[Hater X insisted that I post the following here, on the allegedly solemn occasion of The 704's second anniversary. And I'm way past having the energy to argue with that guy, so here it is. Make of it what you will.]
Dear 704 Readers:
Studies show that a two-year time course and the significance in the survival and temporal evolution of neuroFLaRNal activity in subjects of boredom are found to be linked. Those who are both initially asymptomatic to adverse FLaRNtricular dysfunction who relate to this prognosis should continue reading.
Translation: Lordy's 2 years old today. Drink a few tall-boys, down a few shots. Drink some beers up. Send him gifts of trinkets and cash. And keep reading for FLaRNsake.
So, hey, apparently when you're wasted at a show and you're talking to a friend and he asks if your blog wants to present his upcoming pehrspace show, it's not always mere drunk-talk. It usually is, of course, which is why I was pleasantly surprised to discover that The 704 is in fact presenting this Friday's pehrspace show. Fun! I didn't even have to do any work! There's a real flyer and everything! I didn't have to make one of those stupid bird ones!
Penny Dreadful will be up first. This project consists of Rachel (from Heller Keller), Ema (she of the Ghosts and Her Lady Parts), and Pauline (from Moses Campbell and all your other favorite bands). If I need to tell you any more than that to get you intrigued, then you're a jerk and I hate you, but I'll link you to this video anyway.
Closing out the evening will be Bright Beast. As I am the band's spiritual adviser (under the name Baba Eljee) (get it?) (I'll explain it to you later), I was recently privileged to hear Bright Beast's forthcoming EP, and I believe it is something you should be excited about. Seriously. I frankly don't understand how you're going to get any sleep between now and its April-ish release date. I'd compare it to something you're familiar with, but I've given up futile endeavors for Lent. So let's just say it's pretty special. Bright Beast is also the only band I know that has never played a show that wasn't off-the-charts bad-ass. Granted, they've only played one show before this one. But still--batting a thousand is batting a thousand. Let's not split hairs.
And in between will be the debut of Le Cos, the new project led by Brian Cosgrove and his sick, violent, depraved personal demons. This band will also feature me on backing vocals/handclaps/drunken dancing. Yes, you read that correctly: this Friday night I will be crossing that thick, flashing red line that separates writers and hangers-on from performers. Will I survive? Probably not. But it'll be worth it. I will be wearing a barnyard mask alongside a bunch of weirdos and screaming along to Brian's scary murder ballads. So ... yeah, basically I'll be getting wasted and screaming, so it'll be pretty much like any other show I go to (and any given evening at my house), except this time I'll be facing an audience.
I'd like to tell you how incredible I think Le Cos's songs are but, since I'll be performing with the band, that might come off a bit disingenuous. So last night, after rehearsal, I drunk-dialed Hater X and asked him for a blurb. I found the following screed in my inbox this morning:
"Son of a bastard. Do you realize it's 4am right now? Well, probably not in the now when you're reading this...which isn't my current now.....my current now is, like I said, 4am....which will cease to be current by the time you, the apathetic docile masses, read this. Did I mention it's 4am? I'm in bed. I just picked up my ringing rotary phone to the sound of the enemy. Who would call an old man at this ungodly hour, you ask? WHO THE FLARN ELSE????? Lordy...that's who! He was totally obliterated and he kept telling me that he was wearing a mask, to which I could only reply, "...aren't we all, Lordy?" Aren't we all, indeed. Anyway, my head is still foggy so I'm not sure what the FLaRN this "mask" business is all about, but he asked me to take a listen to the new band he's playing with this Friday at Peespace. You heard me right. Lordy is in a band now, Jesus Mary & Joseph save me from the tyranny of the unexpected!!! The band's name is Le Cos and they supposedly sing about murder. I told him I'd never heard of em. He then began caterwauling a slurry rendition of what sounded like a ballad about daughters killing fathers? I dunno, I could be wrong, but I hope I'm not. I told him I could get behind that. These Le Cos gentlemen sound like loving, stable people. And even though any band that asks that no good FLaRNist Lordy to perform with them has, at the very least, questionable judgment, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and give my stamp of approval because, let's face it, most people deserve to be brutally murdalized."
Apparently even that grumpy old bastard is on board. So what's your excuse? Come!
