Oil Painting

I've been to Michaels about 20 times. I initially went to get some real sketching pencils and a decent drawing pad. But I find myself standing in the aisle with the oil paints wondering how I can justify the nearly-certain $200 outlay it would take to get started in this particular medium.

Student grade paints - $5 a tube for 37ml. That holds less than a travel-sized toothpaste.
Brushes - from $2 to $40. Seriously.
Turpentine - $8 and up
Brush cleaning jar - $15
Canvas - $8 to $100
Palette - $12

Then there are the thousands of things I have no idea about like Liquin and Gesso
and which brands are OK, which brands are crap...

Contrary to my nature, I don't buy anything the first time. Or even the next few times. I just look. Then I go to the library and get some books. I had first gotten a drawing book and reading just a few pages from it let me produce things which actually resemble the things they're supposed to be. So I got one on painting. It had some suggestions on bare-minimum equipment and which brands to avoid. It also said to spend as much as you can afford on brushes because you'll end up replacing cheap ones so they end up costing more in the long run.

So I made another trip to the paint aisle and I still couldn't justify putting a large investment into something that could turn into a total disaster. Just as I was giving up, vowing that I should probably take a class where they provide materials to at least get a feel for this stuff, I turned the corner and spotted, "PAINTING FOR DUMMIES!"

Under that sign were carded sets of paints. WATERCOLOR FOR DUMMIES. PASTELS FOR DUMMIES. ACRYLICS FOR DUMMIES.

And laying on the bottom under some other stuff was a single "OIL PAINTING FOR DUMMIES." It was $9.98. It came with 2 brushes, six paints and three 5x7" canvas panels. I bought it as well as a decent brush ($5 all by itself) to go along with my Dummies set. I also got a 2-pack of 9x12" canvas boards and a few sheets of canvas paper for practicing exercises from the book.

My painting book had some exercises at the beginning showing how to make lines and simple shapes. One showed how to easily make a rose with only two colors. I tried this first on a sheet of canvas paper. I think I still have it somewhere. It kinda looks like a flower but not really. I certainly doesn't look like anything from that book.

The next thing I tried was a simple landscape with a limited color palette. This was done on one of the 9x12" panels. I call it Cliffside Village:


It doesn't really look like the one in the book, and that makes me like it a lot more than if it did. It's kinda like my take on a view of someplace I've never been.

The next night I grabbed the first thing that was at hand and quickly sketched it onto one of the small panels that came with my Dummies set. Let's call this one Roland's Firetruck:


A day or so later I tried another one on one of the bigger canvas panels. Again, I started with a freehand sketch and then attacked it with paint. This is a Martin D-15:

Art - a rediscovery

I think I've always been a little cynical about art.

I was probably nine or ten when I was first exposed to art outside of school. In this case, the art came in the form of paintings when my mother developed an interest in works by Matisse and Monet. The paintings in our house were actually big 24x36" exhibition posters. While I found some of them to be interesting, they didn't light any sort of spark in me.

At some point shortly after the framed Monet posters started appearing on the walls, she purchased a small oil painting at a local gallery. I found this painting to be slightly more interesting due to the physical structure of the paint - something which the posters lacked completely. I remember staring at tiny sections of the painting looking at how the various layers of thick paint crisscrossed each other. But still, this painting of what might have a been a summer day on a street somewhere in Tuscany didn't move me.

In sixth grade, we were introduced to the works of M. C. Escher. These paintings, as well as the ones by Dali I would discover a little bit later, caused me to marvel at both the technical execution and the twisted thought processes that must have gone into their creation. But still, tho I littered my own walls with the likes of "The Persistence of Memory" and "Bonds of Union" my emotions were never inspired by any of these images.

I remember trips to the National Gallery where I would wander the whole thing, following behind my mother who seemed to be marveling at every other painting. I recall being intrigued by the size and scope of something by Jackson Pollack - but I know now that I was too young to appreciate it beyond the fact that there were cigarettes and other shit stuck to it.

The most memorable of these trips - probably the last time I went with her and which would have been when I was in high school, I recall being touched for the first time by a painting. It was just a small one - an outdoor scene of an olive orchard or some other trees (and I can't for the life of me remember what it was or who might have painted it) but it blew me away. I was first entranced by the technical execution. The whole thing was dabs of paint - but it wasn't a blurry catastrophe so I'm sure it wasn't a Pissaro. It was sharp and in focus even close up. And to my surprise, I found that when my brain was finished thinking about what had gone into making such a thing appear on a canvas, I realized I could feel a shadow of what the artist had been feeling as he stood in front of that scene.

