The store has no ventilation. Just fans that blow hot air, so it slaps you like a Frenchman on fire as oppose to engulfing you like triple lindy into an active volcano. This siracha afternoon is killing me and I'm only 5 hours into an 11 hour shift. I'm sweating like Bill Cosby at the 2015 Lilith Fair and I think I'm starting to imagine crazed shit like a 2015 Lilith Fair. For the first time in life I've understood the dylanesque poignancy of the nelly lyric in "it's getting hot", he was truly onto something universal, direct with no need for metaphors and abstractions. I tried to write but the sweat dropped onto my journal and the wet page is useless, plus I'm sun dumb and beyond an original thought. An Arizonan just complained about the heat, apparently a life's training doesn't prepare you for this. At least not every idiot came to the beach today to get wasted and ask me stupid questions like "there's a big concert coming to town, do you know who is playing and where?" This isn't hyperbole, this is the information they provided. They're probably sun dumb too. Alright, that killed 8 minutes, 6 hours and 52 minutes to go!
Talkin Shit
In my most anxious of reveries I daydream a comedy in which all of our private texts become public. Where the band you said “nice set” to knows that you think they’re a bunch of “no talent hacks that wear shorts to their gigs and would likely attend an Uncle Kracker show in an Uncle Kracker T-shirt.” I imagine 5 dudes kicking down my door, wielding tire irons and a trident and phrases like “Oh yeah, you think our career headway is a sum of our vests, do ya?”, as the drummer starts to rapidly slap my face, in a perfect rhythm never mustered for shows, while saying “who’s dragging ass now?” I remember my life before bands, back when I thought Spinal Tap was an acceptable comedy rather than a work of absolute genius. I viewed the stage through naïve and rose tinted hippie lenses, assuming that all musicians loved each other and cynicism was a symptom of the non creative. Then I met some dudes who played jazz. I learned how much space a loving heart reserved for hatred and how gripe could be a form of high art. I understood it though, folks possessing strenuous years of music education, playing small rooms in which Warwick Davis could yawn and touch both walls, as the nation sung along to “MOVE BITCH GET OUT THE WAY”. I think the inadvertent goal of every musician is to harvest the hatred of his or her peers. If you get to play that coveted opening slot, every other band that wanted it is gunning for you. When you get to provide the coveted opening slot, you’re the deer in the crosshairs of more, receiving accolades from the sycophants who curse your name. There’s only room for 1% to “make it” so it’s a catfight for that trace space that may or may not exist. Competition at its best is great for the art. At its worst leaves one mired beneath the weight of an ego generally as massive as it is fragile. I know envy is the famine that has made me hungry, sharpened my blade. I write, study, shed and create, my mistakes keeping me up at night, my triumphs letting me hesitantly out of bed, codependent rivals on the seesaw of existence, pushing this machine forward. I miss my pre band days, when music was a simple love. Back when a concert offered escape rather than contemplation, before it cut into the time I could spend working on my own dreams as opposed to watching another live theirs out. I have a reputation for starting new bands and every time I do, it is starting over. History and momentum only follow you if you possess the mass of stadiums. I am a litany of whispers. But I love the beginning, unsure what the future holds, feeling like you are the owner of the world’s best kept secret for a moment in the span of it all. I’m excited share a new record with you. This post is the nervous lament of an ego about to offer a bit of brevity to the world. If you’re a musician, my only hope is that one day you hate us and you turn that hate into something beautiful.
First Thoughts On Lenny Kravitz's Penis
As far as I know I'm a heterosexual man. I don't like dance music, my room is a mess and I really appreciated Kathy Ireland's month in the swim suit calendar purchased in brainwashed adolescence. But over the past three days I've watched Lenny Kravitz's penis explode out of his pants like a scrawny Brown Kool Aid man through a brick wall of black leather, 458+ times, in fact I'm going to watch it again right now. A part of me worries I will watch it repeatedly while driving and wrap myself around a telephone poll, clinging to my phone in my cold dead hand, giving my mom the tough news "he died doing what he loved." I've legitimized it in my mind as ok, I mean it's ok regardless, but ok within my sexual definition of self in that I'm mesmerized, if not full on hypnotized, by the facial expression he makes at the moment of impact / breakout. 11 years ago I tried to fart on my best friend's head and I jumped up and accidentally fired a turd out of a hole in my pants. I like to think I made the same face, a unique combination of shock, shame and some kinda misplaced feral pride, basking in the feat of what should never pass. Lenny looked intense, like he had something to prove, the shadow years of a career, the hits long in the rearview, relevance alongside like tumbleweed leaving the reach of sight, he had cut his dreads and lost his power like Sampson, but he clung on, leather leaps and stunt struts, that stance of Los Angeles, forever young where "disingenuous" owns a question mark. The problem I had was with forwarding. After all, as funny as it is, it's a penis breaking on through to the other side, it's not a cat gif nor a child fail. Every text I forwarded had a moment of pause. I think they'll find this funny, but if they open it at work and they work with children and a young kid sees Lenny's manhood, did I cost a friend a job, a child his youth? I thought "this is going to crack my mom up", but that message went unsent, I think a wise decision, after all, dick pics have derailed political careers, did I really want to send a dick pic to my mom and read about her heart attack on buzzfeed. I sent it to Brad Lee who asked if there was a Grammy or Emmy for gifs, perhaps that's what a Cleo is, I don't know. But it's a heroic 1 second of film (ha, I accidentally typed firm instead of film, Lenny's dick is homosexual propaganda, the republicans were right, we're all going to be brain(bow)washed and Are You Gonna Go My Way was about sexual orientation) and accomplishes what it takes Judd Apatow 2 hours to pull off. It deserves something! Didn't need to google image search Kathy Ireland for this piece though, what happens to a wet dream deferred.....