I'm pretty sure a professional looking flyer for this show exists out there on someone's hard drive, but I decided to whip up another one of these things anyway. It's my secret passion:
Also I added a kitty.
*
"Guinness makes you drunk."
-Brendan Behan, poet
I've probably said some unkind things about Casey's in the past. I don't know. Seems like something I would have done. Does anyone feel like checking? (You don't have to. It's fine. Let's move on.)
So, assuming that I have said such unkind things in the past (and it's perfectly possible that I have not, but let's assume that I have), I'm willing to do the right thing and admit I was wrong.
I'd like to pretend that making this admission was a difficult decision and the result of hours upon days of soul-searching and consultation with therapists and gurus and clergymen. But, really, I'm always happy--even eager--to admit that I've been wrong. Life makes sense when I'm admitting I was wrong. I was wrong, God's in His heaven, all's right with the world. Sometimes I'm tempted to retract everything I've ever said, just for the cheap thrill.
In any event, I must admit that, in the months since I've written these theoretical unkind words, I've spent many a magical evening at Casey's. I always seem (in the parlance of our time) to have a wonderful time. The set-up isn't ideal, but the beer selection is impossible to fault, and the expansive patio provides ample opportunities for cancer-cultivation.
The incongruous diversity of the clientele bothered me at first, I think, but diversity isn't something a sophisticated, urban, 21st century man should be complaining about, now is it? Even if what I mean by "diversity" is "lots of fratty bros." With the proper perspective, Casey's provides a vision of a world where people of all stripes can coexist, getting blackout drunk together until closing time. (And I always end up talking to the same people anyway. It's not like the Central in Santa Monica where, if you're not careful, you're liable to get roped into an interminable conversation about the afterlife with the guy who played the villain in Kindergarten Cop.)
Also, a night at Casey's always leads to adventures. You never know where you'll end up. You might find yourself drinking beer on the steps of City Hall. (Though, yeah, probably not anymore.) Or you might end up like me last Saturday when, after a characteristically sweaty Manhattan Murder Mystery set, I joined a couple friends in wandering the deserted Downtown streets, drinking beer, with only the most nebulous of destinations in mind. At some point, it seemed like an excellent idea to run through a fountain.
And you learn things when you go to Casey's. I, for example, learned that if you're drunk enough to run through a fountain, then you're also too drunk to feel shame or regret when the security guard laughs at you and orders you to stay the fuck out of the fountain.
So come to Casey's this Saturday night for good music, good drinks, and some hard-earned wisdom.
Oh yeah, Death to Anders, Downtown/Union, and the "mysterious" The Sun & The Sea will be playing. I like them all very much.
I unexpectedly got a ride to this show, and also a ride home, so I didn't take the bus, so I didn't have any thrilling encounters with bus people or bus stop people, so I have nothing to write about.
*
So let's see. There must be something. What's been happening?
Oh, have you heard about the Slab City festival?
Well, if you haven't heard about it: on Saturday, February 25th, a bunch of unsavory characters will be busing it out to the Salton Sea where, on the Slab City stage, a rogues gallery of weirdos I like to write about--Manhattan Murder Mystery, Seasons, Judson McKinney, Stab City, and more--will be performing. Filmmaker Mike James will be documenting the event for a film entitled Open Mic Night After The Apocalypse, which sounds about right to me.
And if you have heard about it already: please don't read the above paragraph, because doing so will be a waste of your time.
Sounds good, right? I think I might have to go. I don't want to, since I don't like the desert or leaving the house, but I always end up leaving the house anyway, and about half the time I end up in the middle of the desert, so who am I kidding?
I went to the pre-festival party in Silver Lake on Friday night. There was food, fun, laughs, and a screening of a documentary about people living around the Salton Sea. But I didn't take much of that in. I was busy drinking whiskey and bothering people. Next thing I knew I was alone in Downtown L.A with no idea how I ended up there. The only explanation I can conjure is that I got on the wrong bus, which has happened before, but it would have been the first time that I was drunk enough to get on a bus going in the wrong direction.
That's probably what happened. But I'm going to choose to believe I was kidnapped, or carried off and abandoned by wild dogs, or lured by an elusive Siren, because some truths are just too difficult to bear.
I don't want to extrapolate too much from my own experiences, but if what happened on Friday is a sign of things to come, then Slab City is going to be very ugly in a very fun way.