On Sunday we went to the Baltimore Museum of Art.

We first wandered through pre-Columbian art from the Americas then ventured into an exhibition of American Modernist paintings. The memory of what it felt to look upon that small painting years before was barely registering in the back of my mind as I walked through the collections on the museum's first floor. I could remember that I had been moved, but I didn't remember the feeling.

Erika was determined to see the Rodin sculptures so we checked the brochure and it said they were located in the Cone collection. This was on the 2nd floor, so we took the elevator up and stepped out into a huge hall which was lined with ancient mosaics from the Roman Empire. Again, my art appreciation was entirely cerebral - I marveled at the size of the things, at how old they were and how much work it must have taken to get them here from halfway around the world - and from under tons of earth.

All this changed just a few feet further down the hall. A door on the left opened into the Cone Collection. As you step into the first room of the gallery, you are surrounded by Matisse. These were some of the same images that had been on my mother's posters but the difference was staggering. The colors were incredibly vivid. Where the posters were flat and lifeless, the texture and thickness of the paint made these pictures seem alive.

As I walked among these paintings - slowly and carefully, trying not to miss the slightest detail, I felt a warmth growing inside of me. I went from room to room and found that while the Cones certainly had a lot of Matisse, they didn't have a lot of any other single artist. The other rooms featured works from Renoir, Cezanne, Monet, Picasso, and tons of abstract expressionists I'd never even heard of. As I took in all of these, some did nothing for me and I found at these points my mind was engaged, thinking about the details or what went into the execution. Others just caused me to stop and take them in, with no thought other than to stand there and absorb the sensations coming in.

And then it happened for real. I had just turned from looking at a very blue Picasso - a work which made me think about the technique - and I found myself looking at a pair of boots.

It's not a very big painting. It shows two boots - one upside down, the other looking worn and ragged. They could be inside next to the front door or outside next to the front step. Whatever the case, I could only stand and stare, my mouth hanging open like an idiot. I felt my stomach lurch and I had to take a step back because I thought I might fall over. Hanging next to it, and painted in a similar style was a small landscape with trees and a woman walking toward a house in the background. The feeling was still there when looking at this one, but it was stronger looking at the boots. It was such a strong feeling that it wouldn't surprise me to find out that these particular boots were never worn again because their owner -some close friend of the artist - had just died.

The cards next to each of these paintings said, "Vincent Van Gogh." What they didn't say - but which was instantly clear to me - is that Van Gogh had more passion for painting than could be found in a combination of any ten other artists whose works were hanging on these same walls.

I had never shown any aptitude for art in school, but I left the museum feeling a need to draw or paint.

So here's my first stab at making art. I know it's not perfect - the glass doesn't seem to actually be on the table - but it's a start.

Thank you, Mr. Aronofsky

I bet a lot of people don't even see this movie.

I bet a lot of the people who see it hate it. Most won't even try to understand it.

But Darren Aronofsky's "The Fountain" is a fantastic, stunning film.

I first learned about Darren Aronofsky in 1998. In the days when DVD was brand-new and I had very few of them on my shelf, I kept finding myself drawn to the same DVD box. The cover had the symbol for Pi overlaid on a series of numbers. I'd never heard of it, but I kept picking it up everytime I saw it. Probably the fourth or fifth time I saw it, I gave in and bought it.

Pi was Aronofsky's first feature-length film. It was filmed on black-and-white reversal film which makes it look unlike any other feature film. But my fascination only started with the way the film looked. There was no overt sense of "this is the story, you can watch it now" like with most films. Instead, the first time you watch Pi, you have no idea what the fuck is going on. Even when you think you understand what's going on, you're still left wondering what the fuck is happening. In fact, you pretty much feel the same way the next time you watch it, too.

In the Fall of 2000, I caught wind of a new movie from Darren Aronofsky. To my dismay, it was only playing in New York and Los Angeles. I sent e-mails to the distributor begging for it to be released to more theaters. Being that the film was unrated, many theaters were unwilling to show it. Slowly (and certainly having nothing to do with my pleas) it was released to more and more cities. It eventually made its way to a tiny art-house theater in Bethesda. Kingo and I made the trip down one evening and took in the spectacle.

