship or not?, do I spend my economic stimulus package on new jeans and shoes, or invest it in me long term or not?, do I give this all up and move back to Austin and open a smoothie stand or not?) it's easy to only care, and in turn, root, for the winners. We need reassurance. We need comfort. We crave that winner take all, no matter how wrong it is mentality that this country is founded upon. In short, most of us NEED, nay, crave the Lakers. And the Yankees. And James Cameron films. And Obama....oops, too soon?

I say let's root for the underdogs. Let's root for the Jimmy Chitwoods. Let's pull for the Cougar's and reformed needle heads and kids who come from drug addled parents of this great land. That, in part, is what we are also founded on. Finding our way, no matter what anyone told us. Fighting our way to the top. Especially to those of us in the arts. We don't need to root for winners in the big sense, no, we need to root for the people that came from nowhere, who keep fighting the odds, no matter how bad the odds look. (Apologies to everyone who went to Yale or UCSD or ART or ACT. I apologize. I clearly couldn't get in to any of those programs and deservedly so. Right?) Manu Ginobli, Tony Parker, Brent Barry,Bruce Bowen, Timmy, and especially Coach Pop, this one's for you. You fought for everything you got, and in losing, a.) did it with dignity and pride, the opposite of that little Serbian bitch who shot a 3 at the buzzer; and b.) do it in spite of all the pundits, who,let's face it, drive this country, and told you that you had no business being there in the first place. (cue up commercial of Charles Barkley gorging himself to death on his 'top five.') To quote Steve Perry, 'Don't stop....believing...'

Now that's a lesson we could all stand to learn.
Keep on doing what you believe in, the way you believe in doing it.

And as always,
GO
SPURS
GO.
Sorry all you theatre heads. This one's for the kids from the 210 and 512.

Nita Quepasita!

2008-05-20T16:49:00.001-07:00

A very very very hearty congratulations to my kid sister, Sarah Jane York, who this past Saturday received her bachelors in Social Work and already has a job in her field!

Way to go Nita!

It's strange the pride that swelled in me watching this kiddo walk across the stage. Like I had a damn thing to do with it. Please. This one is all you, baby girl. You make me proud to be your older brother. Odelay!

And in case anybody's ever wondered, here's what the whole clan looks like, circa 2008.

A Break In The Time/Space Continum, or A Spurs Fan's Lament

2008-05-20T09:40:00.000-07:00

(Editor's Note: The below was written on a flight late last night from Memphis to New York. It is meant to convey the anxiety one feels while waiting on an outcome you have absolutely no control over. or something.)

I am flying 30,000 feet in the air, delayed an hour by bad scheduling, and couldn’t be more frustrated. I find myself in a unique position in that I am completely without access to TV, Internet or even the radio. Flying back to NYC at the exact same time as the Spurs play the Hornets in a monumental Game 7 (for Spurs fans, anyway) has rendered me emotionally flaccid and unexplainably antsy. Let me explain.

Being a fan of a sports team is an irrational act, unlike falling in love with a writer’s work or the body of songs a rock band puts out. It’s rooted in something deeper and more primal: when we as fans identify with a team, it speaks to something unspeakable about ourselves. In the grand scheme of things the games are truly just pleasant diversions, something to take our mind off of the day to day, but in the underneath of it all, the game behind the game, fandom can say more about us than our tastes or how we dress. It’s a simple thing, really, but it says a lot.

I am a massive Spurs fan. Have been on and off for the last 25 years of my life. When I fell in love them they were terrible, perennial losers both on and off the basketball court. They got David Robinson and had some success; ten years later they got Tim Duncan, an even a mild sports observer knows the rest of the story. They won. A lot. But let me back up a moment for a little personal reflection.

I am from San Antonio, born and raised. By all accounts, we are the big Texas city with the chip on its civic shoulder, the place known for a foolhardy battle (Remember the Alamo?) and a river walk in the center of town. We are the 8th largest city in the country, and yet when I tell people where I’m from, they get a quizzical look on their face so I quickly throw a ‘Texas’ after it.

We don’t have much in the way of commerce, or art, or money to speak of; no, those went to the bigger and better endowed cities like Austin, Houston, and god forsaken Dallas. No one really famous is from here, and the very invocation of our city brings to mind coonskin caps, long knives, and demarcations in the sand, all for the misguided efforts of a ragtag band of misfits. If they ever decide to anoint buildings with sainthood, well then surely The Alamo is the patron saint of lost causes.

Which brings me back to my Spurs. No one outside of Sand Antonio, other than smart sports people in the know, likes them. They are not flashy like the Lakers; they don’t have the mystique of the Celtics; there are no high wire acts ala Michael Jordan’s Bulls. They are tough but they aren’t bullies; they play smart and gutsy, bur rarely wind up on Sportscenter’s Top Ten. They aren’t demonstrative or lippy; what tattoos they do have aren’t readily visible to the public eye. Everyone who is a casual fan discounts them, but no NBA player who knows what’s up wants to face them. They are, in short, often an after thought; they do, in fact, have 3 of the last 5 NBA championships.

I love them because they, in short, remind me of me, and in a more general sense, the people of SA. I didn’t get to go to the undergrad program I wanted to, and I had to work hard, probably double hard, just to get in to the Apprentice program at Louisville. People in San Antonio are often overlooked, which is why industry is slow to move here. No one takes some San Antonio actor who didn’t come out of one the grad school mafias seriously.People from SA gotta work for everything they get. It took me five years to get an agent, and when I did, I booked four gigs in six months. I haven’t heard from those agents in over a year. So even when you think you're making headway, it's right on to the next big thing.

I don’t want this to become some screed about how you can never count out the heart of a champion in symphony with the heart of a unemployed character actor from South Texas because one of the many things that endears the Spurs to me so is that they would be the first to tell you that everything that happened in the past is merely prelude. You’re only as good as your last possession, and everything that came before don't mean diddly, even though it seems like it should. A good life lesson, really.

Hopefully, things will work out for the best,for me and the Spurs, everything being equal. Hopefully this fallow period will actually help sow future fruits that will make my current lull seem like nothing but a long since faded memory. Hopefully tonight’s game will be one for the ages, and the good guys will come out on top. Hopefully this blog post won’t seem embarrassing in the harsh grey light of day, because of the curious stuck between stations nature of it’s contents.

For lack of anything revelatory to end this on, I will say only this:

GO.
SPURS.
GO.

Adendum:
So, they won.
Next up, The Lakers.
Bring it.

It's Hotter Than A Mutha F*&%$ Out Here

2008-04-16T06:21:00.000-07:00

And I am dark, dark, dark.
I saw a French man in a thong on the beach.
I mean, seriously
WTF?!?

I don't have the ability to upload photos and tell my tale(thus far) but here's something sweet and weird and heart breaking from Mr. Come Pick Me Up, from his own blog.
Lots of insight into bar crawl gossip me and the boys use to discuss back in the day!

OH!
And a belated shout out to roomie #1, my dear old friend and all around pantsless wonder, Mr. Mark 'Watdawg' Watson, who will soon be off here to play him!

FACTS ABOUT ME.(Ryan Adams)
1. I never dated Alanis Morrisette. But she is very nice. But I never even went on a date with her. I met her through Ethan Johns and she was just you know one of the nicest people ever and very inspiring so i thanked her several times on a record I made called GOLD which was over-long and maybe half good.

2. I never dated Winona Ryder, but she is my friend and I will always love her. She is so fucking smart and so fucking under the micro-scope I can’t imagine how she pulled through, but no, I was never her boyfriend. I was and am her friend. She is as hot as the sun in a hot tub on itself though and everybody knows that. Also, who she is as an actress totally inspired me and helped me form what kind of artist I wanted to be.

3. I never KICKED OUT anyone from a concert. The Ryman Auditorium (a shit hole in Nashville) has the balls to charge you for security when you play there but if some college kid, and I mean SOUTHERN college kid decides to get wasted and scream through 7 songs of a solo acoustic performance, they could give a fuck. I went into the audience and handed him what I thought the ticket price was (40 bucks) and asked him to leave. I said “you have successfully ruined this concert so here is your money, now will you go home now so I can at least try and give the rest of this audience what they paid for. It did not work as the woman who runs that shit-hole re-seated him and BELIEVE IT OR NOT people CHEERED when he was ushered to a new seat. As most of that concert were people telling him to “shut up” There was NO BAND just myself, and I was joined by Gillian Welch and David Rawlings (heroic figures to me) to sing a few tunes and still the man screamed over it. In fact, “Summer of 69” was not shouted when I went to ask him to leave. It was in fact something else. He was so drunk, so very very drunk he did not even know he was there.
The writer who wrote it up the next morning submitted it to AP (the Associated Press) in hopes it would bring him a few extra dollars and some exposure. I have suffered since.
I seriously could give six shits about Bryan Adams or that song. In my opinion he is not a serious artist. His songs have ” implied target market audience” written all over them and in fact he is quite embarrassing in general. Also a piss poor photographer. I guess it is kind of amazing he got to stand next to Tina Turner though. She is rather heroic and an obvious artist. In every sense. Also she was kick ass in Mad Max BeyondfThunderdome and I wish I could coddle her in her chain mail in Barter-Town but that place does not exist.

4. I used to take drugs and drink but I never did that when I was wrirting. Very Rarely. I, like most americans, would seek some kind of peaceful bliss after a bone crushing day. I only used speedballs (snorted not shot) at the end of my drug use, which was parallel to my last romance. I am in recovery for both things.

5. I am not catholic nor baptist. I am quietly converting but by the books, to a much older and less mystic religion which seems to respect God as someone to be feared and not understood, as I fear and don’t understand.

6. I have only dated 5 women in my life. I can count on my hands.

7. I used to want to get married. It was such a huge thing for me, to be claimed. To be someone’s someone. Now I don’t care anymore. I hope I die alone and under a lot of work. I am better for myself and other alone.

8. It is almost two years since I have been sober. Awesomeness comes with this but also much rebuilding. I like myself more each day and surprise myself at how open I can be at the same time TERRIBLY shy or fearful of social situations.

9. I hate HATE country music. I always have. I “reference” it when I make music that sounds like that, the way a director would use water as a backdrop for a svcene with a shark in it. But I cannot stand country music one bit. unless the Grateful Dead are messin round with it. Then it is tolerable. But they were much more than their single parts- we all know they were a machine.

10. I never intended to be a songwriter but it was a snowball effect type thing and it pained me to have to play live because I have stage fright. I just wanted to be a writer and a visual artist and in a metal band.
So I hate what I do sometimes.
Playing in the Cardinals made it possible for me to continue because of their (our) ability to collectively change everything constantly.

11. I am going deaf. I am not sure how or why but I am. It has something to do with an inner ear condition caused by a loud frequency. My inner ear wall burst probably in LA at that blue cave show or in SF at that one. Either way, I had a bad feeling about having that guy as a soundman. He asked questions about what to do the day after I had to go to a hospital to be examined for hearing loss.
Fuck.

so there. that is me.

that is who I am.

I just want to make things. meaningful beautiful things before my time here is done and hopefully encourage people to express themselves, not to clutter the world with art, but so because I think people learn about themselves and find deeper meaning when they create things. It just happens. Somewhere down the line a peaceful submission takes over and out of the grounds of thew soul comes the truth.
and it is usually very condensed and beautiful and worth of investigation.

Also Jennifer Aniston has, or did have, (i dunno) an incredible machine by the looks of that ROLLINGSTONE photo-shoot from god knows when. woah.
i mean, wtf?
”
17:02

Quote
IN OTHER NEWS, “world keeps turning. Decent and Talented people continue to go on with their lives. Somewhere on the fringes of a trendy nightspot a nose begins to bleed, and conversations that began three years ago continue hastily.

5 O'Clock Friday Video- VACATION!

2008-04-11T14:01:00.001-07:00

see you in 8 days, suckas!!!

A Little (Come) Pick Me Up

2008-04-01T20:21:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has been around me lately (god bless you all) knows that I have been mired in the proverbial shit. This always seems to happen after a show goes down, and as good as the last year was for me work-wise, the come down has been just the opposite. Six straight months of work has equaled three months of abject poopiness. I would like to think that this is the only reason for my miasma, but I know it's only part of a larger truth: I feel stuck. Stuck in a rut like muther fuckin' Jabba the -...well, you get the idea. I keep desperately holding out for some sign, some mongoose in the cane fields magic (thank you, Junot Diaz) that will help me see the light at the end of the - . You know what I mean.

Anyhow, that little something may have happened today. In retrospect I am amazed I didn't flat out crap my pants or spill my beverage, man. Today is Tuesday, and if anyone knows anything about my monkey job, they know that Tuesdays bite the big culo in the sky. I am often asked the same three questions ad nauseam as I sit a lame duck at the info desk in the lobby of the museum, telling people over and over and over that we are closed. At a certain point in the day I always start to lose it and will make up excuses as to why the museum's closed. To wit:

'I would like two times for the museum, please.' (said in arrogant French undertones)

"The museums is closed today and every Tuesday." (said with utter indifference and glazed over smile, trying to both do my job and read ESPN.com at the same time.)

'No! But for why?!?' (arrogant French undertones mixed with genuine disbelief, as if to say, Did they not get the memo we would be visiting today?)

"Because today's the day we clean the andirons and pick up the dry cleaning. Also it's bingo." (said with sly nod as if to indicate 'Sucks to be you. Quell bummer.')

At this point they leave, sometimes in disgust, other times in genuine confusion and disbelief. They are but one of literally hundreds, if not thousands, who wonder in to the space even though there are huge signs everywhere, in ten languages no less, espousing the very same information I just delivered to them. It must be that personal touch that they're after.

ANYHOW-

Today the visitors were really tickling my nuts, to borrow a phrase from The Wire. I had had it. At one point I decided to start keeping track of how many times someone said 'SHIT!' when they found out we were closed. As my luck would have it, the person who said it the twelfth time just happened to be one of my favoritest favorites ever.