Learn more here. Or contribute to the project here. I know I'm going to throw them a few bucks, just as soon as I get this cretin at U.S. Bank to raise my credit limit. He's being difficult. He doesn't seem to appreciate that, for a mere $100, I can have Matthew Teardrop cook me dinner. What a world. I'll never understand financial institutions.
*
Hmm.
Mouse over at CGT has an interesting post on the ins and outs of his writing process. It's worth a read if you're interested in creativity and creatives in general, or you need a template to pursue your own writing life, or if, like me, you're just a CGT-superfan.
While I'm disinclined to steal someone else's idea, I'm hard up for material, so I think I'll tell you about my writing process as well. (And anyway, it wouldn't be anything new; the idea for The 704 was essentially stolen from Mouse and CGT. Writing about shows from a personal, idiosyncratic point of view seemed to have worked out for him--he'd become a better writer, had new experiences, even gotten a girlfriend--so I figured I'd give it a shot too. And here we are. Results have been mixed.)
My technique differs severely from Mouse's, but as he so wisely advises in his piece, "Fuck the rules." From what I've learned (for whatever that's worth--I'm just a jerk with a weird blog and an unfinishable novel about the St. Francis Dam Disaster), the only immutable rule that exists about being a writer is that you have to write. (Believe me. I've spent years in the laboratory trying to cook up a way to circumvent this law, to no avail.)
One other rule that I hold steadfastly to, even though it might not be quite so immutable, is that you must have lots and lots of cocaine. Of course, what constitutes "lots and lots" varies from writer to writer. A couple key bumps might put you where you need to be. As for me, before I write, I prefer to take in a quantity known colloquially as "a mountain." It gets expensive, but you can't argue with results.
Without fail, I always intend to dive right into the writing after I've depleted my mountain. But, overstimulated as I am, I can never focus on the written word until I've masturbated. Now, I'm probably going to get in trouble for telling you this--I might even get kicked out of the union--but I'm all about honesty, so here goes: music bloggers can only achieve orgasm if they are looking at themselves in the mirror. This is absolutely, universally true. Creepy, right? There's a reason the code of silence has thus far been so consistently honored. The truth doesn't make us look good. But who are we kidding? We're a very self-absorbed class of people. One of the few things more narcissistic than believing that the world needs to hear your music is believing that the world needs to hear your opinions about other people's music. So is it really any surprise?
So after I've jerked off while gazing deep into my soulful green eyes, I return to the computer with the intention of (if I'm blogging) reviewing last night's show/bus ride or (if I'm working on my novel) delving deep into the plight of the poor Santa Paulans about to be washed away by the water of Mr. Mulholland's shoddy dam. But at that moment I inevitably start crying. The despair, the self-doubt, the memories--they become too much to withstand without tears. What do I think I'm accomplishing here? I think. What right do I have to connect words together? I haven't earned the right to spout my nonsense to the unsuspecting public. I start addressing myself directly. Look at yourself! Look at what you've become! The drugs, the self-abuse, the lies, the betrayals, all the love you've received that you never deserved and could never in a million years reciprocate. The people you've hurt. The people you've lost. Why don't you go do something useful, like feed a hungry person, or buy a drunk a drink? Huh? Why don't you get out of your own admittedly cavernous skull for a second and think of someone else instead of fiddling with this keyboard all night? If you have to write, make it something useful, like a suicide note.
At this point I'm usually on the floor, weeping in the fetal position. Like clockwork, my cat--sweetheart that she is--strolls over and starts nuzzling me. I'm usually too deep in the throes of my pain to acknowledge her or accept her love, but eventually she wears me down. I reach out and pull her towards me. She purrs into my chest. I hold her tight until the weeping subsides, at which point I let her go. And, every time, I feel like we've formed a special interspecies bond, knowing as I do that she'll soon be licking my tears and blood-flecked mucus off her soft fur.
In order to reconstruct my faculties into an order that will allow for writing, I then permit myself a five second pull off a bottle of cough syrup. The medicine's entrance into my chest generally coincides with the dawning of a recurring hallucination: every night I behold a nine-year-old soot-covered Irish street urchin crawling in through my window. It's always the same one, and he won't tell me his name. I just call him Liam, because I'm not very creative.