Requiem for a Dream is first and foremost an emotional roller coaster - at least as far as the first long drop on a theme park rind. It starts out dark and drops long and hard into the darkest, bleakest parts of humanity. Anything else it is - and it is certainly a lot of things, most of which pummel the senses -- it is dark and intense and it leaves a mark on anyone who sees it. I highly recommend it to anyone willing to undergo a true experience unlike that given by any other film.

It was my love of these two films which led me to pick up "The Fountain" on Blu-ray Disc. I had not heard of The Fountain until I was holding it in my hands at Blockbuster. But it said right on the cover, "Written and directed by Darren Aronofsky," so I knew there was no way I was leaving without it.

As it turns out, The Fountain was supposed to star Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett. It was supposed to be made for $70 Million. At the last minute, Brad Pitt backed out. The film was put on the shelf for a few years while new stars were found. A few years later, with the budget cut in half, the film was made with Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz.

A brief technical note before I go off on this thing -- I'm not sure whether it was due to the budget or Aronofsky's vision, or maybe a combination of both, but whatever the case the visual effects in this movie were not computer generated. Instead, the glorious star fields and nebulae which (according to some people) land this film in the sci-fi genre (wtf? I mean, really - wtf?) were all created organically and filmed with macro techniques through a microscope. Once again Darren Aronofsky manages to put amazing images on screen which are unlike any film before it.

The Fountain starts off similar to Pi. The viewer has no clue what is going on. Gradually, the pieces fall into place and you get a better sense of the narrative. But the narrative is only surface noise on a breathtaking achievement.

With The Fountain, Aronofsky's emotional roller coaster is back in full swing - but this time the ride is complete. The visuals, combined with Clint Mansell's score, take you from light to dark, dark to light. They go through the deepest guts of hoplessness and despair one moment and then sweep into perfect, hopeful, contented bliss. That the bliss is found in a character's last living moments speaks volumes to the level of insight and introspection Aronofsky has put into this film.

Ultimately, The Fountain is about life and death. But which particular interpretation of life and death is left entirely up to the viewer.

For me, it told a story of Karma -- Where a man loops through the same hopeless thread of existence until he finally manages to make the right choices. There are lessons to be gained here, but what they are will differ with the individual viewer. When the right choice is made, a new path is created for the next experience. The real beauty of the film lies beyond the amazing visuals. The best part about it is that each person will see something different depending on their own particular beliefs and how they view the world.

Perhaps even more than all of that, the best recommendation I can give you is this -- I want to see it again, and soon.

I got tagginated

The rules:

• Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
• Share 7 facts about yourself.
• Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
• Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I wear a size 14 shoe.
2. I hate haircuts so I never get one.
3. I own one small boy.
4. 48" HD images make me grin like an idiot.
5. The lady in front of us for to sit on Santa Claus had three kids and huge jugs, which she was clearly proud of. (this is only a fact about me because I spent the whole time looking right at them as she bent over to scold her kids)
6. I have been sick all week and I hate it.
7. I am tired and do not feel like cleaning my house.

I will not specifically tag anyone.

Since less than 7 people will probably see this, consider yourself tagged when you read it.

Vegetarians: Eat a damn burger already.

These people come up with the weirdest ideas.

But that's OK. Here is some nice science which points out that since they don't eat right they can't reproduce:

http://www.westonaprice.org/mythstruths/mtvegetarianism.html

Keep eating your greens, Vegans. Soon you'll be livin' it up with the trilobytes.

how you like them apples?

I needed 3200. I wrote 10,000. Tonight.

I still have a bit more before I can officially tie it up, but if I had to, I could say it has an end and leave it where it is.

46,794

3200 words to go.

Oh yeah.

Bad Stuff

Today, a fellow I know says he went home and asked his wife what was for dinner.

Her answer?

TOFU.

And that's what they had. It was not to his liking.

I then told him my recollection of tofu, so I'll tell it again (regurgitate, so to speak) here:

______________


Tofu is the worst.

I've always been of an open mind to try new things, so when I was at my friend Dave Chao's house, I did try the tofu.

This was after his mother insisted, "No, you big-a boy. You eat sree pack!"
And she proceeded to fix me three entire packages of ramen noodles.

That time, I asked Dave what it was he was eating. With the blocky
white chunks of stuff. He said, "Bean curr." I said, "huh?" He
said, a little slower, "Bean Currrrrr. You try!"