There's no way to ever put too fine a point on what Ryan Adams' music means to me. When I was breaking up with someone in the summer of 2001(the girl I moved here with, 7 years ago,Jesus!) Whiskeytown's 'Pneumonia' was the soundtrack to my misery and heat wave. Post 9/11, 'Gold' became my good luck charm. 'Demolition' was in heavy rotation when I met L. 'Rock 'N ROLL' and 'Love Is Hell' perfectly described all the good and bad of that very-good-not-really-very-bad, closest thing I've ever had to a blessed union was. 'Cold Roses' signified a trip(to Texas, natch) with changes on the horizon(double album!) and 'Jacksonville City Nights' was again, another soundtrack of sorts, to my most broken of hearts when everything fell apart. '29' we won't talk about, much like the period I was going through right after the end. And last year's 'Easy Tiger'? Well, as I told my roomie and fellow rambler when it came out last summer, "Sounds like ole' duder's getting older, kinda like us." So yeah,like I said, brother be all up in the heavy rotation in these parts.

So when this gawky, bespectacled-Robert-Smith-hair-having, maroon velvet jacket wearing, dressed-like-the-fifth-member-of-The-Smiths-motherfucker strode up to me and asked if he could get in, I got a little weird. Luckily I was with the Baron, who wouldn't know Ryan Adams from John Adams, so he said in his Pittsburghian, half-deaf, slow burn lilt, "We're closed."

'SHIT!' said Mr. Adams.

Luckily I had time to suss out the situation, and the stakes involved. (O if only I were so smart in pleasure/business, actually business situations, re:readings and their after parties!) I had my big guns ready.

"You know you're the 12Th person that's said that today after we told them the museum was closed." (score one for the tdawg.)

'Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! There, that's like four extra shits. That should bring it up to 16.'

This guy was good.

He then did what they all do, asked if he could get in anyway.(Musician or no, this is always done in some sort of sly and flirtatious way, as if to imply, "Oh come on, it's just little old me! Whose gonna find out? I'll be your best friend!") When I told him I could personally escort him into the galleries because, he was, and I quote myself here, "My fucking favorite musician", he laughed, said 'Right on', and we exchanged a dap. Dude's really tiny, but he's got HUGE hands. That would explain the guitar playing, for sure.

So we talked a few more minutes, mostly about museum exhibitions and the like, and at one point I had to show him that the reason he wasn't getting his member calendar every month was because his membership had lapsed. Seven months ago. It was priceless, in a good way. During all of this, The Baron was confused as to why I was being so helpful and not my terse perfunctory self. As I showed Ryan were to go to remedy his membership lapse and where else he could visit, the Baron leaned over and asked, "Who is that?"

To which I smiled, laughed and said, 'That, Baron, is the mother fucking man.'

I won't say it's a big deal, in the way that all of my friends are getting married and making babies is a big deal, or the way some of these same friends are starting to see their careers take off is a really big deal, because at the end of it all, I'm still the schmuck stuck holding out for what is increasingly seeming like a whole lotta nothing. But I will say this. It was something I needed. Really and truly. For whatever reason, it felt like a sign. Like it was supposed to happen, and lift me out of this, this something not so pleasant.

Like the mongoose apparition appearing to the de Leon clan time and again in 'The Brief Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao', Ryan Adams appeared from thin air, and helped my shit get settled, if only for a minute. It meant a lot.

Now where's that mother fucking box set you been talking about?

Time To Blow This Popsicle Stand!

2008-03-26T10:37:00.001-07:00

Here's a little preview of where I'll be come April 12th!

And here's a song I will definitely be listening to whilst I sip fruity drinks and work on my tan.

All Misery / Flowers

Just glad to see the boys back making music videos.

I NEED Some Sunny Fun

2008-03-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

My apologies to anyone who read my last post.I have been in a funk thicker than a Green Bay Packers foam cheesehead and I can't seem to figure out ways to crawl out of it. I think the sunshine, if ever there were any,might help a whole helluva lot.

In other news, whilst the sun may not be shining on this particular dawg's ass, this song is my early vote for catchiest of 2008. Tell me you don't wanna boogaloo after listening to this.

Tell me!

The Wire, 2002-2008, R.I.P.

2008-03-11T09:29:00.000-07:00

I came late to this party, but dammit if I ain't one of the last to leave. I like good TV, hell I may even love it more than a good movie, but nothing, I repeat, nothing comes close to this show. And that's saying a lot. Six Feet Under, Rescue Me, Slings & Arrows, all great shows, but none of them comes even close to matching the scope and magnitude of The Wire. The writing reads like a lyric sheet from Jay-Z; the scope and wide-reaching arc of the players and institutions involved is pure Dostoevsky; the relevance is like something from the metro section during the good old days of the NY Times. If you haven't yet do yourself a favor; this show is off the proverbial chain.

To quote Detective Lester Freamon, (probably my favorite character) 'Every piece matters.'

Gettin' Whitey On The Dance Floor

2008-03-07T10:00:00.000-08:00

As I mentally start preparing the playlist for Adam and Kristen's impending nuptials, I found this little gem on the superinformation highway. Wanna guess which ones might get spun June 28th?

http://www.catsandbeer.com/music/the-top-10-rap-songs-white-people-love

Winter Doldrums, or My Life As A Television

2008-03-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

I am bored. Bored stiff. Bored with work, bored with play, bored with diversions. The only thing that has peaked any interest from me lately is the Wire. I can't get enough of this show. It's totally fucking Shakespearean. I know I'm late to jump on this bandwagon, but this show has totally peaked my interest in television and I'm hooked. Outside of that, I've got bupkiss. A big fat honking nada. I tried to get jazzed about the workshop I did last week, but that took a Herculean effort. If you're going to bother to do a workshop, why don't you do what the process implies? Workshop the fucking script. Don't tiptoe through the tulips with the inherent problems in the script! Don't make 'interesting' a synonym for 'deeply flawed.' I hate having to be overtly nice for no reason. If there's a problem, let's fix it. Why bother to gather a room full of intelligent (for the most part) actors and have them read and read and read a script if you're not going to force the playwright to address the issues of said script that demand attention. We're here for a reason, right? Let's do something with the time then.

Maybe I'm just a bitter old coot.

Yep, definitely a biter old coot.

I guess it goes without saying that I feel totally lonely and somewhat useless. How is it that some people get audition after audition or have big life event after big life event and all I'm doing is working a shit load of overtime and coming home to my on the blink DVD player? I'm happy for all my friends slinging their hyperbolic yay-yo all over the various stages and screens of this town, as well as for everyone that is getting married and making new life. Maybe I'm truly not as appealing as my grandmother had lead me to believe. Dammit.

I am really excited though, to announce, after a interminable wait, that today, March 4th, is the release of Dulli's new project, the Gutter Twins, with his main man Mark Lanegan. This shit is terrific!

It feels like someone just drank my milkshake.....

Ahh, my Spurs

2008-02-27T04:55:00.000-08:00

are surging again, winners of six straight and 9 of 10. I hope you decide to come back Brent. We love you!

P.S. does anyone even read this anymore?

And The Hits Just Keep Coming...

2008-02-05T14:55:00.000-08:00

After waiting for what seemed a ridiculous amount of time to pull a lever, I walked towards the G train completely dejected. Not because of the candidates themselves, but because of the ineptitude or general lack of interest in the democratic process that the people running the polling places have. I feel bad for them, don't get me wrong, having to put up with people in a hurry (why employers don't grant people clemency on days like this is beyond me)and doing it mostly on a volunteer basis, but I mean, COME ON. When I got there it took them thirty minutes to figure out which district I was in, even though I live on the same block as the voting site! Then, and all apologies to the woman who looked me up, because she had apparently not brought her correct eye wear, she couldn't spell my last name. Everyone who reads this either lives in the same city and state that shares my surname, or is back in TX with that self same surname. Then, to add injury to insult, the man ahead of me had to stop them because they gave him a DEMOCRATIC ballot when he had flat out told them he was a registered REPUBLICAN. He had to loudly explain this to the voting booth operators several times. I felt bad for him. Although, apparently he voted for Mitt Romney, so I don't know how truly bad I can feel.

But this little tidbit brightened up my day. My guy may be out, but it's good to know his message meant something to some. Happy Primaries!!

No More 'Pink Houses' For McCain
By Brandon Barker
Feb 5th 2008 12:20PM

Whether he was lobbying for a John Mellencamp endorsement for his presidential bid or simply looking for a rousing, all-American song to rally his supporters, we will never know. Because, according to Rolling Stone, the popular heartland rocker has quietly asked Republican Sen. John McCain to stop playing "Our Country," "Pink Houses" or any other Mellencamp tune at his political events.

Mellencamp, a balladeer of middle class sufferance, is a Democrat and, until recently, a supporter of John Edwards' 2008 presidential campaign.

'There ain't no Pink Houses in Arizona!'

'I didn't mean THAT kind of Cougar!'

Me thinks that The Boss owes ole' Johnny Coug a cold one.

Super 'Tude Day

2008-02-05T00:47:00.000-08:00

In the summer of 1992, right before the Democratic National Convention, it was announced that Bill Clinton would select Al Gore as his running mate. I remember this not from AP News bulletin or CNN, but rather my parents talking excitedly about it to one another in hushed tones at the dinner table. The old man had just come home from another day of making beer, and it was late summer. My mother was so excited she could barely contain herself. (this in and of itself is extremely rare.) She told him all about what she'd seen on the news that day, and he took it in, thoughtfully, as the old man takes in pretty much anything.

That image has stuck with me for the last 16 years, and now, as we are here, at the dawn of Super Tuesday, I find myself thinking on it again. I want to feel that excitement that they felt as we are down to the wire in essentially deciding what candidate the Democratic party will choose, and for that matter, the Republicans. The one I believed most in let himself be excused from the table last week, and make fun of me all you want, but dammit, I believed John Edwards when he spoke, and I got emotional watching his exit speech. I now have to pick someone, anyone, for tomorrow, and I am vasilating wildly. I think both Hilary and Barack have something to offer, but I'm not sure I totally buy into their whole package.

Anyway, that's it. Get out and vote, mofos.

Also, congrats to the New York Giants. What a great game. I'm sad that history wasn't made, but I'm also more sad at the way some people choose to celebrate victory. Making jokes about violence towards women is never funny.

Yea, never.

Funny Because It's True.

2008-01-23T07:10:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't posted in forever, but don't take it personally. I find it hard to even get out of bed these days. Call it a January hangover. In any event, I'm ready to work on a project if there's anyone out there in the blogosphere who likes my wares.
This video's a hoot! My poor Maw-Maw. First Bud Dawg and now Jessica fucking Simpson.

This Clip Take Me Back To MY CYO days

2007-12-11T18:03:00.001-08:00

I have been a die hard Spurs fan as long as I can remember. And I was mighty ticked that they never had a 'Spurs Weapon' shoe. But it's good to see this old commercial nonetheless.

All I Want For Christmas/Kwanza

2007-12-06T08:09:00.001-08:00

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!

2007-11-30T12:48:00.001-08:00

In Lieu of Actual Blogging

2007-11-20T09:13:00.000-08:00

I feel I am most like the guy on the left.

And in other news, I'm gonna be KP and Adam's DJ at their wedding!!!!!

Get your iBook's ready.

God Bless You, Mr. Morgan

2007-11-20T07:34:00.001-08:00

The Best News I've Heard All Week

2007-11-13T07:41:00.001-08:00

Saturnalia

Saturnalia by The Gutter Twins will be released March 4, 2008 on Sub Pop.
Details to follow...the sky becoming clearer...

I Don't Care What Your Momma Say...

2007-11-12T08:42:00.000-08:00

I wish it was Christmas

Add to My Profile | More Videos

Happy Halloween!

2007-10-31T11:23:00.000-07:00

Here's to Teen Wolf and Stiles. Rock on, hardrockers. Rock on.

Boys Becoming Men, Men Becoming Wolves

2007-10-19T11:56:00.000-07:00

Thought For Today, and The Forseeable Future, As Well

2007-10-08T10:11:00.000-07:00

'God Dammit, You've Got To Be Kind.' - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Departures Comedown

2007-10-03T09:39:00.000-07:00

I've figured it out

2007-10-02T22:36:00.000-07:00

Vonnegut is telling us how to live. He's not wishing anything on us. He's telling us how we should be. Goddammit. Mutherfucker's done it again. Thank you, Kurt.

The Onion

2007-10-02T08:02:00.000-07:00

Makes me laugh. And I need that right now.

Country Music Stars Challenge Al-Qaeda With Patriotic New Song â??Bomb New Yorkâ??

Happy Anniversary, Soy Un Cabron; Or Debts Never Paid

2007-09-29T19:23:00.000-07:00

Life is episodic. Things happen everyday around us, like an episode of some trusted show,(Frasier?, Cheers?),life is a grilled cheese remedy to the day in, day out evil of the everyday we experience singularly. As I sit here writing this, it's less than a week before the show opens, my heart and mind are racing, I'm working my Northern Irish to the bone, my truest blue is engaged and my hair is still falling out. I feel the need to recognize because next week will be two years, two freaking years since I went down to Austin and my life summarily fell apart. Since then I've seen episodes. People married, babies born, couples torn apart, friends made and lost, and life filled out in all it's un-compromised living. Where did the time go?

I have been meaning to write a post all about mix tapes for some time now, but whenever I sit down to do so, I inevitably come back to L, and all the tapes I made for her. I recently heard through the through that she's engaged. Well, good for her. This only reinforces the fact that it still hurts when I think about all that went down. Things are so good now, because of some very special peeps, but that doesn't mean that every once in a while, I get a little jolt of panging pain.

KP's play is a thing of beauty. I'm finding myself in this fucker, and other writers should be wicked jealous, 'cuz it's the real deal. But I'm forced to face myself every night, and that's the hard part. How do we answer to ourselves?