"Hello, Liam," I recently said.
"My name's not Liam," he replied, as he does.
"Of course it isn't," I said.
"So what sort of writing tonight?" he asked. "Blog or novel?"
"Blog," I said.
"Aye," said. "So, how was last night's show then?"
"Oh, I didn't really pay attention to most of it. Don't really have anything of value to say about it."
"That's fine," he said. He's always very encouraging. "What about the fellow you saw at the bus stop?"
"The wheelchair guy?" I asked.
"Sure," he said. "You can write about him."
"Doesn't sound very interesting," I said.
"Oh, we can make it interesting ... enough," he said. "It won't be a classic, but it'll do. Here, let's get started." And he proceeded to dictate the entire post to me. I just typed what he said.
And that's my writing process. Cocaine, masturbation, weeping, cough syrup, and then Liam the filthy Irish lad dictates sentences to me. I type them, post them on the internet, and pass out. I wake up--usually about an hour later--and there's no trace of the boy. I examine the pageviews, check to see if anyone liked the post on Facebook or retweeted it, and I adjust my self-esteem accordingly.
And I move forward, ready to start the process over the next day. Rinse and repeat.
Rinse hard.
*
I'm just joking, of course. I don't have a cat.
*
I should get a cat.
*
In spite of how frequently his name appears in what I write and on the flyers for shows The 704 presents, I feel like I've never given Judson McKinney and his music their due. I'm not much of a due-giver.
Even for a fellow with no pretensions toward the avant-garde, Judson is a curious fellow. He's both straightforward and oddly mercurial. He's an upstanding gentleman who's not afraid to share his thoughts about Jesus and Bob Dylan, as long as you're willing to share yours. Whenever I'm on that familiar precipice of too-drunk, he always seems to emerge from the ether with an offer of a ride home, even though we live on opposite sides of town. But there's still something of a dark side to him--or, if that's overstating it, let's say a side that doesn't suffer fools. He'll smile and nod and treat everyone decently, but if you're full of shit, he'll find a way to let you know. I've experienced this. I'm often full of shit.
While his vision has remained consistent, his style has been known to change. While he's been sporting a straight-laced studious look for a while now, not long ago he was long-haired and shaggily bearded. (Was there also a ramshackle top hat involved during this era? Or is my memory embellishing this?)
But whether he's been rocking hobo chic or a Cosby sweater, whether he's being absolutely kind or letting you know that he's onto you and the lies you tell yourself, his music has remained solid.
I didn't always have his back in this regard. It took me a while to latch onto what he was doing as his current band was coming together. This was probably my standard churlishness, since I missed being one of the exclusive six or so people watching him and his wife Mary rocking the Echo Curio backed by a rotating assortment of drifters and craigslist casualties. You know, those hazy days of 2010? Once his band started to settle into a stable, professional unit, I convinced myself that it had lost some of the charm.
But something started to happen with the band's performances that made the material come alive to me in a way I'd been resisting. Perhaps it was the way his aw-shucks politeness had come to coexist with a frenetic intensity, an on-his-knees shredding that was as natural as it was unexpected. One second he's affably telling of writing a song in the Social Security office, and the next he's playing like his demons are trying to crush him through the stage floor. And I watched intently as "William Jennings Bryan" evolved from chilling violin showcase to a hellfire barnburner. This prophetic streak has played out not just in his performance but in his lyrics, most tellingly in a song like "When Will The Paths Be Straight Again?"
Anyway, you can see how this will continue to develop every Monday in February at the Silverlake Lounge, and also at Slab City.
If you'd been there this past Monday, and you were lying in a prone position atop the bar (it happens), this is what you would have seen:
Apparently, I only go to Lot 1 shows where, for a certain portion of the evening, I will be the only person in the room watching the performance. This happened last week, when it was just me and the dust mites enjoying a set by Terence Leclere Sings Girl Songs (which is a guy named Terence Leclere who sings girl songs; if you're in the mood to hear a guy singing all your Cyndi Lauper, Lisa Loeb, and Fleetwood Mac favorites--and when are you not? it's like all you ever talk about--you could do a lot worse). And it happened again Wednesday night for the first three songs of Rob Danson's set, after which the room started to fill up a bit, and so I lost interest.