Harvesting Likes
As a “musician” (I mostly bang on pots and pans while hoping Jake Najor doesn’t hear I’m off time and throw a stick at the back of my deserving head), I try to figure out the magic algorithm to navigate the potency of facebook. I’m chuckling to myself because in my head I hear “Al Gore Rhythm”, and I picture him dancing to “I Like to Move It” and that’s funny to me. I think I’ve finally cracked the code. Write a post at 10am on an overcast Wednesday about the time a pigeon shit on your face, 100+ likes, 7 shares, 32 comments. Write a post about the gig you have or the video you worked hard on at any time a day, 11 likes (5 are in the band, 2 worked on the video, one dates you but his having second thoughts due to your short supply of likes, one is your mother who you want to unfriend so you can post about that nitrous balloon experience at Jazz Fest, but you need to harvest her like and the other two you have miraculously “reached”). Yesterday I got my oil changed at the Midas and I talked music to the cat changing my oil, he was a “musician” too. I watched his youtube video hoping for a chuckle, but instead I got to watch this dude shred on piano, a time turned hobby in the face of mouth feed reality. We’re all fucked was my takeaway from that exchange! I understand that as a “musician” I moan the mantra of the delusional, which is “we’re all fucked, except for me”, a mantra whispered by millions, each of whom believes the correctness of that statement. Would I even recognize at this point if I sucked, has the mantra numbed me, would anyone tell me, do I belong trapped in the purgatory of Tuesday night gigs at Mother’s Saloon for an eternity of Freebird requests? I may have strayed from my initial point, but here I am, asking a simple question. How do we engage with you without inundating you? How do we reach you? We’re so many hushed hums vying for the sliver of time you don’t have with sounds unfamiliar. I’m guilty, I listen to Zeppelin in my free time because the familiar gives me comfort, but I’ll always be an explorer as well. I’ll never tag a hundred people in a post, because when I get tagged in a post with that many people I’m either livid, or it’s an unbelievable deal on Ray-Bans, that I simply can’t purchase fast enough. Facebook has made musician pages limper than the dick of your average republican presidential candidate, unless you pay and making the money we make, it’s hard if not impossible to put cash behind every post. So if you’d be willing to “follow” those band pages of ours, I’ll link to them in the comments, cause it seems when I place them in a post, said post becomes inert. And this is to spark a dialogue, so if you play music, or listen to music, please chime in. I want to learn something today.
Big Sur Parking
Big Sur has been overrun. Trampled by summer. The secret is out, betrayed by hashtags and majestic photos. The ocean mist that is Kerouac’s ghost shouting “DAMN YOU EARLYBIRD, VALENCIA & X-PRO II, DAMN YOU TO HELL!!!” Everyone took the bait and descended at once. Trying to park near a waterfall on a recent visit was like vying for position at Wallmart on Black Friday. Boxing out LA expatriates, attempting to catch vistas like you were throwing elbows for Elmos circa Christmas 96. Picture a woman in a hot pink jumpsuit with the word “Sexy” bedazzled onto her ass, holding a big mac and devouring space like the aforementioned burger, selfie sticks reaching for the heights of the redwoods themselves and a Steve Miller song blaring from a campground as a football sails through the air like a stealth missile aimed at your peace. At one point during our set, some dude threw $2 at chanteuse Shelbi Bennett and told her to “play some Guns N Roses.” And as much as I wanted to hear a spectral version of It’s So Easy, this was very different from previous outings beneath the quiet. But who am I to criticize, I don’t live there, I’m just another contributor to the din, gazing slack jawed at the slightest verdant sliver of marvel that I can fit into my distracted existence. We’re all just trying to trade concrete canyons for something more. To partake in the vastness. Tourist in our home trying to rekindle the fraying thread that once kept us attached to nature. I pray the bait of whim never eludes me, that once my fluffy roof is Morgan Freeman gray, I can still muster the energy for escape. I had the time so we kept the car aimed north, to the rocky shores and breathtaking vistas of the Oregon coast, empty roads, respite and cozy quiet. #Imnottellingyouwhere.