I know that in the scheme of things that I am a footnote, a friend to the greats, and hell, that's good enough for me. But I feel things, dammit, and right now I am feeling a lot. Happy anniversary to this stupid blog, god bless DEPARTURES, thank mother fuckin' god for what came before, and I hope to all holy hopes that there's a better tomorrow in store. If this is my day in the sun, I just wish it was a little bit brighter. Thank you KP, for making it this warm. I owe so much to so many. Good night, sweet Vonnegut. And Paw-Paw. And LRD. And Duvall, Hackman and Don Cheadle, too. Not to mention Dulli, Earle, Grant-Lee Phillips and ole' Ryan Adams.

Hey L., can you see me now?

PS: Here's to love. As soundtracked by Dulli. God bless him.

Because Everyone's Been Asking

2007-09-25T19:48:00.001-07:00

Here it is.
I think it's cool.

When In Doubt...

2007-09-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

Working on this character that's so unlike me, I had to look to the greats for guidance. I found it.

Old Habits Die Hard

2007-09-18T07:41:00.001-07:00

And this play is killing me.
Physically.
Vocally.
But most of all, emotionally.
What a terrible, terrible thing, this love.
Cheers to Palmer.
Up your republic!
To the Belfast boy.
Ay.
To the Belfast boy.

Best Fucking Show Ever. EVER.

2007-09-13T07:00:00.001-07:00

I'm Glad Someone's Speaking Up

2007-09-11T12:57:00.001-07:00

Leave her alone, dammit.

Super Psyched For This Movie

2007-09-11T07:14:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. Something's on the way. Promise.

And Somehow, The Streak Continues....

2007-08-19T22:59:00.001-07:00

This week has been one of those. Beautiful. Somehow all has been right with the whatever, God, the universe, the big whoever up there that makes all those big time decisions for all of us little ones down here. The show opened, it's going well-er than well, I'm having a b-day thang, I've got friends for miles and miles. Tonight was awesome, lots of love at the show, friends toasting friends, revelations in the drunken werewithall, truths revealed, baby's being born, what have you. And yet, I knew, somehow, somewhere, the streak was alive. And it is.

Congratulations, L.

I wish you all the best.

Why did I have to find out now?

And why does it always have to happen after me?

Beware. I'm the good luck charm for anyone looking to get hitched. After me, whoever you meet next is sure to be the one. I guarantee!

Gawddamn! This shit hurts!!!

I apologize. Emo was never my thing.

i got more to say but-

2007-08-07T07:38:00.000-07:00

well, this just about says it all, don't it?

Tragic Event Forces Man To Spend Rest Of Life Confined To Office Chair

and another thing

2007-08-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

i'm gonna dry up.
'til my birthday.
or smurf day, as christmas would call it.
all good vibes appreciated.

there were...

2007-06-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

A bunch of old folks at work today, celebrating 'Grandparent's Day' at the museum. At first I was highly annoyed with the olde tyme jug and fiddle band and the hordes of AARP members who with their tweeting hearing aids were disrupting my usual Tuesday solitude.

But then a group of them stood up and boogied down to some starry eyed old standard.

And I got criminally happy and teary with joy.

I can only hope that one day I will be able to do the same thing, shaking my withered old tail feather to the hits of my day. Instead of Benny Goodman, Jimmy Rodgers and Cab Calloway it will be Outkast, Ryan Adams, and Snoop Dogg.

My wish is that we will all be able to do this someday, and show up those young whipper snappers. Moments like this are so fleeting and beautiful, it's hard to not be overwhelmed with joy and wonderment.

Sometimes life can sooooo fucking suck a fuck. For instance, I had to tell a big truth yesterday that deeply hurt me and someone very dear to me. But I know in the end it was the right thing for everyone, no matter how bad it hurts today. And moments like that totally validate the good moments, the ones that come from out of nowhere and knock you around for all the right reasons. I guess what I'm getting at is that even when I'm drinking through all the tears, life is truly something else.

Forgive the purple prose. Blame it on the sassafrasses shaking their withered asses.

Coming To A Theatre Near You!

2007-06-22T12:43:00.000-07:00

How's this for awesome ratings?

Mingle² - Online Dating

What makes it even more awesome is that this is blog entry #69.
Yep.

The Right Way to Celebrate; Puro Vida

2007-06-15T17:12:00.000-07:00

First off, all the respect in the world to the definitive basketball team of the last ten years, my hometown San Antonio Spurs!!!

Secondly, I was accussed of not being a real fan last night by some idiot-erudite- east-coast-philosphy-professor-schmucko. I guess because as the buzzer sounded my fist pump and rash of both incoming and outgoing phone calls to Puro San Antonians hither and yawn was somehow not quite jack assy enough. I should have whooped it up more in a public place, taunted the losing team's fans, and then let everyone know JUST. HOW. MUCH. I. CARE.

Sorry jerk face, but that's not the San Antonio way. We celebrate with class, dignity, and respect for the losing team's fans. Anyone who is close to me knows why the Spurs mean so much to me. Don't think I didn't go home from the bar and dance around all night as I packed to go out west this morning singing quietly to myself, 'Go Spurs Go!' Maybe I should have reminded everyone at the bar I was a philosophy professor every chance I got. Oh wait, sorry, that was you.

The Spurs somehow got labeled a boring team sometime around 2000 and it's stuck ever since. The evidence is clearer than ever that this is simply not true, what with Tony Parker slashing and cutting, Manu Ginobnli defying the laws of physics, and Robert Horry playing his heart out at 38. But guess what? Casual fans, much like America in general, are ill-informed and make snap judgement calls. A casual observer will read one article on something and decide it must be fact. Which is not to say we should all dedicate twenty hours a week to finding out the truth in regards to professional basketball, but, if some guy from ESPN says Tim Duncan's boring because he doesn't get flashy and scream and fight, then so be it. It must be true, right?

It's also because there are no histronics, there are no thugs, there are no jersey popping, chest thumping fools out there taking ill advised three point shots. The Spurs, much like San Antonio itself, quitely just get the job done. They leave the whooping and posturing to other folks, other teams, other towns. I take pride in them for that, and definitely have a chip on my shoulder about the lack of respect they get from the media at large, if only because as a an artist, I can relate.
I'm very concerned that my work is taken for granted.

It's good to know that my fandom, at the very least, is being called in to question. At least SOMEONE'S talking about me, right?

but that's not what this is all about.
this is:

Congrats Spurs. You've EARNED it. Don't let anyone tell YA'LL otherwise.
(i know you won't.)

My Career In Learning Up A Child; Moustache Month Draws To An End

2007-06-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

Few people know this, but I briefly taught high school back in San Antonio before moving up to the big city. It was a last minute, emergency type situation, and I was thrown under a bus that is high school elective classes. I taught speech and composition in a portable class room out by the football field in the middle of August. Our air condtioning went out on a regular basis, and it was hell trying to keep the kids settled down. Our textbooks took six weeks to get there, I was under constant attack from the football coaches to pass their players, and parents interest in their children's education seemed to border on the lacksadaiscal. In short, there was no 'To Sir With Love' happening on the south side of San Antonio.

I recently came across one of the papers of a student of mine, who shall remain nameless. Little prick was a football player whose average, if done correctly, would have come out to a 37 for the semester. I was pleaded with and cajoled by the football coaches to let him slide, to let him do anything to make a passing mark. I finally acquiesced and allowed him to turn in, two weeks late, no less, his final project, which was a persuasive paper on any topic of his choosing. Many of the students did their best with the paper, and the subjects ranged from why to vote for Al Gore (it was 2000) to why Vince Carter was the best basketball player ever. Mr. X's paper was on the topic of 'Why People Shouldn't Talk Shit.' I was rooting through some old scripts last week and happened upon it. I have faithfully reprinted it, without correcting sentence structure or grammatical errors, below.

'My topic for my 9 weeks final speech is I don't like people who talk shit. I don't like people who talk shit.

My first reason why I dont like people who talks hit is they can't backit up like some punk XXXXXX XXXXX he talks alot of shit like he calls me a pus*y and then I go up to him ad say 'What,' and he just punks out real quick.

My second resaosn why I dont like people sho talk shit is because they thing thiere hard ad there not like first thellze all had and then theyll just punk out like shi*.

My last ad final reason why I dont like people who talk shit is because people act all hard but their not ad I think you should just act like the person that you really are ad act like you noramlly act cause you aint hard you punk b*tch.

These are my resons why I hate people who talk a lot of shit. Thank you!'

I wish I could say that I made this up, but I didn't. I hope there will be no liberal mamby pamby wishy washiness about the state of education and how we could let our children get to the age of 16 without a basic understanding of the English language and the written word. I agree whole heartedly, but I also think that education starts in the home and teachers and administrators can't be held accountable for every single thing that's wrong with our children.

And I don't feel guilty about posting this. This particular kid threatened me any number of times and I had to have him suspended once. He and his friends caused me no end of problems in trying to reach out to the kids who did want to learn. But Mr. X raises an interesting point that I think we should consider more and more. Namely, all you shit talkers out there better beware, because we know you're gonna punk out real quick.

Enough said.

Now, a little nod to the men of MoMA's May is for moustache month party!

Muy Sensualidad!

Not to be outdone, the ladies of the lobby get in on the 'stache action!

As the sun sets on another May, we bid a fond farewell to this cabron's bigote.
Let it ride!

Sorry for the passionate discourse, FW

2007-05-31T10:58:00.001-07:00

I got silver and black in my veins.
Enough said.

A 34 Boogaloo Salute

2007-05-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

I have been avoiding this post for the better part of a year. Its genesis was in a request Palmer made to me last summer, when she asked me to put down on paper the rules and methods I use when making a mix tape (sigh, CD) for someone. I made the initial wade into these waters last August, when I explained the basics for beginning any mix. The more and more I thought about it, the more difficult it became for me to explain. Each mix is singular to the individual recieving it, giving them their own special story. I make mixes all the time, for a wide array of people, but as different as all these people are, making it neccesary to make a wide array of mixes, the message is often the same. The message? YOU FUCKING ROCK!(in your own way.)

People on the recieving end of my mixes are always ones that make the double barrelled shoutgun of my heart go 'Woo Woo.' Friends, enemies, lovers, it doesn't matter. I am unabashedly a sweetheart, and love telling people how awesome they are. I am deciding to let it all hang out, like The Hombres sang about over forty years ago, because tomorrow (or today, depending on when I finish this) is one such mix recipient's 34th birthday.She was the one who made my heart go woo woo the loudest and the longest. So it is with bated breath and a rapidly beating heart that I say Happy Birthday to you. (Woo! Woo!)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So I wrote the above yesterday, and there was even more, but then it got lost in the internet shuffle of posting the preview, and no amount of editing could get it back. It's ironic that I'm watching the PBS documentary on the blues tonight, and it's featuring Skip James, whose song 'Hard Time Killing Floor Blues' might be one of my favorite songs of all time, and I'm realizing, goddammit, this post is too fucking hard. I will give you these rules, because I've written them down, and I will let it all hang out, but today is L's bday and I can't pretend I'm not down. Maybe all this red wine will help it all spill out, or maybe I'm a loser and it's stupid and I need to let it go. I can't decide.

I'm just gonna post this and get back to it later.

Happy birthday, Laramie.

What A Night!

2007-05-19T04:54:00.000-07:00

Tim Duncan wants to wish my roomie and best bud Mark a HAPPY 30th BIRTHDAY!!!!

Manu Ginobli was happier than a pig in poop about my first appearance on Law & Order!

And, oh yeah,

THE SPURS WIN!
THE SPURS WIN!
THE SPURS WIN!!!!!!!!

Boo-Ya-Ka-Sha!

2007-05-17T11:29:00.000-07:00

Ball don't lie, son.

More Proof To My Theory

2007-05-16T10:07:00.000-07:00

Watch this honkey flop and flop and flop. Say what you will about the severity of the fines and suspensions handed out after Game 4 Monday night, but the foul by Robert Horry on Super Stevie Nash was hardly as hard as all that. I've been hit harder by an angry grandma in the lobby of the MoMA. And, since when are the Spurs 'thugs'? Geez, last year they were called soft tacos, and now they're dirty. Whoever buys into this media created crap probably also has a Bill O'Reilly book somewhere on their shelf and a subscription to Us weekly.

We really need to protect ourselves from ourselves.

Ah, it's all for the kids anyway.

Phoenix Suns Whine Like Titty Babies

2007-05-15T20:20:00.000-07:00

I'm not as eloquent as some of my San Antonio buddies on this, because this is a year where I can't watch my team. (I too have irrational fears regarding where, how, and sometimes even IF I can watch my Spurs.) But after last night's latest Spurs-Suns slugfest, I have no choice but to belly up to the closest sports bar I can find.

That being said, Steve Nash, you are a big,fat whiny ass pussy.
Amare Stoudamaire, quit whining and go get another neck tattoo. In Kanji. About all the 'dirty' players on the Spurs.
Shawn Marion, just opt out of your contract already.

Shut up and fucking play.
Notice how the Spurs never get any press for whining?
Yeah, that's cuz' they're men.
REAL MEN.

alright, I'm done.

Yeah I auditioned for this

2007-05-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

What's funny is that I know the 'little lad' who got this.
We did a Ken Urban play reading together a few years back.

Berries and cream, indeed.

Band Of Brothers and The Big Shout Out

2007-05-11T19:56:00.000-07:00

Friday nite, ramblers. You would think I would be out on the town, making the rounds, shaking 'em down and giving the big what up to to all the ladies, the ladies. Sadly, that's never truly been me and the fact is, I'm a lonely ole' son of a gun. But I'm glad I watched Law & Order tonight. So, so glad.

I would never truly call myself political. I get excited by policy, I follow the news, I vote, donate and recycle. But often times, I can't get my ire up. It's just theatre for the masses and rarely has anything to do with me. I realize what a folly of an age we live in, how our government has essentially been stolen from us, we've lost thousands of children to a war chosen by corporations and our basic rights seem to be constantly in peril. None of this had anything to do with my Friday night, but I decided to hunker down with Sam Waterson and my smokes and a nice cheap bottle of red and I then had my heart torn out.

