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. 

No, Your Enemy

I've been reading a book lately that has a cast of anti-heroes as protagonists. It reminded me of when I was a kid, and I had gone to a movie with my mom. We went to movies almost every week while I was in grade school, and this one was some ultra-violent post apocalyptic bubblegum that I don't even remember. What stuck in my mind, was the two of us getting in the car, and her asking if I thought I could ever kill anyone. Not the kind of mother-son conversation one is likely to forget. So there I was, 11 or so years old, and my mom is telling me how if there were any people trying to hurt me or anyone else in our family, she was pretty sure she would be capable of killing them. I imagine that would be true of most mothers, but it isn't something that is often discussed.

There are always going to be subtleties in morality. Your vices are my verses, vice versa and versa vice. Take the Israeli offensive going on right now. Opinion is likely split among those who support Israel, those who are outraged, and those that don't care because it isn't happening to them. This is a conflict that has, in one way or another, been going on for over a hundred years. There is no way of saying which side is right and which is wrong. How can there be any sense of morality in this situation?

On a more basic level, everyone has been through times when it was seemingly appropriate to be dishonest, cruel, or just plain wrong, but for the "right" reasons. What, though, are the "right" reasons? I'm inclined to think there are no "right" reasons, just as much as there are no "wrong" reasons. What it comes down to, is that everything is justifiable in one way or another. Not that I'm planning to do a Marquis de Sade and explore every possible depravity, I'm just saying that I can't judge anyone's actions, and no one can judge mine. Each of us has a biased perspective of our own worlds, where each of us are rulers of our domains. For instance, I don't have any interest in having a 9 to 5, coming home to a wife and kids for a night of TV and the occasional weekend getaway/ yearly trip Disneyworld. Some would say that not propagating the species is wrong, sinful, and just plain weird. I would say that there are enough people on the planet, and enough unwanted babies being born to fill all of Angelina Jolie's needs.

If there are no morals then there is no good or bad, just subjective levels of freedom. This is the true nature of anarchy. Say "anarchy," and most people will have visions of Mad Max style living, but anarchy just means, "one should do what one thinks is right at that moment in time." That is about the same thing as "do what thou wilt shall be the only law," the motto of Alistair Crowley, who cribbed the idea from Francois Rabelais (who was a Benedictine Monk, so let's skip over the satanic thing for now). There is an assumption that anarchy would lead to increased "criminal" behavior, but if there aren't laws, there can't be crime.

...OK, that was the flippant answer, the real one is that one is responsible for one's own behavior. Hopefully, as part of that responsibility, one is making decisions informed and infused with love of others and the self. We are a fallible race, so of course not everyone will be looking out for everyone or even anyone else, but that will happen whether or not there are laws in place to redress the minority of truly evil spirited people. There are not many Lex Luthors in the world- people who plan and act out ways to prey on others. Most crimes are crimes of opportunity, committed during a moment of desperation in the perpetrator and weakness in the victim. No, I'm not saying that the victim is asking for it, I'm saying that predators prey on the most vulnerable: it may be the hungry cheetah in the Serengeti who attacks the gazelle that wanders off alone, or it may be the crack addict that attacks the drunk who wanders off into a dark alley. The people in the center of the bell curve don't have much to worry about. No matter what laws are in place, or who is in charge, things don't really change for those being governed.