Not really. It was a good set. His new songs are lovely. But once he got a good nine people in the room watching, I felt comfortable getting out of the Buster Bluth hand chair I was sitting on and ordering another beer. By the time it arrived the set was over.
It's difficult to analyze a set where, for a large portion, you were the only one in the room. It's hard to just listen, without having your critical faculties obscured by thoughts like, "This is weird. Why am I sitting alone in a dark room while a man sings to me?"
So I guess I'll just write about the bus.
*
Although life is undeniably a neverending string of absurd situations (until, I guess, they end), some stand out more than others. Sitting on the bus while a crazy person makes a scene strikes me as one of those.
The bus is about the only place where you can threaten to murder people with impunity. Ideally, this would not be the case. In a kinder world, there'd be some reliable mechanism for defusing such situations. But no one's ever going to do anything about it, largely because people need to get where they need to go. A grim calculus takes hold: Okay, there's an outside chance that this man will follow through on his plan to cut someone's throat, but I've been on enough buses and heard enough death threats to know that it almost certainly won't happen. Yes, one shouldn't take any chances in such a situation--you only get one life, and I'd rather not have mine end in a pool of blood on the floor of a bus, and if it must end that way, then I'd like for it to have the poetic decency to happen on the 704, not the 4 that I'm currently riding--but still ... I'd really like to get where I'm going. I don't want to get killed. I don't want to witness anyone else getting killed. But I really, really don't want to have to get off and wait for the next bus to come.
*
"Say it to my face!" the man shouted, the words swollen in his mouth, his tone almost singsong.
He'd been sitting quietly for a couple minutes after he got on at Fairfax. I didn't see his outburst coming. If anyone on the bus was going to go ape, I would have bet on the guy sitting next to him: a guy in a navy blue jumpsuit who smelled like wet crackers. Goes to show: don't judge people's sanity based on their jumpsuits or odors. I mean, jumpsuit guy was crazy too, but he was quiet about it.
"Say it to my face!" the man shouted again. "I hear you talking. Don't think I don't hear you talking. I know you're talking about me. I know what you're saying. Say it to my face!"
And what was there to do? I could look around to see whom he was addressing, but that would have been the least rational response to the situation, since, duh, no one was talking about him. There was nothing to be said to his face.
"If you got something to say to me, say it to my face! I see you there, talking out the sides of your necks. I see lots of people here talking out the sides of their necks."
I buried my face deeper into my book--a posthumous Richard Brautigan novel that I didn't have much interest in, because he's only good when you're very young and very stoned, neither of which I am these days, but when I was leaving the house it was the first thing I saw on my bookshelf that would fit in my pocket. I read the same sentence over and over--something about a hangover and a crow and a hot dog--but I was focused on imagining what it would look like if a person could talk out the side of their neck.
"I hear what you're saying about me. I hear you talking. Saying that I've been child molesting. Saaaaaaay it tooooo my faaaaaace!"
If things escalated, what would I do? Would I step in, even at great personal risk, based on either the moral imperative that one protect those weaker than oneself, or on the theory that anyone I might sacrifice my safety for probably enjoys life more than I do? Would I flee? Or would I sit there still, every part of my body paralyzed, save for my bladder? While someone who may or may not be a child molester went on a rampage?
"Talking in Spanish. Think I can't understand you. I can hear you. I can habla espanol. Say it to my face, why don't you? Sayittomyface!"
The bus was airless and silent. The driver kept his eyes forward.
"I'm getting off soon anyway. Off of this fucking bus. I should give you all a knife to the jugular first. Saaaaaaayiiiiiitoooooomyyyyyyface! A knife to the jugular. You understand. All of you! A knife to the jugular."
A man was threatening to murder us, and we stayed silent, eyes and hands to ourselves.
Perhaps this scenario wasn't absurd at all. Perhaps it was the most rational thing that could possibly happen. In a life that can end at any time--for any reason or no reason--maybe, when this perpetual threat is made manifest in the form of a psychotic man on the bus, the only non-absurd reaction is to keep quiet, to keep your eyes down, to accept that whatever will happen will, indeed, happen. Maybe every sensory stimulus, every pain and every caress, the finest music in the world down to the sound of air being sucked into our nostrils--maybe this is nothing more than the universe shouting, "Say it to my face!" And we no longer notice.
Or maybe not. Maybe we were just afraid.