I come from a military family. My grandfather was a lifelong Air Force Man, my dad did his time, my other grandpa (Paw-Paw, R.I.P.)fought in Korea, and my cousin Regan just got back from two tours of duty in Iraq. I know from military. The episode of Law & Order tonight was all about the shitty way our military treats their wounded. With out giving anything away (like we couldn't write an episode of the show at this point collectively) there was a vet who went crazy and was killing homeless people because he was delusional and being denied his basic medical needs by the government because he had been dishonorably discharged. Needless to say, Sam Waterson got all indignant and decided to put the military on trial instead of the defendant and let those military good olde boys have it. I can't lie ramblers, I got a little emotional. I feel so guilty for tuning out this war as much as I have. The only person I had any interest in during this whole thing was my cousin, who, all praise to Allah, got home safely earlier this month. I know people are still organizing, people are still rallying, people are still trying, but jesus fucking christ, can we PLEASE bring this children home? Who wins in all of this? Dick Cheney? George Bush? Citgo, Exxon and Mobil? If, as Sam Wateson says, we enter into a war of choice, don't we have a MORAL obligation to take care of these soldiers, nay, children? I know I'm just shouting into the ether on this, but motherfucker, I am tired, tired, tired of this war! TIRED. Whose winning? Whose losing? Does anyone even know what we're fighting for? Christopher Hitchens, come back to sanity. Iraq is fucked and so are we. I, and all of us, are totally implicated in this. I hope whoever we pick to run against the Republicans next year gets it going and gets us out.Them out. All of the, these beautiful boys and girls over there fighting for who knows what.

Can you tell I've been devouring Kurt Vonnegut in memoriam?

So if I can change the subject a little bit, I want to take a moment and give a huge shout out to two different guys who have been huge in my life.

When I moved to Austin in 1995, I was a scrawny, sickly, hair dyed orange mess. I wanted to do something big, but I didn't want it to be in Austin. I couldn't go to Chicago, which was were I wanted to be, and I resented having to go to the same school that my parents attended. Twelve years later, I know it was the best thing to ever happen to me, and alot of it has to do with the two bros I wanna call out.

In the fall of 1996, I was introduced to David Bucci. It's no conjecture on my part to say that our chance meeting has had a deep and lasting impact on my life.

Bucci was, and still is, the COOLEST fucking dude I have ever met. He read my first play, Wastes & Pines, on a recommendation from someone, and agreed to meet with me to talk about it. He strolled into the Red River Cafe and told me it was 'really fucking good.' That was all the encouragement I would ever need. If it's possible to say this, Bucci was the older brother I always wanted. He helped my buy my first guitar, he bought me booze when I was under age, he gave me the first mix tape I ever got (and still have to this day) and generally has been there clapping in the background ever since. But more importantly, starting with the play Lynwood Pharmacy, down through Med Vegas, Stranger Desire, and of course my personal favorite Altamont! Now, the man has delivered the goods, writing wise, time and again. He has been an inspiration to me, both with the words, and the rock, and more importantly the walk, for almost eleven years now. He did and does things that I myself am just too chicken shit to do, like front a rock band, write crazy ass brilliant plays, live by his own rules and do it the way he wants it done. Cheers my brother.

I am happy to say that the Buc is moving to Seattle to fuck shit up on June 1st. I am really sad to see him go. But I want to take a minute to toast my brother from another mother. To Bucci! Long live Bucci!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The second dude I need to give the big shout out to is one Dan Dietz. Around the same time I was getting tight with Bucci, I met Dan. How glad am I my parents wouldn't let me go to Northwestern? Who would have ever known that I would have the chance to meet and work with so many amazing playwrights before the age of 21? If Bucci was the rock star, Dan was the shape shifter, taking things like form and dialogue and turning it all full tilt and making it his own. Unlike Bucci, Dan and I had the chance to perform together several times and his diligence as both an actor and as a writer have given me pause and forced me to try and have a rigorous work ethic. If Bucci was my older brother, Dan was very much the guy I very much needed to be friends with in high school. You know, the guy who had read ULYSSES and had all of David Lynch's movies on VHS(it was the '90's).You may not be able to believe it, but San Antonio is not a literary or cultural hot bed, artistically speaking. Dan has gone on and written amazing scripts like DIRGIBLE, TILT ANGEL, tempOdyssey, and of course, my personal favorite, AMERICAMISFIT. He is, in the parlance of our times, or very recent times, (I'm crawling to 30, so I'm OLD) blowing up. His stuff is being done everywhere, the dude is amazing in his output and energy, and one helluva good bro.
He is also moving, from our warm artistic womb of Austin to teach at Florida State University. Those kids are one lucky bunch of bastards. It's a true loss to Austin, but I know we haven't seen the last of Mr. Double D. From all the way up here in Brooklyn, TX I raise a glass to you, Dietz. Cheers, you bastard!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I just want to make clear very quickly that I am in no way comparing Bucci to Dietz and vice versa. I am instead giving praise to two dudes who have had an immeasurable impact on my life all at once. Both of them are brilliant and both of them should be produced all over this great big land. I owe both of them an unspeakable amount, because of how much they have influenced me, and I'm beyond lucky to have been in their presence. I don't feel cheesy saying it either. We should make more of an effort to tell people how much they have helped us in life. Just like all those wounded vets. But that's a whole other pack of cigarettes, ramblers.

Quickly:

Yeah, that's from the STAGE at United Palace Tuesday night. The woman in the center is Regine from Arcade Fire and yes, that's thousands of fans dancing and singing along with the band. ONSTAGE. Jesus Christ, I wish theatre could make us all feel like I felt then.

Transformed.

Yeah, just like ole' David Bucci and Dan Dietz made me feel.

ROCK AND ROLL, ramblers. It stops the traffic.

PS: Mix tape rules and L's gift on Sunday.

That Weird Chill

2007-05-06T07:13:00.000-07:00

Granted. As in taken for.

I don't know why, but for the love of god, that's how I feel these last few weeks. My resolution to myself, this last New Year's, was not to quit smoking or eating chocolate, or (ha ha yea right) not drink so much, but to quit being a martyr. I needed that. I have realized the older I've gotten that I have a chip on my shoulder that comes from some super duper sub conscious place, and it manifests itself at the strangest times and makes me very sensitive and resentful towards people. I have almost no control over it, and I have tried very hard to work at it, because when I feel slighted or, taken for granted, or passed over, or whatever, I know that the offender in question has very little idea what kind of damage they may have done. Maybe it's our profession, maybe it's a certain amount of resentment against my family, maybe it's my dreams having to come to terms with my reality or the general creeping sense I get sometimes that my body is failing me. Who knows? And I had really kept it in check lately, even being fully aware of my over developed chip and making myself realize I was being an hypersensitive knob polisher and to just GROW UP. But a bunch of out-of-my-control-ca-ca-poops-McGee-shite has happened lately, and I was thrown off my proverbial self help track. Also, I should lay down those mix tape rules.

Incidentally, has anyone ever noticed that most of my blog post titles are taken directly from songs? Free mix CD to anyone who can name the singer whose album is entitled 'That Weird Chill.'

As all four of you who read this intermittantly updated piece of internet drivel know, I just closed a show here. It was written byhim and starred this guy and me. By all accounts, I feel as though it was some of my best work. It was more or less about the Terri Schiavo case, and also dealt with the insurmountable task of dealing with the loss of one's beloved. I was super proud of the acting by me and Vic, and I think Ken's script had so much to offer the cast, that I really relished the challenge. Everyone else involved was top notch, and as a creative endeavor, it was by far one of the most rewarding. The only problem? No one fucking saw it.

Now I know how this thing goes, this business of show, and when I say no one saw it, I am not discounting any of my dear dear friends from work, or my flatmate or my old ATL buddies orA and K. I mean the royal 'nobody saw it', as in the public at large. The Times, shock, surprise, bailed on their review, the PR guy crapped the bed on doing his job, and the fact remains that no one's going to take a chance on Long Island City. Funny how people love to come out and eat and drink and frolic by the water there, but no one's gonna plunk down 15 big to check out experimental theatre. I guess the reason is if it's not in Manhattan, it's not somehow valid as a viable creative entity. What if I was to tell you that the first workshop of LEGALLY BLONDE was held at the theatre the show I did was at. Would that be something you might be interested in? Yea, me neither.

I don't really know quite where I was headed with all the above, except to more or less say that, as I follow all the other theatre folks' blogs that sometimes talk about this or that slight, perceived or real, by the critics or world at large, I just felt the need to throw my 2 cents in. As an actor, I am continually at the mercy of literally dozens of outside forces beyond my control to get work. For a long time I had a hard time saying that I even was an actor, because where I come from, that seems so fucking foolish and petty, and for lack of a better word, 'gay',(editor's note: Not meant to imply or disparage anyone's sexual orientation, but, rather intone a certain amount of cheesiness on the offender's part. I.E., 'Dude, you're drinking a Coors Light? That is so fucking gay.')
that I was almost embarrassed, just because of a fear of how people would perceive me. But not anymore. South Texas machoness be damned, I love what I do. I love the people I'm surrounded by, I love the camraderie, the struggle, the blood, sweat and tears of it all. I am constantly in awe of people like Adam, Kristen, Sheila, Grote, Daisey and the like, for the beautiful worlds they create time and again. Performers like Schreck, Dizzia, Vic, David Brooks, Susan, Gibson, etc., and directors and producers like FW, Willis, Clubbed Thumb, 13P, Soho Rep, and on and on make me feel like there's a whole lot of something out there, and I'm proud to somehow be a part of it. I guess I am just a big ole' dorky record geek when it comes to seeing people's work. And I shouldn't ever expect others to be the same. Chip? Get off of my shoulder. Thanks.

To surmise, I think what I'm trying to say is that sometimes I think I care too much. About the work, about the people I work with. I'm loyal, sometimes to a fault, much like this hombre, and while you totally love it when he steps up and kills the way overhyped Dallas Mavericks with seven(!) 3 pointers in a row, he can get tiresome when he gets ejected for having your back when a fan attacks you. And for firing off a gun at a strip club. Not that I have done either. But I'm just saying.

And now, a moment of silence.....

I have resisted writing about this for some time, because ineveitably, when the subject turns to Vonnegut, it turns to my Poppa Dukes. My father and I have a strained relationship at best, but I will forever be grateful that he, like so many other young men who survived the horrors of war and then went out into the world, had a fan boy's enthusiasm for the humanitarism and gallows humor of olde man Vonnegut. I had the opportunity once to meet Vonnegut, at where else the MoMA, back in '02 at the Gerhard Richter preview. I was working it, he was enjoying it, just to clear up any misconception that he and I traversed the same slippery social networks. He was walking out of the preview with his wife, the lovely Jill Krementz, and he told me to smile. I had been dealing with crazy party crashers and the usual insufferables that come along with any MoMA function,and I desperately wanted to go home. Here was this old coot, disshelved and shambling along with his beautiful lady in tow, and he took the time to talk to me. I blanched, recovered quickly, and told him how much his books had meant to my Daddy, and in turn me. I even told him how my father had gone to see him speak at Trinity University in San Anotnio a few years back.('97, I think.)

He then stopped, turned back and said,

'What's his name?'

"Vic," I said.

'You got any paper?',he asked.

" I do."

I grabbed some reciept paper from the counter I was standing at.

'And a pen.'

Yep, I had that to.

He then proceeded to draw a caricature of himself, represented above, signed, 'To Vic.' He then handed it to me, linked arms with Jill, and shambled off into the street, the air still charged with one of the most exciting moments of my life.
It was only later I realized he had never asked my name, nor had I attempted to shake his hand.

I had that sketch framed and gave it to my old man sometime later. It hangs prominently in his workshop and he loves to talk about it to anyone who will listen. He was the first person I called when I found out Vonnegut had died. It was our bond, like some Dad's pass on a love of a certain team to their sons, or a love of The Beatles. My father gave me Kurt Vonnegut. The last month, as I'm sure many others are doing, I have been furiously re-reading all his books, and even some of the one's I'd never read. Vonngeut represents many things to many people, but for me, it will always be his universal kindness and sense of the absurd that rests so deep within my collective unconscious whenever I think of him. He was ours, all of ours, Cantankerous Old Coot of a Grandpa, forever smoking and complaining about that goddamned Bush and Petroleum and the Great Big Greedy machine that is this country. He would also slip you a ten spot when you weren't looking and tell you a dirty joke, and be sure to give you a hug goodbye. You know, just like gramps.
Thank you Kurt Vonnegut, and thank you Daddy. We all thank you.

I wanted to post a track from this little gem of an album I discovered recently, but for some reason, it's encrypted and I can't get the fucker to load. It's from a record called 'Nashville' by Josh Rouse and I can't recommend it enough. So instead I will close this with a great little cover by a fellow Austinite and full time Dulli acolyte, Mr. Jeff Klein. It's a fitting end to this blog post, ramblers. Things will get better me thinks. Look for me on the season finale of Law & Order, original recipe. Now about those mix tape rules....

Blog Song of The Day.mp3

Soft Asylum

2007-04-02T12:31:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's all this acting with and against a TV monitor. Maybe it's 2006 in all it's glory, staring back at me in the form of reciepts. Maybe it's just (grey) spring fever. Whatever it is, I'm knackered.(props to VVH.) And antsy. Is that possible?

With spring brings new music, and music be the food of love, so...play on? Hard to when your spend all your time doing a play about a man (Michael Schiavo, sort of. Seriously, sort of.) whose wife, ex-wife, what have you, has been in a vegetative state for a long ass time. He wants to end it, for both her and him, but the in-laws and the law-makers want to keep her alive, for their own grand standing reasons. Obviously, I am skewed to err on the side of sympathy for him, but a situation like this sucks, whatever your beliefs. And letting go, in all it's forms, is truly one muther fucking difficult thing to do. I would get into more detail, but why ruin this otherwise dreary day with more ennui? My original point was to introduce you to Monday's 'Crush Of The Day', the new single from one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Grant-Lee Phillips. It's called 'Soft Asylum' and I can't stop listening to it. You shouldn't either, and then go see him May 9th at The Grammercy Theatre. Tell him t sent ya'. (Oh yeah, and come see my play...)

