Does This Apartment Make Me Look Fat?

Facebook is a great tool for sharing info and thoughts with immediate circles, old friends, relatives, celebrities, and their pets. I like reconnecting with old friends and classmates, or being reminded why they had been jettisoned like so much detritus. I recently heard from about the oldest friend I have, in a manner of speaking (we haven't seen one another in at least 25 years). Looking at his page, I saw that he was married with two children and seemingly settled into a happy family life.

Seeing how a sizable number of my friends are in long term relationships, or engaged, or married, or expecting kids, or have kids, this shouldn't have been a big deal. Thing is, I can remember when they met, had a one month anniversary (?) got engaged, etcetera, etcetera. With this guy, one minute he's ten, the next minute he's Bob Saget. It's like not noticing yourself in the mirror until one morning, you get into the shower, catch a glimpse of something and spin around into the Karate Kid pose before realizing that jiggly person in front of you is you.

The jiggly person I'm looking at in the mirror has no defined career path, still lives with housemates and hasn't had a proper date in about a year. On the other hand, while I may not be a rockstar, I've made music that I enjoy, met and worked with some of my heroes, played a few big stages, and been given some coins for doing it. There are no regrets in any of the decisions I've made in life- I know I was not cut out to be a 'picket fencer,' but I think I need to find a little more equilibrium in my life. It's time to go ahead and make a few changes that I've been considering, but for one reason or another, haven't done. There's never going to be a perfect time, so like the old man that kept a bee colony in a shoebox under his bed, 'f*ck 'em, I want the honey.'

Dragon Music

Last Friday was kind of really amazing. More than 'kind of' in all reality.

OK, it was neat, really neat.

It was a performance with some moderately insane musicians, making not-so-easy listening music, and having a blast doing it. In truest improv fashion, not everyone in the ensemble had ever met each other before playing. C&M and N were really sweet to come show support, and seemed to ingratiate themselves with several of my other friends, whether they knew it or not ("who are the Brits? We LOVE them"). While they had some idea of what was going to happen, I don't think AD and AJ knew what they were in for, but they seemed to enjoy themselves anyway. I also enjoyed the little hello that made me remember that Rule #2 is no longer a factor (nudge-nudge, etcetera [I've become a fan of writing out 'etcetera', since I really can't come up with a good reason to abbreviate a word that isn't that long or difficult to spell]), but I have no mojo as of late, so it probably doesn't matter.

The trippy thing about the show was the family vibe. Remember, I have no mojo, let alone a preggers gf, toddlers, teenagers or otherwise. This made me feel very Donny (that's 'out of my element,' for those who don't speak Lebowskese). In an audience of a hundred twenty some odd people, there were at least half a dozen pregnant women (including the one on stage). Despite allergies to cuteness, I have to admit that the baby with shooting range ear protection didn't give me hives. There were also a couple of stories that gave me hope for the future (and might make me consider giving thought to the possibility of recuperative therapy on my baby making gene):

S is a phenomenal drummer with a huge range, but is primarily known for his jazz work. With characteristic non chalance, he mentioned how proud he was that his pre-school age son loves Iron Maiden. When he tried to play AC/DC, his son said, "no Daddy, I like the dragon music." This prompted P to tell how he had just celebrated his younger daughter's ninth birthday by giving her her first stereo system. One would imagine in most households, prepubescent girls are infatuated with whatever pop confection is on MTV or Nickelodeon or whatever the kids do these days- but not P's daughter. No, N loves the Residents. Of course, this reminded me of when P took his older daughter to see the White Stripes, and how after the show, he asked E how she liked it. She said they were ok, but the Ramones are better.

On being a rockstar

"Smell that air... isn't it great to be young and insane?"

Last week, I put my bass in my indestructible Han Solo-in-carbonite case and got on a plane to Portland. The band was to play two shows in support of Thievery Corporation. It was the largest venue I've ever played, and both shows were sold out.

I've realized an odd contradiction about myself recently: I'm a musician and a performer, that is what defines me, but I HATE talking about it. I cringe when someone asks me what kind of music I like. Tell me how much you love the bass, and I'll want to curl up in a fetal position and suck my thumb. Yes, I can get in esoteric, philosophical discussions with other musicians, but for the most part, I would rather talk about unicorns or foot fungus than my favorite bands or what style of music I play.

After one of the shows last weekend, T and I found ourselves in the dressing room, trying, with limited success, to have a quiet moment to decompress. People were pulling us left and right, have a drink, meet this person, etcetera. From the audience perspective, performers are up on stage, having a great time and getting everyone else to join in. That gives the impression that we're all energizer bunnies who do nothing more than party non-stop. ...OK, fine, that image isn't totally unwarranted, but imagine this: You run into a good friend on the street, who introduces you to a new beau. In a brief amount of time, you put effort into shaking hands, making eye contact, and trying to generally make a good impression. Not too taxing, but say that couple gets married, you go to the wedding, and have to do that 50 or a hundred times. If you've done that before, you know how draining it can be by the end of the day. Now try doing it 1500 times in 45 minutes and you'll have an idea of what it's like to be a stage performer. It's pouring your entire being out to a group of strangers, connecting with each one of them and taking them on trip through your soul.

Taking a minute to regroup after that isn't asking too much, is it?

How can we be friends if we can't be lovers?

Sorry to punish the earholes of your mind with a Michael Bolton reference, but it was the first thing that came to mind, and lately, if I think too much about what I'm going to post, I start thinking about something else.

As all five of my faithful readers know,  I don't have the settle-down genome in my DNA. Having a career and a family is not something I have thought too much about. On the other hand, as I get further on with my life, I see people that I don't want to become...