Chicken Sickness
I've been very sick. For a while. I wouldn't even wish long term sickness on the worst of the Kardashians. Over the last 12 weeks I've lost 12 pounds and my stomach reacts to food the way some white cops react to black males reaching for their wallet. Fortunately I'm slim and trim for the beach season, but I've been to the beach twice in 12 years, so I'm not sure how this helps me. I got this ominous letter from the doctors office last wednesday which simply said "it was nice to see you the other day, your labs were abnormal, looking forward to seeing you soon." WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!!! I literally screamed to myself like I was rehearsing the Charlton Heston end scene from planet of the apes. At least stress doesn't adversely affect a churning stomach. I tried to call, but they won't tell you results over the phone. This gave me three days to meditate on anxiety and allow outlandish thoughts to to crash like sneakers in the centrifuge of my mind like "they'd probably text if it was HIV, maybe I'm pregnant and why do I shake hands with some of our customers." The following day I worked an 11 hour shift. According to my phone, I walked 5 miles during my shift which takes place is a small room. Thank god there's no security footage to track my hyper lunacy, stress manning the steering wheel of my machinery. Finally on Friday I would get the verdict that would be as anticlimactic as this post. Not certain this will remedy the situation, but I'm basically allergic to everything, peanuts, shrimp, sesame seeds, the sky, CHICKEN, barely and rye. I protested the chicken. "Sorry doctor, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm a black male, I literally have seven drumsticks in my pocket." Which elicited no laughter and that negative reinforcement may have single handedly upended my future career as a stand up comedian. Maybe this chicken allergy explains why I preferred Yo La Tango to Lil Kim, perhaps I'm on some inverse Rachel Doezal shit where I'd rather watch Friends than A Different World and I show up to the bbq with a kale salad, reverse Rachism. Perhaps I'll wind up on a reality show solving mysteries with my best friend Juan who's allergic to beans. Perhaps I've been gradually committing slow chicken suicide (which sounds like a shitty stone temple pilots song). Perhaps this has nothing to do with my current affliction at all. Well, after much protesting, I've cut chicken out of my diet, I cried gravy tears, I've had buffalo wing dreams deferred where I awoke in a fevered midnight sweat, heart pounding, chicken the distance I can't reach. I'll keep you posted.
We'll be shooting a video for Erik Canzona and the Narrows Thursday night at Kearny Mesa Bowl, I'll be playing the guy from the WB version of the Machinist.
This post is retardedly offensive
You can't say "retards" can you? I was late to the game about "mulattos" being offensive, in fact I learned it from an episode of curb your enthusiasm. I've gone on to use the term hybrids, blends, mochachinos and halfies, but I'm doubtful those terms are any better. Natassia keeps telling "midgets" is a bad word, but I'm stubborn and refuse to believe it, plus I don't know the alternative aside from not referring to them at all (halfling can't suffice right?). But I was raised with "retard" being the polite nomenclature, though it sounds biting off the tongue. Maybe it's like Jew where sometimes it's ok, depending on tonality, intention and the poisonous adjective you place in front of it "my friend Charlie is a Jew" vrs "that dirty Jew owes me money". I hope you all know me well enough to know I'm not a bigot, My best friend is a mixed Jewish handicapable halfling, his name is Leroy Rosenberg and I love him. But I digress, my mom has come to visit and decided to stay a little longer than usual, so it's basically been bring your mother to work week. If you've ever seen the Frank Grimes episode of the Simpsons, you'll know what I've been experiencing. In said episode they introduce a normal character into the cosmic madness of Springfield. Well, my mom juxtaposed against the backdrop of the record store of my employ has made me realize that my life is that of a cartoon character. When a "special person" (those quotes make you hear the word retard don't they, I've poisoned you, I'm sorry), anyway, when a special person jumps into the store and tries to scare you by saying "BOO" (a rather old school approach) and then offers your mom a plastic cup full of Hershey's kisses, one's day to day routine becomes visible as the reality of psychedelic folly that it is. On 4th of July, my mom put in a full shift at the Cow, my 68 year old Christian mom from the south counseled drunks with a slur so bad they made mushmouth sound like Thoreau, crazy people "tripping balls" for the fireworks, hipsters searching for the esoteric reaches of band names, yes, I was fortunate enough to have a guy ask my mom if we had any "diarrhea planet". I shit you not, I pun you yes. Well, I guess bringing her to the Casbah prepared her a little for the life her son had chosen. I've been wearing summer sweaters all week, hiding my tattoos and sweating like Aaron Neville at a humid gig when he hits the acrobatic peak of Don't Know Much. But I forgot about the metaphorical unicorn draped in a confederate flag in flames neck tattoo of a life I have attained, unmaskable, with all its fevered rock and roll low wage high reward glory. Wouldn't trade a thing.