Up top is the first official photo-op from "Cross Country '07", which I can't believe was already a month ago. This was taken whilst stuck in heavy traffic on the NJ turnpike because of torrential flooding. It seemed doomed from the start. Shortly after we left the traffic behind(two hours shortly), the electrical system in the rental gave out. It seemed like all hope was lost, but lo and behold....

Yes, our hotel in Nashville had a guitar shaped pool. Deal with that!

Now, listen on kiddies. Then go hug someone special.

Grant-Lee's New Ditty

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far, or Road Trip Outtakes

2007-03-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

Nothing like surprising your old man on your country criss-cross.

That's right, freaks, I stayed in the Presidential suite of the RAMADA INN.
That's right, I said it, the RAMADA INN!

A Year Ago, man A Year Ago

2007-03-26T21:20:00.000-07:00

So, one year ago today, I set forth to California with dreams of rescuing the past and hopes of making it all good. What a foolish, foolish boy am I. Here's to that day. There is that long promised big blog entry coming, but for now enjoy a little snippet of the road trip gone right, and the latest mp3 to do me right. Damn Willie, when you want to, you really, really can.

Crush Of The Day

2007-03-22T12:40:00.000-07:00

Shout out to my good friend and colleague, Dup Dupperstein, for rousing me from my blog confessional coma. The pic above is just a teaser from the road trip heard round the office email.
Also, here's a link to this afternoon's crush, Eleni Mandell. The song is called "Moonglow, Lamp Low", and is from her new record MIRACLE OF FIVE. Congrats, Eleni, you are the first official soyuncabron 'Crush Of The Day'!

Today's Crush

Last Call

2007-02-08T18:14:00.000-08:00

So I was just on the phone with my grandmother, who went and had her funeral arrangements taken care of, and after a little crying and weirdness (I can't help it, the beautiful old Irish/Texan bird raised me, for chrissakes) she told me the song she had picked to be played as people shuffle out after the service.

It's "My Way", by Old Blue Eyes hisself, Mr. Frank Sinatra. OK, show of hands. Whose grandmother's a fucking badass? Yea, that's what I thought.

So it got me thinking. What's mine?

Ryan Adams?
Nah, just too,too much.

Justin Timberlake?
Whose gonna wanna bring sexyback from the grave?

Jeff Klein?
Who?
Exactly.

Nope, it would most definitely have to be Dulli.
Who else could sum up my black lunged loss of a life?
And what song could do it?

'Somethin' Hot?'
Nah, I'm not gonna pick any one up from the coffin.

'Gentleman?'
No. I'm not trying to get back together with anyone now that I'm dead.

'Teenage Wristband?'
Who the hell is wanna go for a ride with a corpse?

No, if there is one song that Mr. Dulli sang that would say that, "Yep, that's him, one Sloppy Drunk Sweetheart", it would have to be

'Debonair.'

The one that said it all, the first time, a million years ago.

Awesome.

So now, what's yours?

Between 2 Guys

2007-01-30T20:38:00.000-08:00

This isn't funny, it's true.
What I hate the most about this show is it is, bar none, the one show that always makes me a little teary everytime I see it. This one is for all my boys, spread hither and thither, near and yonder, who have listened to me bitch this past...well, who have listened to me bitch since bitching was bitching and a smoke was a smoke.
For DK, Watdawg, The Juice, Rob, Adam, The Baron, Bossman Burns, JR Holly, and the inimitable Duke Leonardi. There is a much bigger post in all of this, one that will satisfy Kristen, with the unhappy mixtape conclusion, a sad lament on things L gave me that are now no more, an article on magic thinking, and the whole shebang bag of good and bad that is this thing called life. This post is dedicated to marriages near and far, and babies that are soon popping. And of course to Lady Y. And the dimunitive downtown diva. It's almost opening night.

Monkey Job

2007-01-15T19:58:00.000-08:00

Here's a little something I've been working on. Enjoy?

Monkey Job

Whenever I tell anyone that I work at a museum, they always say the same thing.