It wasn't until the nanosecond before it was about to hit my tongue
that my brain finally miscombulated what he was saying.

"Bean Curd!" my brain said right as I bit down on it.

"Oh Holy Jesus, spit it out, spit it out!" my stomach said.

I swallowed the one bite.

Never again.

This just might work, after all

36,636.

That's the word count as of right now.

Actually, it's the word count as of around 2 PM today, since I've been driving and visiting people since then.

At the start of Turkeyday, I had around 22K, maybe 23K. When I went to bed that night, I had just hit 35K.

In case you didn't already know it, that's a lot of writing.

In fact, that's even more writing than I did the night before my senior term paper was due. And that damned term paper probably took longer, too. The biggest spurt this time was a six hour stretch from about 9PM to 3AM sitting at the dining room table at my wife's grandma's house. I got up once to get a fresh glass of Dr. Pepper and some more cookies.

In that time, I hit a section of my story I intended to just kind of graze -- maybe mention for a paragraph or two. My thinking here was that I wanted the point of the story to lie elsewhere and to get there I would have to gloss over some historical bits. I also didn't want to go where that part of the story could take me. I didn't know if I could deal with it emotionally.

Starting Thursday morning, I had a bad feeling about where the story was going and I found myself being extremely cranky and irritable all day. I was also doing everything in my power to avoid working on the story, but the fact that I was cooped up in a farmhouse with four families, a toddler and an infant, and NO ACCESS TO THE INTERNET, meant I could only hold out for so long.

I kept dancing around it all day long. I would write a bit here and there, and I even wrote the two paragraph synopsis I had envisioned and went past, onto the next thing in the tale I was slowly unraveling.

But after all the visiting was done and everyone was completely stuffed to the gills and parked on a sofa or chair watching football or snoring, I sat down for what I knew would be a long haul. No matter where it took me, I knew I needed to hit 30,000 words if I had any hope of finishing this thing.

And I started writing. And I found I needed to change something I had already written. So I scrolled up to just before the part where I skimmed over a whole year in the story. And I fixed the problem. But I didn't scroll back down. I just kept writing. Everyone else drifted off to bed by ones and twos. I kept writing. When I noticed I was the only one still up, I checked my word count. It was over 32,000. I figured I could hit 35,000 before bed, so I started wrapping the section up.

The story I'm writing this time is very personal. It's only fiction in the sense that I changed the name of one character. I still doubt anyone will ever give a shit about reading it, but perhaps it's a good sign that the part of my story I wanted to skip used up over 10,000 words in and of itself.

That part, covering a single year of a boy's life, took more out of me than I could have ever imagined. Writing it was the hardest thing I have ever done. I'm not ashamed to say I cried through a lot of it. I dug up whole chunks of buried memory. They were fresh as the day I had buried them, and some of the things they showed me hurt just as much now as they did then.

This novel has taken a turn from what I had initially intended. It would probably be more accurate to say that it has followed a perfectly straight path and will miss the turn that I had intended. And that's fine with me. The other idea can live on until another story. For now, this one is being told exactly as it needs to be.

Word War, Baby

The widget is nicer than I am. It doesn't put your name up if you don't have any words.

dammit, dammit, sonofabitch

HOW HAS THIS HAPPENED?

A few days ago I was VERY FAR AHEAD. I had a lot of padding in my word count.

Now I'm behind.

I haven't written for days, and not only did it catch up to me, but it blew right past me and I didn't even notice.

I'm a little less than a day behind now. By the end of today (the calendar day, not the one where I should already be in bed) I'm supposed to have over 20,000 words. This is not impossible, since the way things have been going I should be able to spew out a thousand or more in about an hour.

But I suspect sometime very soon I'm gonna hit a big ol' speedbump that's gonna knock my spew-rate way down.

Cuz I'll admit something here in print for the first time (tho I have voiced it to a few folks already...) The first part of my book is pretty much autobiographical. I changed the name of one character. Everyone else has their real name. I also changed the name of the the little suburban development where I grew up. I don't know why I changed that, or even why I didn't use my own name for the story character. It's not like anyone's ever going to read it, so it doesn't matter. But it feels right to me to do it this way.

And I really wouldn't be upset if somebody said to go and change all the real names to other names. So if I have to do that at some point, I can use a Find/Replace function. I've been thinking it would be fun to keep all the actual names of the people I knew when I was growing up but attach them to the wrong people. Then shit would get really confusing.