-The 40 year-old dating a college student

-Dennis Hopper in 'River's Edge'

-One those people wearing clothes that are only hip on people half their age (or wears newer versions of the clothes that were hip when he was half his age)

-That guy at the bar whom everyone knows, but secretly wonders what he's still doing at the bar at his age when it's last call on a Monday night?

-Celibate

-Someone who shocks his entire social network by saying, "have you met my new girlfriend?"

Whatever

I'm a follower of M's blog, but she hasn't posted in what seems like forever. I was going to mention this to her, but then I noticed that my last post was the same day as her last post. It isn't as if nothing has happened in the last 39 days, or my computer was broken, or I was in a hut in Borneo with no internet access. I just haven't been able to pull myself away from Color Junction on my iGoogle Homepage. Everybody (yes, I have asked the entire planet's population- thaaat's why I haven't posted) thinks I should get a crackberry or an iClone, but I know me- I'll miss my bus stop because of that ball rolling game, or I'll start sneaking off to the bathroom at dinner parties to post to Facebook.

The real reason I don't get one of those things is that they are too damned big and ugly. I want one that works like a Theremin. Sleek, compact, and with a soundtrack to 1950's horror films. No, there wouldn't be any email, gps mapping, or that ball rolling game, but that's what holograms are for.

The Black Community

About a month or two ago, it was a rainy day, so I put out an umbrella stand at work. One of my coworkers walked by and said something about an umbrellaellaella, which I attributed to tourette's. Someone else walked by and said the same thing, and since you can't get tourette's from sharing the same glass, I asked what they were talking about. This was my introduction to the music of Rihanna. I still haven't heard the song, and I don't care. I actually knew who she was from my daily reading of dlisted.com, where she is known as Alien Princess RiRi. So when I heard about her getting beaten by her boyfriend, all I knew was that she sang a song that would probably annoy me, and that she looks like a Caribbean "7 of 9."

ABC.COM published a story about the reaction of the "Black Community" to RiRi's incident. I can't be certain, but I don't think I ever received any membership information on joining the Black Community. I have no idea where the Black Community Centre is, and I've never been invited to any Black Community Meetings. Is there a Black Community Rep. Theater Company? How about the Black Community Credit Union? If I get a ticket, can I do Black Community Service?

I find it hard to believe that the writers at ABC news would be so obtuse as to think that all Black people share common experiences, values, morals, etcetera. If Anna Kournikova got beaten, would they ask the Russian Community about their view of domestic violence? If Skeletor- I mean Marc Anthony beat up J-Lo... if J-Lo beat up Marc Anthony, would ABC talk to leaders in the Puerto Rican Community? What about Britney Spears? If K-Fed had smacked her, would the reporters head down to the Trailer Park Community?

Beyond the fact that an all inclusive Black Community doesn't exist, who nominated nothing but raspy voiced pastors with questionable verbiage, and friends of Oprah to be the only spokespeople? If those are the leaders of the Black Community, then I'm glad I don't have a membership.

Danzon

When I was pre-pubescent, I would watch Teletunes every Sunday morning with my brother. We spent hours over recordings of our favorite videos, learning dance moves from Malcom McLaren's "Buffalo Gals," and every move made by Prince and Michael Jackson. While other kids played kickball and four square at recess, I practiced breakdancing. I really loved dancing, and when I got older, I could be seen every Thursday at Club America, and when that closed,  I spent Sundays at Synergy, and Tuesdays at the Snake Pit. Somewhere in between, I would put on my purple Cross-Colours jeans and go raving. Everywhere I went, I owned the dance floor, and everyone I danced with owned it as well. I wouldn't go near a dance floor unless everyone there was there to own the dance floor. No drinks allowed, and if you weren't dancing, and I mean shaking your ass, you were pushed to the side.

Tonight, I went to a dance party. I don't dance much anymore, but I got an invitation, which included an open bar and free food. Global financial retardation doesn't allow me to pass up "free" much anymore, so, despite my better judgement, I went. I say "despite my better judgement," because I found out it was a hippy party. I've gotten beyond the idea of hippies being mildly retarded kids with bad hygiene and even worse fashion sense, and grown to understand that modern hippies are pretentious would be artist-types who lack common sense and refuse to see the world for what it is. There's other stuff involved in their misguided communal psyche, but that is irrelevant to this particular post.

Simple fact of the matter is- hippies can't dance. This was the 5th anniversary of some Burning Man polyester bell bottom and sparkly feather boa b.s. that should have inspired serious freakiness, yet was the same "party like it's 1969" craptasticness that pervades San Francisco. Whatever it was that passed for dancing looked more like a bunch of people that needed to pee. Everyone shifted their weight from one foot to the other in a semblance of rhythm to the umptsee-umptsee fuckery coming out the speakers. I couple of women were really trying, but they looked more like they were allowing the spirit of the goddess to inspire their limbs to undulate in a manner evocative of femininity and sexual spirit-awakening while grounded to the earth mother sensuous Gaia Venus water air thing.

I didn't care about looking cool when I was in their place; I cared about tearing up the floor. I wanted to see everyone else tearing up the floor, and we knew we had done our jobs when we didn't know if we were covered in my sweat, your sweat, or the condensation dripping off of the ceiling. Another thing- people can't dance and drink at the same time. The two are mutually exclusive. If you are really dancing, you can't hold on to a drink. If you are really drinking, you can't dance. I'm not saying dancers must be straight edge, I'm just saying drinks have no place on a dance floor- or hippies.