“Oh, that must be so inspiring.” Yeah, it’s inspiring all right, as in at the end of every godforsaken day I’m inspired to drink my weight in cheap beer and then drive a metal spike through my spleen, call my father and blame him for letting me go to a liberal arts college in the first place. Inspiring, that’s one way to put it, sure enough. Another would be soul sucking. Or better still, coma inducing. Tops though, would probably be spirit crushing, alcoholism inducing, homicidal maniac deviant creating. I have always been one for hyperbole.
It wasn’t always this way, to be sure. The first few years I worked here, I loved it. A really big room with lots of pretty things and people to look at. Who wouldn’t take that for $13.72 an hour? Four weeks of vacation a year, twelve sick days and time-and-a-half on national holidays? I don’t know any Veterans, and I’m sorry, exactly how does one celebrate Columbus? Put on weird hats and stick flags everywhere? Give the indigenous peoples of your crummy Brooklyn neighborhood small pox? I’d rather take the extra forty bucks thank you very much. I’m gonna need it for happy hour, what with all the extra yahoos coming into invade our turf.
It’s funny, because that’s exactly how you start to look at it when you’ve been here long enough. Our turf. The lobby of this museum is ours. We the lobby staff have invited you here, and will cater to your every need, but that still makes you a guest, and you shall act as such. I wanna hear a please, I wanna hear a thank you, I wanna see a smile on your face and not more than three dumb questions out of your fat piehole or we will treat you with the most withering sarcasm you have ever been privileged to hear, I don’t care if you just gotta see “Starry, Starry Night” or “Kirsten’s World.” I have to walk by them both, with there correct titles every day, and after awhile, they both start to resemble cheap prints of themselves I remember people hanging in their college dorm rooms. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
This job was great for me, as an actor, because it’s the closest thing to waiting tables I knew of in the city, without all the hassle of dealing with food. It’s customer service, to be sure, but it carries with it an air of refinement or mystique that you’re just not going to find at The Hardrock Café. All of my theatre friends were envious, because I could come and go as I pleased for the most part, trade shifts and what not, which left me plenty of time to pursue my ‘career’, which is important to do if you’re in this environment for any sustained period of time. You gotta have outside interests, otherwise you’re going to find yourself face down in an empty bottle of self-loathing and ennui, and nobody needs that at 26. I had the rest of my adult life to be miserable and a self-proclaimed failure, I thought. That was until Federline came on the scene.
The museum underwent a massive renovation over a five-year period of time, even back before I got this job. We had to shut down our permanent home and move stakes to a small warehouse in the outer boroughs after year three of the rebuilding. There were twelve of us in Visitor Services then, not counting our crackerjack management staff, and we felt as though we were some kind of privileged group of outcasts. Or a really poorly assembled basketball team. When we moved to the temp site, it was hog heaven. No lady who lunched would be seen heading out to Queens to take in some fine art, no how, no way. You couldn’t beg people to come and check us out, which left us, the well-trained monkeys that we were, with a lot of free time on our hands. There’s nothing like being paid to surf the net, read Pynchon, or disappear with your pal for a quick pint at two in the afternoon. We were paid poorly, sure, but it ain’t like we were working. Who needed the hassle? When word came down that we were moving back to the city though, all that changed lickety split.
First off, in order to meet demand, you have to have supply. Our boss, Linus, was given permission to hire twenty new Visitor Services Lobby staff, which would bring our total up to 32. They were expecting thousands upon thousands of people to visit the museum everyday, and we had to be well stocked to meet their needs. The people that were hired were your usual batch of miscreants: East Coast Art School girls with good teeth and bad attitudes, fresh- faced art history majors, aspiring actors and musicians, and people that plain couldn’t get hired anywhere else. And Federline. In total, we were one motley crew. We were going to be eaten alive.
After the initial hiring, we were put through the paces of good customer service by our less than stellar managers. They were trying to prepare us for the unexpected, which is one Sisyphean task. I used to tend a little bar, and I can tell you this: The difference between a museum and a bar is that in a bar, people know what they want.
A guy walks in, orders a scotch, you send it his way. You do it good and fast, you get a little something for your efforts. Simple transaction, right? In a museum however, nobody knows what they want. The visitors are here out of some bizarre sense of obligation. For the most part they don’t give two craps about the art. They just know they’re supposed to see it so they can tell all their friends about it, buy a tote bag and be on their way. They come in not knowing how to ask for help, which in turn, makes the help available to them very testy. I could tell by the looks in the newbie’s eyes, they were in way over their heads. Tommy Federline though, was loving every minute of it.
Federline was 22, stood about 5’1”, and upon first viewing reminded me of the Saturday Night Live character Pat. Upon first sight, it was hard to tell if he was a man or a pitifully ugly woman, which only added to my initial distrust of him. Mix this in with his eagerness to answer all questions during training, even the rhetorical ones, and you have a recipe for certain disaster. I was glad to find out I wasn’t the only one who felt this way.
“Where the fuck did this guy come from?” asked one of my more outspoken co-workers, Caleb. “This guy, or whatever, is a total douche. Raising his hand! Who does that? We’re not in school anymore, jackass.” Caleb can be a little harsh.
“ You gotta wonder if that guy’s getting any,” another co-worker Jeremy remarked. “But I think you know the answer to that.”
I didn’t know the answer to that. I didn’t want to think about the answer to that. I just wanted to get the hell away from our “training” and off to the play I was performing in, so I could feel like a valuable member of the human race, instead of a monkey in a nice shirt and tie that told you were the pisser was. Federline may be a douche bag all right, but I had bigger fish to fry.
Finally the big day came. The newly renovated museum was open for business. We had something like 20,000 visitors that first day. I felt like I had been rode hard and put away wet. How many times can you tell people where the bathroom is or how to get to the gift store? How many times can you ask someone to kindly wait while we get another group of people through the front door? The sheer volume of people was enough to make anyone question the purpose of their life. How can you possibly wrap your mind around that many faces? It would be like if a huge rock star, say Bono, had to personally interact with everyone who came to see U2 perform. Think he’d be wee bit knackered and ready for a drink after all that? Not that I’m comparing myself to Bono. I certainly couldn’t sing “Where The Streets Have No Name” with any conviction. You get the idea.
Business at the museum carried on like this for about six months, and during that time, I got to know almost all of the new people’s habits and peccadilloes. It’s always helpful to see people in the most stressful situation possible, because then you find out what it is they are really made of. Some people would fly off the handle because of a visitor’s rude look; others couldn’t take an onslaught of increasingly stupid questions. As one of the old hands, I was looked at with a certain amount of awe, and was often the person asked to break up fights between my co-workers and patrons. Several times I even fought for Federline. One time, this old lady came in wanting to catch one of our afternoon films (these people are always the worst.) It was the end of May and she demanded to know where the calendar for June was. Our printer was always late with the monthly shipments, but there was nothing we could do about it. If the museum were a chessboard we were definitely the pawns, the front line of soldiers thrown out to the salivating masses so the Director and Curators could get away with whatever the hell they wanted.
So, some crazy old film regular starts haranguing poor Federline about where the hell the calendar is. He tries, god bless him, with all the dignity he can muster to tell her that we haven’t received them yet. She then calls him an “ignorant little prick” at which point I step in and try to deal with the situation.
“Mam, is there a problem?”
“Yes, your little crony here won’t get me a calendar.”
“It’s not that he won’t get you a calendar, mam, it’s that there are none to be got. Our printer is late, as usual. If you call back in a few days, I’m sure we will have them.”
“I don’t have a few days. I have to plan my June.”
“I understand mam, but there’s no reason to insult my staff.”
“Are you a manager?”
(Here I lie and take authority.)
“Yes, yes I am. And my employee is doing all he can to assist you. I’m sorry we don’t have that information available at this time.”
“Mam, he’s actually not my manager, but he has been here a long time. It’s nobody’s fault if you’ve got nothing else to do with your sad old life than plan which movies you’re going to see and pick on people who are trying to help you. You are one sad old bitch.”
And that did it. Federline the chihuahua attack dog scared the hell out of that old windbag. She gathered up her stuff and split the scene.
“Little harsh, Tommy.”
“Fuck it.”
I would have never expected that out of someone who had made it a habit of telling people where they were supposed to be, when they were supposed to be there, over the walkie-talkies we used everyday, repeatedly. Even though he ranked lower than I did.
The summer came and went without much incident, and Tommy and I even had a sort of tentative friendship. He and I both liked to work as much overtime as possible, so we wound up spending a lot of time together, even having a beer after work a few times. None of my old crew would go near overtime, so they just couldn’t understand.
“You and Federline gonna be managers, man.”
Caleb had a suspicion of anything vaguely resembling management.
“You guys jerk each other off while you’re watching baseball at the bar after you get clock out?”
Avery was the pervert of the group.
“What the fuck are you doing, Declan? Federline’s a douche.”
Jeremy must be jealous we didn’t hit Jimmy’s Corner after work for drinks anymore.
I was starting to get fed up with the whole scene. I’d been at this museum for four years now and nothing had changed. I hadn’t landed a good project in like seven months, and like I said earlier, you’ve got to have something outside of the job or you’re going to lose your shit. It wasn’t that I even liked Tommy Federline; if anything I regarded him with a sort of weary fascination. He loved talking about this job. A lot. He would joke about it if we rode the subway together, replay the day’s oddest moments over drinks, and constantly ask me questions about our benefits package and how long we had to wait to receive our step increase. (I had been roped into being our museum union rep. don’t ask.)
It was all fine and good that Federline loved it so much, but I couldn’t bear talking about it outside of work. I’d lost a girlfriend over the vitriol I used to bring home from the job, and I had to learn to turn the day off as soon as I walked out the glass doors of our lobby. It just wasn’t worth it.
One night Federline, another co-worker Robbie and I went across the street to watch a baseball game at the closest bar after a long night. It was 10:30 or so, and all of us had been at the museum for over twelve hours. Robbie’s a big Red Sox fan, so he wanted to catch them playing the Yankees. We bellied up to the bar, ordered a round and watched as David Ortiz came up to the plate. It was the bottom of the 9th, at Fenway, Yankees up 5-3, and two men on, two men out. Man! We had walked in at just the right time.
“Can you believe what that drunk asshole said to her?” Federline starts in, before I’ve even had one sip of my well-deserved Bass. “What a dick.”
First pitch is a foul ball. 0 and 1.
I humor him. “Yeah, total jerk. Glad they got security on him. We don’t need that kind of thing at these fancy parties. It’s bad enough it’s all rich people who could give fuck all about art anyway. They’re just there for the free drinks and shrimp.”
High and outside, 1 and 1. Ortiz steps out of the plate, spits on his gloves, pounds them, and picks up his bat.
“Yeah, it sucked.” Robbie could care less about the event. His entire energy is focused on Ortiz’s piece of lumber.
“This is what he’s known for, you know that, right Robbie? Clutch hitting. Remember last year? He’s huge for sure in the clutch.”
“Yes,” says Robbie. He would like to stab Federline in the neck with a beer nut. “You are right, Tommy.” Ball 2.
“Declan that guy threw his shrimp in Lucy’s cleavage and told her he was Bubba Gump! I mean come on! He said it was her fault for wearing a cocktail dress in the first place! What a crazy!” Foul ball. 2 and 2.
“I know. I was the one who got security for her.”
“Yeah, I was there when you got security, remember? We got that guy together.”
I couldn’t win this one. I order bourbon on the rocks. The pitching coach for the Yankees came out to the mound. The network cuts to commercial. Robbie suggests we have a quick smoke before they resume. The three of us head out into the early September night, sticky sweet and humid. Fall isn’t quite here yet, which makes smoking actually enjoyable. After a long day of battling human stupidity, why would you want to battle the cold?
Federline doesn’t smoke but he joins us.
“So Declan why aren’t you acting in anything right now? Taking a break? Trying to just focus on work?” Robbie starts to choke on his exhalation.
“No Tommy, I just haven’t been lucky for a while.”
“Dude, we better get back in there.” Robbie stubs out his smoke and dashes in. That was the fastest cigarette in recorded history.
“That’s got to really suck.”
“Yes, Tommy, it really does.” I throw my cigarette to the ground and head in.
The Yankees have made a pitching change and the count stands. 2 and 2 with two on and two out, 5-3 Yankees are ahead in the bottom of the 9th at Fenway, the greatest baseball park in the country.
“Well, why do you think you’re not getting any work, man?” The first pitch from the new pitcher is a foul ball. The count is still 2 and 2. Ortiz steps out of the plate, does his routine.
“I don’t know Tommy. I was hot for a while last year, and this year not so much. I get auditions, but no work. Yet.”
“I would quit if that happened to me. Think about a career.”
Another foul ball. Ortiz is going to wear this guy down, then jump all over him, no doubt about it.
“Yeah, well, believe me, I think about quitting all the time, but it’s what makes me happy, so.” I am getting a little put out, and all I want is for Ortiz to bang the shit out of that ball. I can take Federline’s shit if Ortiz will just crush that mother.
“What keeps you doing it? Curve ball!”
Robbie gasps as Ortiz hits a foul that narrowly escapes getting caught by the Yankees first basemen. The count is still 2 and 2. I take a deep drink of my bourbon and then my Bass.
“Because he’s an actor, Tommy. That’s why. Shut up. We want to watch this.” Robbie has always been a man of few words, but he knows how to use them when he chooses to.
“I’m just trying to make conversation. You guys don’t have to be such jerks. Just because he’s not making it as an actor that means you can get testy, Robbie? What? You’re his manager now? Maybe that’s why he’s not getting any work!” Federline started howling at his ‘joke.’ “ I’m just trying to be friendly, okay? Lighten up, guys.”
“No you’re not Federline. You think you are but you’re not. Being friendly. We wanna watch the game but all you wanna do is prattle on about nothing. Wait until the end of the game then we can talk bullshit all you want! You can either shut-up and watch Big Papi or you can leave! Fuck!” Robbie drains his Bass and slams the pint glass down on the wooden bar top.
“Just be cool guys. Come on.” I’m the freaking UN.
“Tell him to be cool. I’m the one making jokes, telling stories, and Mr. Poopy Pants over here is all sullen. What’s he got to be sullen about? The Red Sox just won the World Series last year. Come on, let’s drink!”
“Federline, man, all I want to do is watch the game. If you can’t do that, then leave. You’re jokes are as stupid as your matching shirt and tie sets. Goddammit-“
‘It’s straight down the middle of the plate and Ortiz goes for it- - he hits it…a shot straight into center field, it’s off the wall, Renteria is coming home, he scores, Damon is rounding third, here comes Williams with the throw from center…Damon scores! Ortiz is rounding second and charging hard for third, here comes the throw from home…Rodriguez misses the throw, the ball is out into left, they’re signaling Ortiz home, he’s charging, he’s charging, here comes the throw from Matsui in left…. SAFE!!!!! Can you believe it! Red Sox win! Red Sox win!!! 6-5!! Red Sox win!’
All three of us stared at the Plasma TV in disbelief. It was a Yankees bar for sure, but we didn’t care. After a beat Robbie started whooping and hollering, I gave him a hug, and Taylor the Irish bartender poured us a shot. As the Yankees fans started questioning the validity of the call, and then telling us it didn't matter anyway, that the Yankees were still in first place, we taunted them right back, telling them if the Yankees had better pitching, it really wouldn’t matter. Somewhere in all the bullshitting Tommy must have snuck out. He left money on the bar, enough for our first round, my bourbon included.
The next day I woke up decided that I needed a vacation. I was tired of all the bullshit at the museum and needed to clear my head. I hadn’t used any time off in over a year, so I decided to just blow it all in one go, take the full six weeks vacation I had in the tank and take a trip. I hadn’t done that in years, and now seemed like the perfect time. I headed out two weeks later, first flying to my parents home in South Texas to collect my old truck, and then setting out across the country, first to Memphis, then Nashville, Louisville, Chicago, Kansas City and St. Louis, wherever the road lead. It was great to be away from the hustle and bustle of New York, but more importantly the museum. I did a ton of thinking on that trip, and realized one night, as I was headed down I-10 back towards San Antonio, that it was time to let it go. Time to quit that velvet glove of a job and do something, anything, that would make me happier. I had to, or else I would suffer a fate worse than death. I would become middle management.
I came back just after Thanksgiving to uproarious applause. Jeremy and Robbie, Avery and even that cute girl Lucy were all happy to see me. Caleb couldn’t wait to tell me all about the shit management had been pulling, and then suggested we all head out for drinks after work. I wasn’t ready to deal with being back yet, but I pulled it together.
“So you know about Federline, right?” Caleb was indignant.
“I haven’t heard anything man. I been on the road.”
“Yeah, well, Kerouac, he’s management now. He’s your boss.”
I literally did a spit take. With coffee and a cigarette. I’d been back half an hour and already trouble. I repeated silently to myself ‘MUST. GET. OUT.’ Then, to Caleb:
“The hell you say.”
“I wish. It’s totally true. It’s like we’re in The Weimar Republic or something.” Avery, our resident history buff.
“You gotta do something man. It’s all bullshit scare tactics lately. Docking us if we come in ten minutes late, timing our lunch breaks. We’re even getting reprimanded on how pressed our shirts are and how well we clean our shoes.”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
“Word is it’s because they’re going to cut some of us loose. And you know who the worst is, don’t you?”
“Jim? Tim? Not Stacey, she doesn’t care.”
“Federline, dude. Feder-fucking-line.” Caleb nodded his head meaningfully. “You got to do something man. You got to.”
The rest of my first day back passed without incident well enough, and after work, the boys took me to Jimmy’s for a few rounds. I wasn’t happy to be back at work, but I was happy to be around people I considered friends, after being alone for so long. Who cared if Federline had been promoted? I was out the door in six months tops. I had plans. I had dreams.
“So what are you going to do man?” Caleb was already back on topic.
“What should I do?”
“Scare him, Declan. You’re good at it. Give him that tough guy stuff you do so well.”
“It won’t work. He’ll write Declan up.” Avery, the voice of reason.
“Embarrass him in front of the other managers. He’ll get the hint.” Jeremy loved humiliation. This from a guy who’s in grad school for psychology.
“I don’t know guys. I’ll figure it out. Can we just enjoy ourselves right now?” I was trying to hold on to my calm for as long as possible.
I knew I had to do something to help everybody. It was the role I played at the museum. I was the shit storm starter. You messed with my co-workers, than you messed with me. We got messed with enough by the visitors; we didn’t need to take it from some kid that used to be one of us. I resolved to deal with it tomorrow. Tonight I just wanted to deal with my buzz.
The next day I woke up late and wound up missing my first post of the day. I called in to tell them I was running behind, and all seemed fine. I had after all, been gone for a month and a half, they would understand, wouldn’t they? I could garner a little sympathy for having to come back, right? The day passed without incident, until six o’clock, when I was grabbing my messenger bag and about to head home.
“Uh, can I talk to you for a minute, Dec?” That was Linus, the head of my department. Never good at intrapersonal communication, talking with him could be like teaching a three legged dog stupid pet tricks. It was hard.
“What’s up boss man?” I followed him into his office.
“Shut the door.” I did. “Sit down.”
I did. I had had plenty of meetings with Linus over the years, and none of them were ever very scary. Every time I thought I was in trouble, it turned out he was just trying to relay some new policy regarding museum members to me, or the amount of movie tickets we could give out in advance. I saw no reason why this would be any different.
“How was your vacation?” he started by asking, as he settled down into his leather swivel chair.
“It was good. Thanks. I needed it.”
“Yes. I can understand that. This place will get to you.” Linus had been here since he was 24. He was forty something now. If it hadn’t gotten to him yet, I doubt it ever would.
“I just needed to get away from the city, take some ‘me’ time, you know?
“Glad you did it. I want to talk to you about something.”
“Shoot.”
“I know you and everyone else hate Federline.”
“Umm?”
“Be quiet, you don’t have to say anything. I know it’s hard for you guys that have been here awhile to accept, but he’s one of your managers now.”
“Fine by me.”
“And you should watch how you treat him. He’s got power, and he reports directly to me. He tells me things.”
“Umm, okay?”
“You and Caleb and Avery and Jeremy might want to start thinking about doing a little better job around here.”
“Okay.”
“It doesn’t do you any good to bitch and moan. Just do your job. I know it’s hard. But who else is going to give you six weeks off to drive around and find yourself?”
He had me.
“Okay, Linus.”
“And Declan?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t mention this conversation to anyone. I’m talking to you because of how people view you. And you’re the union rep. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Now get out of here. Have a nice night.”
I got. All that night I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Was Federline still mad about that stupid ball game two months ago? Did Robbie really piss him off that much? And, most importantly, what was I going to tell everyone?
The next morning found most of my crew assembled in the staff café, grabbing coffee and bagels before our first shift.
“He told me to use my inside voice this morning!” I was beginning to think that Caleb was looking for grievances; he loved picking the scab of Federline’s promotion as much as possible.
“Declan we have to do something. You should call the union.”
“And tell them what? Federline’s getting on our case about stuff we’re supposed to do anyway?”
Everyone was taken aback. I had said the unspeakable. No one told us what to do here, that was rule number one. As long as we did what we needed to do, the managers had always left us alone. But we knew that we slacked all the time, on our appearance, on our visitor service skills, on our lives in general. But nobody had ever said it out loud before.
“What are you saying, dude?” Of course Caleb started right in.
“I’m not saying anything. I just think we’re helpless in this. Us bitching and moaning isn’t going to change anything. If anything, him getting hired should make us want to get out of here even quicker. That is still the goal, right? Right?”
Total silence. I for one had always said I would leave this job eventually. I couldn’t grow old here, what little self-esteem I had wouldn’t allow it. I said I would leave after a year, then two, then three, and here I was already at the four year mark with five in the not too distant future. I was tired of all the talking about dreams and complaining about them. I had to leave soon, whether a little yes man like Federline was one of the bosses now or not.
“Declan’s right. But I still think you have to fuck with him. You’re the only one that can do it well. Take that prick into your confidence and then humiliate him.” Jeremy had obviously been taking his psych courses very seriously.
“All right, I’ll think of something. I just gotta find the right way to embarrass Tommy. I just have to find the right angle. But I’ll figure something out.”
“I thought you guys were supposed to be setting up the barricades outside for the morning line.”
Oh shit. It was one of those moments you see in movies when time just stops because somebody committed the biggest faux pas ever, the record skips and everyone stares at you in horror. Tommy was standing right behind me, wasn’t he?
“We are. In just a minute. It’s not quite 9:30 yet.” Go get ‘em Caleb.
“But you punch in at 9.”
“But the crowds don’t start assembling until quarter of 10.”
“Just do it.”
We grabbed our coffees and bagels and headed out of the café with a hustle that a JV football coach would have been proud of.
“Do you think he heard any of that?” Avery had a look of fear in his eyes. He was 37, which made me a little sad.
“Who cares if he did? It’ll be our word against his. We’ve got the union to protect us anyhow.” The union, always with the union. I should let Caleb be the goddamned union rep he loved the union so much.
“Let’s just do our job and forget about it. I think we’re going to be fine.”
“Man, Declan, it’s like I don’t know you anymore. What happened to you out on the road?”
Jesus Christ. We got to work, setting up the barricades outside of the entrance to the museum, so people could get into one long line, and wait out in the November chill for their turn to pay a bunch of money to look at a bunch of pretty pictures. I had only been back three days, and already the routine was sinking in. It’s hard to tell this day apart from the same date a year ago. Or the year before that. Or the year before that.
At six o’clock, as we were all giving each other guff and punching out, Linus stepped out of his office and pointed a finger in my general direction.
“My office. Now.”
Caleb and the boys sniggered and made some obscene hand gestures. I looked to them for the smallest bit of sympathy, but they were out the door before I could get it. Walking into Linus’ office, I closed the door silently and sat down. He stood at his desk.
“What did I ask you to do?”
“To quit picking on Federline.”
“And what happened this morning?”
“Nothing.”
“You guys can drink all the coffee you want, but only after all of the morning duties are finished. What I will not tolerate is you guys making threats to Tommy.”
“Threats?”
“That’s what I heard. You were making threats against him.”
“Linus, I promise you none of us were making threats against him.”
“Well we have a difference of opinion there.”
“What did you hear?”
“It doesn’t matter what I heard, it matters what I’m saying. I just asked you yesterday to make everyone lay off of him and now you’re threatening him? This is unacceptable. I want to suspend you for the rest of this pay period. This happens again and you’re out.”
“But!”
“No but, Declan. We have to work together here. I’m sorry if I have to make an example of you, but you guys have to learn. Docking your pay is the only way you guys are going to learn. I mean business.”
“Linus, I don’t have any money. Did you ever think that maybe the reason we threaten Federline is because he makes this job unbearable?”
“Well then get a new one. Anyone of you guys could have been the new manager. But you’re too good for that. Federline wanted the responsibility. Now get out of here. I’ll see you in ten days. And remember, this happens again, you’re done.”
He made a cutting motion across his neck and signaled me to leave. ‘Damn right, Linus,” I thought walking out of his office and then out into the lobby of this godforsaken place, “this job is killing me.’ I did the only thing I could think to do at that moment. I slipped on my headphones and headed to Jimmy’s. I was going to have to put this one on my card.