Anyhow, the fact that this story so far has been autobiographical has meant that I'm not really doing any hardcore story generation. I'm needing to think about pacing and structure and foreshadowing and character development -- all of which dictate what and where the story goes. But I've got a massive advantage in the fact that all of my characters and locations are already fully formed and just need to be ejected out of my head and onto the page.

If you've read my excerpt (which is the first few pages of the book minus a few later revisions) you'll know the main character is about to turn six years old at the beginning. The switcheroo, where it goes from "probably the most boring autobiographical shit ever written" to "this is the fiction part that never really happened" occurs when that same character is 19 years old. At 18,000 words in, he is 9 or 10. So I've got a ways to go, I think. Unless shit starts spiraling out of control in order to get to the end faster. But I don't see that happening. I'm starting to suspect this might be a two-parter and the first 50,000 words end up being entirely autobiographical. My own boring true-life story with (thus far) absolutley zero embellishment - just a clear focus on the real-life drama of grade school kids.

Maybe if I stop writing about it here, I can get my fucking word count in.

(See, just a few minutes and already over 550 words. Too bad they're not in the right place.)

Get your shit together.

Let's try some math:

13055/50000 = A whole lotta goddamn words in 3.5 days.

I'm truckin' on my novel. How about you?

GET GOING PEOPLE. YOU HAVEN'T GOT ALL MONTH. Oh. Well, maybe you do. But 3.5 days are gone already.

Have a link here to my Nano Profile where you can see my official unofficial word counter. You can also read some of the crap I'm writing if you go the EXCERPT tab.

Nano Linker

Dust off your crazy ideas

It's that time again. Get your shit together. You even still have a few days to prepare and think something up. Or you can just fly by the seat of your pants. Either way works. Both are fun and exciting. I promise.

I can't offer you any fabulous prizes or promise any kind of fame. But what I can tell you is when you finish your novel you will feel all-powerful. Felling all-powerful is almost as good as being all-powerful.

So get off your ass and write a book. If you do I will promise to read it. Hopefully that counts for something.

a hunnert

Yesterday, I completed my first century.

Century meaning - a one hundred mile bike ride. In one day. Actually, in 8.75 hours from start to finish, including (much needed) breaks.

I was not in shape to ride a century. Not one bit. And I can feel every ounce of that non-preparation right now. It's between my legs, which is a nice little spot of concentrated pain, and feels a lot like what that area right between the one pin and three pin must feel like after a week of pro bowling. It's also in my hips. My hips have NEVER EVER hurt from riding a bike. They do now. As does my back.

But my legs feel fine. My legs are ready to ride another hundred miles right now. However, they are severely hampered by the fact that my ass hurts so bad I can barely sit on the bike. In fact, you couldn't pay me money to ride my bike for ten feet. At least not for a few days yet.

This pain in my ass started somewhere around mile fifty-five. At mile forty-something, we stopped for a water/gatorade and a pee break. Right after I peed, three Red Bull-mobiles full of ultra-hot-ass chicks pulled up. And, of course, they were handing out cans of Red Bull. For the next ten miles I was feeling like I really did have wings. I recall passing the 50-mile marker feeling just fine. And then we hit a headwind. On a bumpy country road. And I felt this steady thudding from my back wheel. Thudding which made the seat jounce a little extra every time the wheel went around. I think without this extra thudding, my ass would have been OK.

But when I pulled into Assateague Island for the 62-mile marker rest stop, I found that my back tire was falling apart. I think it's a testament to the quality of the Bontrager Hard Case tire that I made it that far. It's a bigger testament to it when you know I finished on that split-open tire 38 miles later. In fact, it has two big gashes in it where the rubber is completely missing. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Every time the wheel goes around. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. In place of the rubber is the kevlar casing. Which is truly bullet-proof. And tack proof, and glass proof and whatever else-proof, even without rubber. I should take some pictures, it's that bad.

My wife made it to the Assateague rest stop a few minutes before I did. She also prepared a whole lot more than I did. She rode two 60+ mile rides this summer as well as a lot of 20- and 30-mile rides.

I rode a few 30+ mile rides early in the summer, a few 15- to 20-milers on some weekends and one 40-mile ride a few weeks ago. And then I didn't really get back on my bike again until yesterday. What a fucking idiot.