The bus approached Formosa and the man pulled the cord. "I'm getting off the fucking bus. If any of you want to stop talking out the side of your necks and you want to say what you got to say to my face, you can meet me outside." The bus pulled to the curb. "A knife to the jugular. I'll make sure you regret what you said. You'll never forget me. You'll never forget," he said, stepping down the stairs, "the Bartman!"
And that, ladies and gentleman, apparently, was the Bartman. I will never forget him.
As the doors closed behind him, a voice rose from the back of the bus: "Fucking child molester."
*
Rob Danson's band Death to Anders plays every Saturday night in February at Casey's Downtown.
It's 7:30 and I'm standing at the corner waiting for the bus. A portly man in an electric wheelchair buzzes toward me. Moments before, he had been parked a few yards away, underneath the 704 sign. I assume he's moving in my direction to put some distance between himself and the gibbering, shadowboxing homeless man who has just walked past--the one whom I'd given a cigarette to a few blocks back, figuring that it couldn't hurt him in his ongoing battle with invisible demons. It made him squeal in celebration.
But, no, I am mistaken. The wheelchair man turns around and faces me. "Excuse me," he grumbles with a thick, unplaceable accent. "Can you..." he trails off. "I don't know how to say." He gestures to the white bucket in his lap, which is encrusted all over with wispy bluish-black tar. "My ... my tub. Can you put in my trunk?" He points behind him.
I cock my head like a puzzled dog and consider the man. He is clearly in need of some assistance, and I want to provide it for him. As though an immigrant without the use of his legs doesn't have it hard enough, this man's life, for obscure reasons, involves toting a heavy bucket around with him on the bus. And here I am at the bus stop, awash in leisure, humming under my breath a song about how I need time to stay useless, on my way to a club where I'll spend way too much money on overpriced cocktails, where I'll mingle and dance and sing and laugh. Even the least literal reading of Matthew 25:45 would suggest that I have an obligation to provide this man with whatever he needs. And I'd like to. But I believe he just asked me to put his tub in his trunk.
"I'm sorry?"
He sighs. "This," he says, lightly lifting the bucket. "In there," he says, jabbing his thumb toward the basket attached to the back of his wheelchair.
"You want me to put the bucket in the basket?"
"Yes! Yes."
This I can do. And what a relief it is. All I have to do is pick up a heavy bucket and wedge it securely into a basket and I can feel like a good person who has earned his imminent evening of music and self-indulgence. It's a bargain, really. All it costs me is a few brief seconds of awkwardness, and I'm used to that. Most seconds are awkward.
I lift the bucket and, scrunching aside a weathered McDonald's bag that--while I'm no expert--appears to be several redesigns old, I attempt to fit it into the basket. It is considerably too large.
"No, no," the man says. "Use the ... use the ... I don't know the word ... use the wire. You tie?"
"The wire?" I ask.
"Yes, yes, the wire."
I look down. There are, I suppose, what could be called wires jutting this way and that, but they're thick--thicker than hanger wires--and they don't appear to be detachable. I pull at them anyway, just to make sure I'm doing my due diligence, figuring that I must be missing something. I cut my finger.
"No," the man says. "The ... the wire, you know?"
"I'm sorry. I don't understand what you're asking me to do."
"The wire, see," he says. "In the trunk. What is it in the trunk?"
The only thing in the basket besides the McDonald's bag is a mound of thin rope bunched together in a Christmas light tangle. I pull it out and show it to him.
"Yes, yes, this wire," he says, taking it into his lap and beginning to untangle it. This process takes longer than I'd prefer. I stare longingly to the west. No bus approaches.
With the rope finally untangled, he holds one end low and stretches the other end tight across his torso like a seatbelt. "Yes," he says. "You see? Tight."
Does he want me to tie him up? If that's what he wants, I guess I'm willing to do it, but I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea. Is he not securely fastened into his wheelchair already? Will the 704 be making a detour past the land of the Sirens? Or are we just getting plain old kinky? And what does any of this have to do with his bucket?
I take the rope from him in order to commence tying him up. But I stop, realizing that moving forward would be a pretty bold move without further confirmation of his intentions. "I'm not sure I understand what I'm doing," I say.
"Tight," he cryptically responds.
"I ... I'm sorry, I don't understand."