The Flag
One last serious post and then it's back to fart jokes and music references. I don’t hate the confederate flag. I mean, I hate the sight of it and the feeling of fear and anxiety it causes me. But I don’t hate it. It’s subtler than wearing a t-shirt with a hanging black man that says in bold font “Niggers must Die!”, but it serves the same purpose. When I see it on a pick up truck, I know to accelerate and go about my business. When I see it on a t-shirt, I know to cross the street and create the safety that comes with distance. I’d welcome a world where rapists all wore a Tapout shirt or something, so you knew who to avoid at last call, where thieves literally dressed like the Hamburglar and expectations were firmly defined. Though me wearing my black skin has elicited the response of an old lady clutching her purse on more than one occasion, as if I had interest in such things (aside from the sweet bounty of Werther’s originals and peppermint candies within). Yes, I get it, I’m guilty of stereotyping as much as the other side. I’m sure there’s a southerner who brandishes the confederate flag with pride, listens to NPR and “has a black friend”, I’ve just yet to meet them (and it sounds like a unicorn wearing a crown of California Condor plumes). Last week a racist gunned down 9 innocent people and it has brought banning the confederate flag to the table (in 2015), into conversations (in 2015) and nearing a reality (in 2015). I was thinking of history’s many martyrs whose tragic exits have ushered in great change, and if this is all that comes from these 9 deaths, it’s not nearly enough. The fact that it is even up for debate in this day and age is somewhat depressing. But here we are. Our future’s history books will read like tragic comedy, confederate flags flying to this day, gay marriage not universally accepted and guns everywhere yet a wonder why there’s so many mass shootings. Earlier this week I fell into the darkest rabbit hole I’ve yet to know. I started reading ultra conservative / racist websites, reading the comments on the articles, trying to place my thumb on the pulse of a beating heart unfamiliar. It started when a confederate flag showed up in my facebook feed amongst the gifs of cats being assholes, relationship announcements and short videos of my friend’s offspring not doing anything particularly exciting. To my surprise it was someone I knew posting and praising the confederate flag. I followed it to a website that looked like it was designed in the late 90s with no spell check and then I followed link after link until I feared for my life, mourned the death of humanity and began to sleep with two eyes open. I went back to the original post a few times, debating whether or not to comment on it. I finally decided to, after all, no strides are made in silence. On occasions when I think maybe I can make a difference in someone’s perspective, I generally tip toe, so instead of “WHY ARE YOU POLLUTING MY FACEBOOK FEED WITH YOUR RACIST ASS FLAG NONSENSE YOU FUCKING FUCK”, I tried to explain what that flag means to me in the soft toned voice I use to pry rock candy from the grasp of elderly women. I explained that regardless of what one’s intention is with that flag, this is what every black American feels when they see it, fear, hatred, oppression, every time they’re read the word “nigger” etched into the wall of a bathroom stall, every time they’ve heard its bitter bite shouted and the kind of paranoia that fits well within the frames of reason. Some guy with a confederate flag as his profile picture
(and I thought twice about my profile picture of a raccoon humping a beagle) got back to my comment right away. He wrote “Alfred Howard…..It really offends me to see young “men” walking around in public for my daughters to see…….with their pants down below their asses……should we stop that as well.” First of all, I love that “Men” is in quotes, already establishing that we are less than. I was so dumbfounded by this response that it basically cleared up all the confusion. “Oh, I’m literally trying to have a rational conversation with a fucking idiot who’s response to his fear of young black males is to in turn intimidate them with fear.” As if “two wrongs don’t make a right” wasn’t one of the first tenets all parents bestow upon their children. How do you build a bridge to a mind so distant? I sent him an email, an invitation to talk. Because I can post all the equality rants in the world and harvest likes from people who already agree with what I’m saying, but if I can change the mind or vantage point of someone who likely hates my existence before knowing it, then it’s a small victory. At the end of the day a flag is color on fabric, we infuse our symbols with meaning through action. The Swastika finds its roots in Hinduism, but meaning evolves and evokes. The confederate flag is a racist symbol with an ocean of blood shed in its name. You can claim it means something else to you, but it carries a weight beyond virtue regardless. I once hoped that the archaic values it represents to me would die through the course of generations, but hatred is passed on, not through blood, but through whispers. We just need to shout the opposite.