So, exactly as was explained to me, the 60-80 mile portion of the ride was the absolute worst. I was ready to quit and go home with my tail between my legs. I might have even done so had the map of the ride route (with the number for the SAG wagon) not been in my wife's saddlebag. When I sat back down on the saddle after that 60 mile rest stop, I nearly fell off the bike. I was barely moving and I had one foot clipped into my pedals. As soon as I hit the seat, it took every ounce of courage in me to hold back the scream. And that was at forty miles to go.

I stayed with my wife for a while, but not long. She got to the 82-mile rest stop about ten minutes before I did. I stopped at one point and loosened the straps on my shoes -- which did alleviate some of the terrible foot numbness, but which I later realized had come at the expense of a hurting ankle.

Dreading the thought of sitting back down on that seat, I set out on the last 18 miles standing up. When I had to sit, I did it very gently, but it still hurt worse than anything I'd ever known. Only because my tire was split did I ask my wife to stay with me for this last part, and she did. She pulled me along in her wake doing between 10 and 12mph most of the way. A few times I found it in me to go a little faster, but then we'd hit one of the bumpy patchy roads and it was back down to the slow grind.

In those last miles, I found myself ticking off the quarter-miles on my computer. I was pretty good at convincing myself that 13.75 was a whole lot closer than 14. I knew that we would retrace some of the outbound route for the return home. The only thing I remembered for certain was a right-hand turn and then an overpass very shortly after we left the start earlier in the morning. As we edged into single digits, and then down to five miles... four miles to go, I started wishing for that overpass, thinking that if I just got that far and managed to stand up on its wimpy incline (really the only speakable hill on the whole 100 mile ride) I would know I could make it. Even if I had to finish at 2mph or pushing the bike, I knew I'd be able to do it if I could just get to the bridge.

And then I saw it. My computer clicked over to 97.someodd miles. The speedometer said I was doing 8 or 9mph. And there was the bridge. Three faster riders shouted, "on your left" as they pedaled past me. I glanced over my shoulder to see if I was clear and there was nobody at all. I stood up and started pedaling. I hit the hill doing nearly 20mph. I came off the other side close to 25. I sat back down and couldn't feel a thing, so I just started hammering. I passed the three people who had passed me only moments before. I kept hammering. I passed people who had passed me minutes before. And I kept hammering. 17, 18, 19 mph. Then someone came around me doing just barely faster than I was. I latched onto his wheel and kept hammering. We made a left turn - just as I knew it would be onto the final stretch. Up ahead I could see the tunnel which led back to the starting line.

The pain was gone, and all I could think was, "We did it."

The concrete tunnel dipped down under the road and then right back up. As we came up the short ramp we could hear people on the outside screaming and cheering. They were cheering for us, and it filled me with the most incredible joy. I was certainly happy that I had finished, but more than anything, I was proud of my wife.

When we started riding bikes a few years ago, she couldn't keep up with me even on short rides. And while we've both continued to ride and post marked improvements, she showed me that she had not only gotten to the point where she could keep up with me, but she had gone past that and done far, far better than I did.

So I'm proud of us. And it was fantastic to both finish at the same time. But she could have beaten me by a whole lot yet she gave that up to stay with me. That means more than I am able to say with any words here.

Those things are bad for you.

I know I've suggested before that George Bush might be the devil:

Bush Hand Gestures

Edguy @ Jaxx

I can't remember the last time I took a camera to a concert.

But I can remember the last time I had this much fun at a concert - that would be the last time I saw Edguy play.

If you don't know who the Hell they are (and I'm sure you don't...) go check something out. I'd recommend King of Fools or Sacrifice or Superheroes if you can track down mp3's or streams or whatever (try Amazon. try the link above.)

Here are a few pictures from the show courtesy of my dying Fuji Finepix. One of them is actually good:

Tobi singing Catch of the Century.

Dirk, Eggi, & Jens rocking Lavatory Love Machine.

Felix the Drum Bunny playing The Imperial March.

I remember.

I remember what it looked like when the first tower came down. I've seen it replayed a hundred thousand times on TV and in pictures since then, but I still remember everything about that moment - live on my TV - while the hastily run satellite dish cable hung through the open window, sun slanting in and making columns of light on the carpet.

I remember the horror and the revulsion and the instant realization that the other one would fall, too. The TV said it wouldn't. But we all know what happened.