Our Once A Year Thang

2006-12-04T08:05:00.000-08:00

Dr. Iwahara, you are a sly one. A charming Cassanova, a stud of the stethoscope.
What we have, every fall, is forever special to me. You tell me it's because my lower intestines and colon are all amok, but I know better. You just want to hold me, tell me everything I long to hear, run your fingers through my hair and administer propofol like a love hungry lothario coming to my window with a bouquet of lilies in the night.

Don't get me wrong. I do look forward to it. You take me away, like some long lost love ballad running through my subconscious, the love drug you give me and the gentle prod make me feel like one very special girl. Like I AM the girl with the most cake. Why can't we do this more often? Please tell me I am the only one.

I know, I know.

I must accept the rules of this game.

I can't have you. And it stings.

But you know what? Try as you might, your ovetures have caused too much pain.
You want me for real now?

Too bad. After it was all over, I woke up crying and asked for L.

Man those are some good drugs.

Back to bed for bonzo.

Ready, Set, WRITE!

2006-11-02T14:57:00.000-08:00

As the words start coming down like raindrops in what can only be called my latest attempt at a 'novel',I share some inspiration of the divine kind.

Devastation At Last, indeed.

Four Years Ago

2006-11-01T21:10:00.000-08:00

When he banged his head everything was alright.

On This Day In History

2006-09-08T20:43:00.000-07:00

First, an apology. The conclusion to the previous post is coming, promise, sometime next week. I've gotten busy and I want to do it right.

But real quick like:

One year ago today I left for Austin to do the play that changed everything. I lost a car, an ipod, and more importantly someone very dear. I always remember stuff like this, am plagued by it really, so I thought I should just take a second to mark it.
Ahh, the curse of the sloppy drunk sweetheart.

Mix tape rules are on the way.

Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart Tonight

2006-08-08T12:36:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, a very dear friend of mine was able to convince me to share with her the self-inflicted rules I impose on myself when ever I set forth on the Herculean task of making a mixtape, er CD. I have been making the things consistently and compulsively since I was 14, and I take no small bit of pride in the desired effect they have on their recipients. I would never brag and say that I make the best mixes in the world, for how can you really judge such a thing? But I will say that I know the rhythms and cadences necessary in any good 90 minute chunk of music, and that if you're setting forth to try and impress someone, inspire someone, let someone know you're crushed out on them, say Happy Birthday, or just plain trying to get them to shake their ass, you have to establish that theme, whatever it is. I have mulled over sharing my secrets with the world, here on this already highly personal blog, and decided that because everything in my universe seems to be falling in on me in a highly symbolic way, I need to share my thoughts with the world. Without further ado, KP, the story of a mix made to order.

Rob Gordon knows the secrets of the universe.

Every audiophile of a certain age has seen HIGH FIDELITY. In the movie, as in the book, Nick Hornby's protagonist Rob lays out the basics for mix assembly. The first two rules are the only ones I ever follow: 1.)Track 1, side 1(or just track 1 in this age;god I miss cassettes) has got to be a real scorcher, something that's gonna make you get up and DANCE, or pump your fists, put your lead foot to the pedal whatever. As boldly as you have just announced your presence, Mr. DJ, you must remember that 2.)Whatever song you started the mix with, however hot it is, the second one HAS to top it. You don't have a choice. You threw the gauntlet down with Track One, but know you have to pick it right back up and do a shooter. It's something I call the bourbon with a bourbon back. And I guess, what could be considered rule 3, although it's really a subset of rule 2 is that, now whatever you do, you have to cool off that hot jam with something a little slow for Track 3. This would be your beer, if our mix is considered to be a night of heavy drinking. And why not, for what better atmosphere is there to hear a mash up of young and old, good and bad, ironic and authentic, then a good ole fashioned American bar? And what better state to contemplate the mysteries and emotional ties we all feel to the soundtrack of our lives than in a highly inebriated state? Drink up!

They make it sound so good, but they kill the iPod.

I have decided to take two very different mixes made for the same person at two different times and try to show you the common themes that link songs to one another.
The graphic above shows an awesome pair of headphones that give you excellent sound on which to aurally cut and paste your way into some unsuspecting person's heart. I was given a pair of these last summer, for my birthday, and loved the hell out of them. So much so that a few months ago I had to go and buy a replacement pair. There seems to be a lot of that lately. Stuff given to me that I loved so much I wore it down to a husk of it's former self. Nevertheless, many a mix was mastered with these dainty little headphones atop my noggin, and for that we must give thanks. Anyhow, the first mix we shall examine, made last summer is called BACK WITH DA, Vol. I&II. The second, made this past spring, is called 33&1/3:(SO)LONGPLAY, Vol. I&II. As may be obvious, both are double discs made for someone very important to me. The problem with blank CD's, if you ask me, is that 80 minutes is sometimes not enough time to really get it out there what it is you're trying to say. I often find myself making double mixes for people who mean alot to me, because a good two hours and forty minutes of music can say alot.

BACK WITH DA, from heretofore known as BWD, starts off with 'Debaser' by the Pixies. 33 &1/3, now known as TTT, starts off with 'Let's Go Crazy' from Purple Rain. Both kickers, both establishing a mood. Now if you consider the time period in which each of these were made, and the person they were made for, it's fairly apparent what each intro is trying to say. The Pixies track is a nod to summer, a nod to fun, a nod to vacation, which is exactly why the mix was made. It was made to be driven to, BBQ'd to, swam to. As in, going BACK home for vacation. Hence the title. The second intro, Prince's opening song to the film PURPLE RAIN, is a two fold nod: A childhood favorite for said mix recipient, and a way of also saying "Happy Birthday!(I'm still in love with you!) See,I still remember!" According to Hornby's rules, so far so good. The next tracks, respectively, are BWD:"Fell In Love With A Girl" by the White Stripes, and TTT:"Jonathon Fisk" by Spoon. Both are total guitar driven RAWKin' songs. Again, both say something very different. For BWD it says "See you in a month, have a great vacation, I LOVE you." For TTT it says "HEY! I've taken some serious shit but I'm still standing here. See?" (The Spoon song is about overcoming a childhood bully and living in wait until the day you kick can kick his ass, and Britt Daniel's groan is a perfect follow to Prince's howling 'Take Me Away!' at the end of "Let's Go Crazy.") Those two kickers are followed by BWD:"Este Noche" by The Twilight Singers (hello Dulli!) and TTT:"Everybody Wants To Rule The World" by Tears For Fears. Both songs are much slower in tempo then their predecessors in the mix, and both again, are nodding to the theme that is being established, For BWD, "Este Noche" lays out the idea of having a good hot time on a muggy summer night. Dulli's begging some little somethin' somethin' to come and have a drink with him, but he's also being cool about. Again, a very smooth, very sexy, very mellow laid back vacation vibe is being established. For TTT, the Tears For Fears song is epic in scope, taking the recipient back to childhood, referencing changes in life (taking on your dreams, dropping everything and one, saying 'fuck it' to many a myriad of mother fuckers in this shitty city) and also references 'Real Genius', another childhood favorite. To quote: 'Have you ever seen a body like that in your LIFE?'

Now here is where Mr.Hornby and I part ways. Oh sure, he makes good points about loads of other rules, like how not to put two songs by the same artist back to back (Duh), and being careful with cover songs and so on, but really, none of that applies to our purposes here. What's important is the theme of the thing, what it is you're trying to get across. And in order to get to the heart of that, you're going to have to wait until next time.

2006-08-02T11:34:00.000-07:00

Thrown Out of The Museum

While this kind of stuff happens at work routinely, and it's really more boring than effective, it's good to see one of the heads of security portrayed accurately. AS A TOTAL DICKHEAD. Finally, the museum got something right!

2006-07-31T23:26:00.000-07:00

Devastation At Last

The Knitting Factory, August 10th. One of the most overlooked singer/songwriters ever. This is one of the most beautiful songs of the last fifteen years.
This should just be a music blog.

The Hiatus Is Back Off, Again

2006-07-19T05:48:00.000-07:00

I have lost the thread of my story. Somewhere along the way, in the last six weeks or so, a whole lot of life happened, and updating this seemed like something akin to dousing the toilet with Comet. But alas! I have returned and hope to fill in the gaps, both narratively and metaphysically. There have been many wonderful adventures, a massive letdown, some heart warming words from a few dead white guys, and a rock show to boot.

When last we saw each other, the show that I had been waiting months for was nigh. Senor Greg Dulli, he of soul crush grooves and black lunged love, was on his way to visit the Big Apple and lay down his particular brand of pathos and booze. The winner of my first(and probably only) contest, Miss Jessica Sonders, met me early in the evening on June 1st, which would prove to be a date to remember, for a myriad of reasons, not all good. We adjourned with haste to a watering hole to line our stomachs with grease and talk over the gossipy parts that are always so much more succulent in person. After concluding our first course of the evening, we were off to meet Mark the Cool and company for a quick nip of the sauce at another watering hole. We weren't expecting the torrential downpour that awaited us as we left the Old Time Tavern. Clinging to each other like the sissies we are, Miss Sonders and I were drenched by the time we arrived at the Kings Head Tavern. I took it as a sign that things were afoot out there in the universe, that this downpour was like some kind of Lloyd Dobler like baptism, that tonight Greg and Co. were going to rock me like I needed to be rocked and that something big was about to happen. I also needed a belt of the good stuff.
Mark The Cool sat regally at the bar having the first bourbon and beer back of the night. In his company was a woman of mystery, even to herself. We adjourned to the couch and discussed my newest project, the mustache photos. There was an NBA playoff game on, so conversation was somewhat stilted as Dirk the Turk went off on the Phoenix Suns, gangsta style. I was trying to get everyone pumped about Dulli and the boys, but the rain was dampening our spirits. There was only one thing to do. Take more mustache photos.

The genesis of this little la de da, like so many of my pet projects, was boredom. One evening in rehearsals, the lovely Ms. O'Connor and I happened upon a treasure chest of wild outfits. Hats, dolls, fake foods, you name it. One such item was a short order cook's hat. I told Ms. O'Connor I needed my picture taken wearing said hat, tut suite. She suggested we take this pose one step further, by adding a mustache. The rest, as they say, is history. With little or no thought behind it, we have created a international man of mystery, one J.P. Levensworth, Esq., man about town. The rules are simple. His photo is taken in various locales , wearing different outfits, with three things constant: a bad black gaffe tape mustache, a pair of sunglasses, and an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. It is safe to say at this point that Mr. Levensworth has become much bigger than the initial inspiration ever meant him to be. There are plans in the works for a calendar, a t-shirt line, and several short films. Whether or not any of this actually happens is moot, but I would hope that his advice column, 'Dispatches From The Way-Out' can still find the readers it rightly deserves. I digress.
Finally mustering the courage we knew we had deep within us, Mark The Cool led a charge to find black gaffe tape so that mustache photos could be taken amidst the chaos of the pagan like bachnalia abou to unfold. Alas, there was no sticky stuff to be had. On we went, wetter and drunker for our efforts, to bow before the idol of my youth.

To say that I was charged with lust and longing, filled with something I first felt at 16, to say that I wanted to 'sound my barbaric yalp' over the rooftops and mix tapes of the world, would be selling the whole thing short. I'm a dork, I'm the first to admit it. I'm deeply touched when someone touches me, which has led to many myriad complications throughout my life; I am forever indebted to those that taught me how or have given me love. I do not recover from paradigm shifts easily; Greg Dulli understands. Walking, ney, strutting into Irving Plaza on 6/1/06, mutherfuckers had best be ready, cuz' T-Dawg was here to represent.

The beauty of being a sloppy drunk sweetheart is that you often pay for people's drinks when they're not looking; damn the APR's and debt to hell, because in the end, people wind up coming through for you in the most perfect of ways. All three of my cohorts in tow that night had felt the grace of my USAA Master Card at one time or another; tonight was my night, and they knew it, so no way was I paying for shit. Armed with my soul correcting Maker's, and my utilitarian Budweiser, I strode to the front of the pack of wolves to catch the opening act, my brother from Austin, one Jeff Klein. I am here to tell you brothers and sisters, he is the poet laureate of black white boy soul, Version 2.0. The boy flat out rocks. Catching his set, and his closer, "Stripped", took me back to Mark and I's ramble through the windy streets of SF, through driving around Silverlake, trying not to puke thinking of her, to catching a red eye back to NYC, crying in my peanuts and whiskey. If the rain was my baptism, then Mr. Klein was the opening prayer. The stage was set. It was gonna be epic.