He takes the rope back from me. "Here, yes, hand me tub," he says. I hand him the bucket. He proceeds to tie a knot around the handle. "There," says, handing it back to me. He juts his thumb backwards again. "You tie please. Tight."
Apparently, I finally realize, he wants me to tie the bucket to the back of his wheelchair. This seems simple enough, though honestly I'm not confident in my ability to perform this task competently, and furthermore I'm still confused about what that business was with him using the rope to straddle his upper body a few seconds ago.
I search in vain for someplace on the back of his chair to tie the bucket. There's nothing. No loops, no hooks. I could use the mesh of the basket, but it's so low to the ground that there's no way the bucket wouldn't end up dragging along behind him.
"I ... I'm sorry," I say. "I don't understand how you want me to do this."
He sighs. "Tie," he says. "Tie tight!"
"I'm sorry. I don't understand." I'm getting a bit frantic at this point. My desire to help and be a useful member of a community is in a dire competition with my sudden desire to flee. My finger is bleeding and there will be no opportunity to sterilize the wound for at least an hour. I can already feel my jaw tightening with hypochondria. "I don't see anyplace to tie it. I'm sorry. I want to help you. I want to be good. I don't understand. I'm sorry. I don't understand. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I look up and see the bus approaching. "I'm sorry. The bus is coming."
Taking his bucket back, he waves me off without a word. The bus pulls over and he rides the ramp through the entrance. He exchanges a few brief words with the bus driver, who effortlessly ties the bucket to the back of the wheelchair.
Can I tell you a secret? Even if it makes me look a little ridiculous, suggesting as it does that I take the blog that you hold in your hands a bit more seriously than I should?
Yes?
You see, the thing is, whenever I write something that both friends and anonymous internet strangers respond positively to, I have a great deal of trouble writing a follow-up. I assume that whatever I write next will prove once and for all, to anyone who cares, that I'm an enormous fraud, and that any decent writing I produce is purely accidental.
This is no way to go through life, of course, but it does explain the recent three-day silence on the allegedly revitalized 704 Los Angeles Local Music Weblog. Rather than risk your disapproval, I spent the weekend working on my St. Francis Dam Disaster novel.
So, anyway, just to push past this little roadblock, just to get this blog active again, I am--at this very moment--writing something undeniably pointless: telling you that I like an album that you've already heard. (As opposed to the yeoman's work I usually do: telling you stories about the debatably funny thing that happened to me when I saw my friends play at the Satellite.) This sort of thing is better suited to a Facebook status update, but studies show that I contain too many multitudes for Facebook status updates. Apparently. (There are dissenting opinions on this matter.)
But hey, you know what? I really like this Cloud Nothings album Attack on Memory. It takes something pretty intriguing to penetrate this weird L.A.-centric bubble I've built around myself over the past couple years, wherein I have minimal interest in liking any band that I can't see play live once a month. But the Pitchfork review of this record dropped the J(awbreaker)-word, and that was enough for me to give it a listen. And next thing I know I'm buying advanced tickets for a show at the Echo for the first time in God knows how long. (Want to go to the show with me? I'll be very uptight and claustrophobic because of how crowded it will be, but after a couple drinks I'll loosen up and start making fun of all the cattle and pretending that I'm not one of them.)
Of course, my devotion to this record is not without reservations. Perhaps I'm just a bitter old failure (in fact, I almost certainly am), but there's something that rubs me the wrong way about a circa-21-year-old singer from a critically acclaimed band--or any 21-year-old, really--ranting, "I thought I would be more than this!" over and over. But I shouldn't judge. We're all fighting our own battles, even 21-year-old singers from critically acclaimed bands. Plus, emo's emo. Dylan Baldi didn't make the rules.
And, speaking of which, there's something disheartening about the fact that this record is basically everything I was looking for in 1996, whenever I'd blindly order CDs through the mail from Headhunter Records based on ads I saw in MRR. Is the wall that rock and roll has run into insurmountable? Or is the fault not in the stars but in ourselves? Have I reached the age when I mainly want to listen to artists who can duplicate what I liked when I was fourteen?
In any event, Attack on Memory is pretty dope. Here's a nine-minute song that you've already heard:
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There, that wasn't so hard. And we're back in business. Come back tomorrow for my definitive take on Lana Del Rey.