Six years ago religious fundamentalists struck a mighty blow. While they may have caused a few buildings to fall and they spent the blood of countless innocents, they didn't even nick the foundation.

In the days and weeks, months and years that followed the American people rallied around the president. Flags and ribbons were everywhere. People were scared out of their minds. George Bush took that opportunity to sieze power - throwing our rights and privacy to the winds.

Six years later, George Bush and his people are still sneaking and lying, and cheating the American public however they can. Maybe people are finally waking up. George Bush's cronies and political appointees are slowly falling away, but is it enough?

Six years ago American patriotism surged. It's since waned. I'm sure it's still there and people would probably fight to the death if I suggested to them that they are not "true patriots" -- whatever the fuck that might be. But I don't see the same messages written on the highway overpasses. I don't see as many flags flying. I also don't see the same blind unwavering support for a neo-conservative tyrant.

Six years ago thousands died because certain people put a different name on their god. And six years later people in America believe it's perfectly fine to push their own political agenda based on their religious beliefs.

I remember. I remember what happened to this country. I still hate George Bush with all my being. But I've never been afraid to drive my car or enter a building or fly on a plane. Fuck terrorists - no matter what they call their god.

Anyone selling Fear is a fucking terrorist and there's an awful lot of it on sale right in your own back yard.

Metal Polka

48 hours.

Some people track down criminals in a funny-buddy cop movie in that kinda time.

Other people take an a capella folk song (in Finnish) and figure out some chords and riffs to go along with it. Then they take a 40 mile bike ride for a burrito (was good) and then they come back and lay down a big fucking pile of metal guitars and drums (and some mighty fine soundin' bass) and mix that shit up metal style.

Wolfdog came up with most of the riffs and played the bass. I played the guitars (4 rhythm, 6 lead.) We both got sick of programming drums. I got really sick of lining vocals up to the click.

Despite my bitching we had a blast making this. And, in the end, it came out way better than I ever expected. You can check it out here:


That sounds better than this:

Click here to go to Wolfdog's place and to see comments.

SOS

I feel like writing another book.

I never finished the one I started in November. I blame that on two reasons -- primarily I had no time for writing a book. But -- but more importantly -- I showed it to someone while it was still in progress. I should know by now that there is no quicker way to kill a writing streak.

I'm stuck (I guess you can call it stuck) with this new idea now, and I sorta know where it goes and I really know how it gets there, but I still don't have time to write.

I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow (but we still haven't packed) and I'm planning on taking this laptop (which has the screen the memory from the other Toshiba laptop I raged about a few weeks ago grafted onto the butt-end of a better, fancier Toshiba laptop I mistakenly ordered from Ebay thinking it was the same as the one I already had), a guitar, some headphones, and definitely a DVD player.

See, we're going to the beach, so I have to be prepared for all sorts of indoor activities. That's just the way it works. After all, I want to enjoy my vacation, too. And I like the beach, but not as much as other people do. I get tired of Sandy Crack really fast.

So maybe I will have time to write some book on my vacation. You know, while I watch all six Star Wars movies and write an album full of drum-machine-metal songs and watch the baby for 19 hours a day. I'm sure that'll work out just fine.

My wife wants to know if I'm sad about watching the baby.

I think she is stupid.

One time when she was xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxor injured or whatever.

Now she's telling me I can't post this on the Internet. And I shouldn't be a fucking asshole and she's gonna be fucking pissed.

She shouldn't say such things if she doesn't want them known around the world. Or at least as far as the three people who might find this. Damn censor.

Stramby:
it's what's for dinner

STOP FUCKING CHEATING. This means YOU.

This came out today:

http://trustbut.blogspot.com/2007/07/vino-positive.html

It says a well-respected rider in the Tour de France has tested positive for a blood transfusion - something which is totally and utterly against the rules.

There has been a lot said about doping in the sport of cycling in recent months - most of it due to similar news regarding last year's winner, Floyd Landis.

At this point in the story - I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF HE DID OR DIDN'T.

The real cheaters here are the press and the laboratory.

The same French sports paper which leaked the Floyd Landis story (which got its "dope" from the same French laboratory involved here) has leaked this story BEFORE the results have been confirmed.

It's against the International Cycling Union's rules to disclose the results of any drug test before it is confirmed by a 2nd, backup test.

If cyclists are going to be banned for not following the rules, then this laboratory should be banned for exactly the same reasons. Period. End of story.