Excitement is contagious, and when I feel it, you best know you are too. The second act, the Italian rock band Afterhours, was lame, but rest assured, I promised my amigos, nothing compares to a well oiled Dulli. After Afterhours finished there thing, I hastily made my compadres move down front for what was to be a Catholic ceremony unlike any other. As the clock struck 11, I was not to let my lovelies down. Taking the stage amidst a drown of feedback and reverb, Dulli sauntered front and center with a sad dirge being played on the keyboards. Mike stand decked out with two cup holders, one for his drink and one for his ashtray, my mutherfucka picked up his Strat and began to wail. 'I'm Ready', the lead off track off of "Powder Burns" let us know this was a new Dulli, a man who has been through the shit and seen the other side. Word on the street is that my man is clean, two years off the Class A's and kicking music like he's watching the clock, which, truth be told, he might be. The concert, in short, was a revelation, taking me back and forth between joy and pain, righteousness and scourge, making me remember how hard it is to feel anything worth a damn and being proud to have that affliction. In my weakest moment, I dialed a number I knew better than to. As the opening strands of 'Teenage Wristband' kicked in, I speed dialed the one who I always dedicate that song to. It would be a revelation of the heartbreaking kind. More on that shit later.

Needless to say, the concert was everything I desperately needed it to be. Dulli didn't talk much, which is a first, but hey, if my brother's clean, then who I am to complain. Just keep the music coming, you know what I'm saying? A brilliant time was had by all, and heading into tech for NERVE, it was exactly what I needed. You wish you had entered that contest now, don't you?

After the concert, our ears ringing with the sounds of sweet soul salvation, the four of us headed to an Irish pub to recount the night. It was then that my phone rang, showing a number I had come to both dread and long for. I didn't want to kill my high. I let it go to voice mail. There was drinking to be done.

In the cab back home that night, as Mark The Cool and I replayed the night, I couldn't help but push the button to hear her voice. She told me everything I never wanted to hear. And everything I probably should. I have too much respect, because of my aforementioned gratitude and deep seated love to go into it, but I know somewhere deep down, it's not as easy as it all seems, for both sides. I won't elaborate because I have too much, much too much respect, but I will say this: we may be done with the past, but the past isn't done with us. I hope she realizes that someday too.

Onwards and upwards, bloggers.

Nerve was everything I needed it to be and more. I don't care what some of you high falutin' theatre types thought of the show, but as an actor, anybody would be lucky to get the chance to do a play like this. Talk about a workout. Adam wrote a play that I NEEDED to do, and getting to work with Susan and Adam and Scott really saved me, in a very serious way. I won't spoil it by going in depth, but I think I did the right thing by turning down some other stuff to do this show. ADAM is the MAN,and I salute him.

While doing the show, I discovered a book that had somehow been out there, waiting for the exact right moment for me to find it. A FAN'S NOTES, by Frederick Exley, was the life story of a degenerate loafer who decided to tell it like it was. By saying that I'm selling it way short, but nonetheless, reading this in the last month has really changed my life. I mean that, whole heartedly. That all encompassing sadness, realizing that you are just a face in the crowd, and not the guy on the field, like Exley writes so poignantly about, is absolutely heartbreaking and completely demystifing. Drinking is sadness, just like he says. God may I overcome it.

Finally two nods: One to The 'Lebs, my brother in arms, my bum on the couch, the man who taught me to drink bourbon and chase the great tomorrow with equal aplomb. May your roadtrip back west give you everything you need and may you find what it is you're looking for. And to you, James 'Roday', star of "Psych." We had the pleasure briefly back in SA back in the day. You know what you did to you know who. So do I. Sucks that you're on a billboard and I'm pushing art at fatties from Kansas. You'll get yours. Judging by the reviews, maybe you already have.

More later.
How's that, Dup?

A Fractured Fairy Tale, Part Two

2006-05-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

Lady Y and J were making a habit of it. Things had started to get weird. Lord N was never around. Here was a lonely lass with eyes that could melt any man's heart. What was a poor stall vendor to do?

J had thought that he and his one true love would whether the storms of time forever. When this idea proved to be folly, as his L was swallowed up by the Unbelievable Serpent Consumption, he resorted to what he knew best. Lots and lots of self loathing. Loads of it. Enough to kill lesser men, not that he was all that high up on the mighty man scale to begin with. He took some comfort in the fact that his liver was mightily fortified with his white trash Irish stock and his music player was chock full of madrigals that would kill men of a less melancholy state.

Every Saturday night, as his stall closed down and the market was done mercantiling for the day, he would meet Lady Y at a remote and clandestine mead house were they would not be spotted. It had been going on well over a month now, and chaste it most certainly was. Until the night when the Baron showed his face in their favorite spot, spouting platitudes and empty threats that had only warmed J's heart in the past.

"Ah young J," the Baron began, drunk and staggering in, a thin piece of drool dangling from the corner of his mouth, "what art thou doing making time with Lady Y? Art thou one big doof? Don't you know Lord N will have thoust nuts in a vice if he were to ever disocver you two making time together?"

Truthfully, J had not considered his nuts at all. They had been somewhat in the back of his mind for sometime now. In fact, he had almost forgotten he had them. These were troubling times.

"In truth, dear Baron, the Lady Y and I were only discussing new flooring for her mansion. I can get her a deal on good Pergo floors at mightily a discount."

"How about getting me a discount on a strong ale?"

It was good to see The Baron up to his old tricks.

"Everyone knows you two are making the cutie eye at each other," said the Baron mischievously. "If thou doesn't want me to spill the beans, you had better buy me a ale, and a Maker's on the rocks tut suite. That'll shut me up right and good."

J knew the Baron was only half serious. He paid for The Baron's drinks and turned to Lady Y.

"What are we doing?"

"I don't know. What are you doing?," Lady Y replied, showing her best poker face. "I'm having a drink. How about you?"

These women. They were inscrutable.

After The Baron collected his medicine, the three of them sat in silence as the jukebox played songs of longing and regret. Finally, after housing his two drinks, The Baron stood clumsily, belched and said "Give me a cigarette, you little shit."

J obliged.

The Baron clattered out the front door of the watering hole into the warm April night. Smoking one of J's cigarettes, he was out of earshot for the moment.

"We got trouble on our hands, Lady Y," J said dejectedly.

"Whatever do you mean, Master J?"

"I mean, I look forward to our talks every week. But what of Lord N? And what of you? If we were ever to be caught, my nuts would be swinging from a tree."

"Then you better find some other place for them, J."

"Why do you want to spend so much time with me? Are you really going to be buying new hardwood floors? I hear talk of great tiles from Portugal. Let me see what I can do."

"I care not for Portugese tile. All I'm interested in is this next round of Bacardi and Cokes and bourbon. How you like me now?"

"Me fancies you quite mightily."

"Thanks. You ain't so bad your own damn self."

"This can only lead to no good. Your ousting from the house of N. And my death most probably."

"But we haven't done anything bad, have we? One kiss and some lemonade, big whoop. Where does that rate on the big scale of bad shit done to others knowingly? Is it really that awful?"

"I guess not. But it still seems wrong somehow."

It was then that Lady Y kissed him forcefully on his lips. He did nothing to pull away. She slapped him playfully on the cheek. J was hooked good.

"There. Now we've done something bad. What should we do next? I tire of this remote watering hole. I'm a lady dammit, and I want the good stuff. Let's sup on pizza and Pabst. At your rent stabilized hut. I hear there are matches consisting of three point shooting and gritty zone defense being played right now on the television. Perhaps Squire Manu will do something truly out of this world. Or maybe Big Shot Bob. Let's locomote."

It was then that The Baron wondered in, farted loudly and tripped over the dog warming himself by the fire. He wasn't getting up anytime soon.

And The Winner Is...

2006-05-26T05:01:00.000-07:00

The day is upon us, and as promised, we here at Soy un Cabron have made a decision. It was not easy, as decisions like these never are. But after much thought, some politicking on the part of the contestants, and a revelation on the part of the Twilight Singers that there is to be added booty to the prize, the judges have made a decision.

The winner of the First Ever Tdawgblog Contest is.......

MISS JESSICA SONDERS!

Miss Sonder's heartwarming and sidesplitting entry on Prince was too good to not give two enthusiastic thumbs up to! We salute you Miss Sonders and hope you are prepared to rock your fucking socks off. And knowing Mr. Dulli, most probably your delicates, too.

Fear not, all other entrants, for there is something in it for you. There were many great entries on topics far and wide, from childhood to love gone wrong, to self loathing, all set to the music of PJ, Mark Lanegan, The Beatles and even Richard Buckner! And as a sincere thank you for all your soul baring efforts, you will recieve not one, but TWO CD's courtesy of Soy un Cabron. The first is a self made compilation entitled, simply enough, "The Best Of Greg Dulli." The second is a burned copy of the new Twilight Singers CD, 'Powder Burns', which is already being hailed by several indie critics as the best rock record of the year.

As an added bonus for the winner, the judges at Soy Un Cabron have recently found out that they will be escorting Miss Sonders to a Twilight after party on the eve of the show!

Sometimes it pays to know people.

Sometimes those people owe you money.

Sometimes you try to do something nice for someone, but the signals get all crossed.

Somtimes only Greg Dulli can understand.

Thanks again to everyone for entering!

A Fractured Fairy Tale, Part One

2006-05-22T12:12:00.000-07:00

Y lived with her boyfriend Lord N in a castle high above the peasants and paupers of the kingdom. Her long beautiful hair and big brown eyes captivated many from afar. She had the fineries of the world at her fingertips but real love was not among them. J had met her in passing one day as she came down from the castle to do some shopping and see how the common people lived. He was struck by her remoteness and slight melancholy. She bought many fine items for her castle from him, mainly because there was something in him she found appealing. He helped her find things to her liking and took them back to her castle for her. She offered him a tall glass of lemonade as a thank you for his efforts and he politely accepted. They chatted about things and she was struck by his melancholy as well. There was something deep and hidden about both of them, and each could sense it in the other. No one messes with a lord's lady, though, you know what I'm saying?

She continued her weekly trip into the town, making sure that he would be there when she came down. She looked forward to his visits to her castle with her items in tow, and there talks about the sadness each of them felt. She offered to make him dinner, but he declined, more out of fear of the Lord N than from disinterest. She assured him that N was away, fighting wars in far away lands and wouldnt return until Monday at the earliest. He reluctantly agreed to stay, although he knew deep down it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

They continued their weekly routine for sometime, always ending with a lingering sense of an unspoken something between them as they said goodbye. Trudging home the many miles to his small hut on the outskirts of town, J would stop at a local watering hole to think things through. His mug of ale emptied many times over, he would wonder if what he was doing was truly wrong or if he was just befriending another lonely soul such as himself. J had lost his one true love, L, some months ago to the Unbelievable Serpent Consumption. He would ponder her absence and tell the proprietor to play songs sung in a minor key by balladers such as Greg the Drunk or Ryan The Lout, and even sometimes Mark The Haunted, troubadors who truly got at what was eating J alive. As he would trudge over dales and hills home in the late night light of the moon, he would often sing their ballads loud and off pitch. More than once animals arose from their slumber angry and would try to attack J as he keened from deep within. He had the cuts and teethmarks to prove it. But he arose each day and went back to his stall, looking forward longingly to his next encounter with Y.

Their visits continued and once she even snuck away to meet him at his watering hole of choice, totally unannounced. Everyone mistook them for lovers, and he didn't mind the confusion. He was at odds with himself because he was still in mourning and knew he wouldn't be over L for a long time, but he deeply wanted to spend all the time he could with Y. But she was a lord's lady. And he was a mere merchant, no one important or of any note. Y also shared the same name as L's mother. Funnily enough, Lord N had the same name as L's father, and J was accutely aware of the irony there within.
It was as if the hands of fate were playing a cruel game with his heart, and he didn't know the rules. He had been cheated on before, and never wanted to do that to someone else, even if he was a distant and possesive Lord.

After her surpise visit to his watering hole, she asked to see where he lived. He told her it was dangerous for a fine lady such as herself to walk through the woods so late at night, but she told hime not to worry, for she was a grown woman and could fend for herself. Lord N was away fighting another battle and she could do as she pleased. He reluctantly allowed her to follow him back to his small rent stabilized hut, and they sat talking of gossip from within the town on his tiny thatched futon. They spoke of the troubles of Baron von Lovechops, a famed poet and novelist in the village, one given to excessive drinking and wild proclamations about such and such a dead writer. He was deaf in one ear and had accused many of being the cause for his drunkness, even J once. He felt it an honor to even be recognized by such a famed lunatic, and politely agreed that he was the root of the Baron's trouble. The Baron then asked him if he could borrow some money for another drink. J took this as a sign of the Baron's affection towards J. He lent him the silver neccesary.
He had never been repaid. It was The Baron's way.

As J was relaying this story Y kissed him on the lips.
He felt something he hadn't felt in months. Pleasure. Excitement. Tingling. They embraced for a moment or ten, before J guiltily stopped and told Y that what they were doing was wrong. He told her she should go back to her castle and wait for Lord N, who would probably be bringing her fancy fineries from his war mongering abroad, and maybe even tickets to see Radiohead. Neither of them made a move for the door, and finally J spoke.

'I shall walk you back to your castle.'

'You are mightily filled with ale, dear sir,' she said.

'That is true. Perhaps I should pee first.'

'Good idea.'

He took care of the matter at hand and then took her by the hand and walked her out his door into the windy night. Lit by moonlight they walked the many miles back to the castle under the cover of night and finally they arrived at the draw bridge of her castle.

'The Lord isn't back yet. You could sleep on our couch and in the morning go back to the village.'

He declined. She insisted. After a lengthy discussion on the matter he agreed. Plus he really had to pee again.

Last Day To Enter!

2006-05-22T12:02:00.000-07:00

Finally, at long last, the competition has started heating up. We've had a wave of entries in the last 24 hours, with some serious trips down memory and musical lane. I thank everyone that has taken the time to enter my contest. I hope there will still be some more entries before the midnight deadline. Winner to be announced this Friday!
In an effort to show you just how bad a mutha the Dullster is, I was checking out setlists from the first few shows, and the dude is covering 'Crazy' by Gnarls Barkley!
How effing cool is that? That is by the far the jam of the summer, and he's already working it into his show! If you haven't heard this song yet, please do yourself a favor! Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo Green, fah realz.