yesterday i was accused by bernard of my entries being too "heady" (i think that stands for self-indulgent intellectualizing bullshit; at least they are not dank yet). to cater to my readership, i will now give a simple summary of the weekend so far.
[Stylistic Context]
Friday afternoon
work is over
aj coming
step right up
uh huh, step right up
writhing log, oh yeah
urine control
everyone's a winner now
you got art i got art we all got art...interActive
vibrating string
"hot jeff" is awesome
so is joshun
step right up, mm hmm
2 tickets in one day
luxury ER visit
two for a dollar now
takeout dinner
back at bernard's house
...And the piAAAAno has been DRIIINKING (not me though. not me)
ajb jam
vrb's start. two for a dollar now
she's thin she's fat. and black
bernard's place is a..."hovel, shithole, palace? villa?"
allergies to gumbo - better than ever
We got a year-end clearance, so step right up
yeah, step right up
going out of business.
wake up hanging over the ceiling.
breakfast breakfast who's got my heady breakfast?
bloody sock parade
86 years
and the duck tour
quack quack
and the screaming viking nalgene
and bernard with 4 red bulls so far working on a record weekend returning to his caffeine addiction with blazing speed
so step right up
hey ma, how does it feel to be the world champions
we got a present for you
da da, da da da, da da, da da da
love that diiirttyyy waaater.
BOSTON you're my home
2 times 3 times 20 times thanks sully
indian buffet? what are we in college?
2 for a dollar now? well, step right up
taxi back (of course, jordan's in town)
another jam jam jam
you and i are. totally different. oh a gay joke how clever. i just work with what you give me.
bernard coming off the caffeine.
needs a nap. see you later alligator.
where are all the cabs? cerveza?
need a cab now. maybe we walk. maybe we cab? good tip we got. drive right up.
more relaxation.
titanic struggle.
backgammon.
9-8
i suck
wouldn't want it any other way
showers
time to go out
aurelie meeting french kids
they're two for a dollar tonight
bernard has a pre-red bull
comes over newly minted and elegant and bound to attract many more members of his persuasion
we've got a special
boys, step right up
another jammy jam. aj on the swiss ball. aj on electric. aj on the drum. b sings super good. big fucking surprise.
maybe the enormous room
more red bulls of course
good couch, but no dance floor
good tunes but little shaking
and the PIAAANNNOOO has beeen DRINKING (not me?)
finally the cantab
little joe cook the peanut
empty place
midnight special
two for the price of three
god i rule at bargaining (at least when drunk)
so we stepped right up
da da da da da da da
GET UP, GET ON UP
I said, get up, get on up
Sex machines special good deal never needs winding
and more alcohol always helps makes you fitter happier more productive
shake your booty cutie
ah shake your booty cutie
the peanut man
he's got your funk
he's got a bass player
he's got a saxofone
he's got a stroke
he's the man man man
so step right up
bernard dancing with mair's mom
we lead the dance floor
the night is young
aram shows up
quintana reprise
hairnets hairnets who's got hairnets
two for a dollar now
and slices slices
we're getting slices
new york pizza (tommys)
we stepped right up
finally my house
tumbling tumbleweed
i feel so drunk you feel so drunk we all so drunk the night is young the clock turns back and i'm still drunk and i wake up and i'm still drunk the room is spinning i feel drunk sometimes i drink and then feel drunk and tom waits sings still in my head and i feel drunk but i can't sleep an extra hour and work not done bags under the eyes smoke filled throat until next drink next drink is soon i still feel drunk but ready to go a pretty day another day blow off more work and sit around more vodka, bowls, backgammon and halloween lame costume still drunk particle with uma so much excitement i am ready step right up
and the piano will keep drinking
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Monday, October 25, 2004
michigana
I visited jord-ann arbor this weekend to catch the michigan away game on TV and to see my lawyer of a former roommate. The trip followed a day trip to LA, so I was still a little bit loopy (see previous post) from the stale plane air and the perfect california weather.
After a superbly-timed pickup at the hyper-linear DTW airport, we drove through the miles of desolation and stripmallity that approach the bustling metropolis of Ann Arbor. Upon arrival, we picked up a few companions and proceeded straight to an always-overwhelming indian dinner. despite our attempts, we failed to answer the age-old question "how much naan is really too much" (despite a 20 minute discussion with the waiter standing by in painful anticipation).
after the meal, we proceeded to Jordan's new digs. He lives in the tower of london - the only 5-story walk-up in the otherwise 3-story law quad. The 2 2-room "suites" come complete with hexagonal niches, gargoyle perches, and the perfect shot at that pesky professor who doesn't know when to stop asking questions. In addition to the built-in workout, the building also offers a brotherhood bathroom, shared among ten or so inhabitants of the top floors. The custodial staff were nice enough to provide me with an excellent cot and sheet combination, and the living room featured good old Tivo, so the accomodations were all set.
we spent some time at a couple of local college bars. a bit of friday night karaoke - humor highlight involves 5 guys singing "byebyebye" with complete knowledge of the lyrics, no vocal talent, and numerous adoring cheerleaders. for jordan the highlight likely was the moment that I felt someone's hands on my back and turned around to see a 5-4 170lb girl smiling and pointing at her 5-5 240lb girlfriend, who, on cue, compliments my hair. it was looking particularly great that night, so who can blame her.
waking up with a mild hangover, we went for a long walk through an arboretum, got completely soaked in the rain, and each enjoyed a wholly satisfying nature piss. you might say it was a perfect date. this was followed by some pickup basketball ("The only thing that's trippin' is you, now go on home and cry to your momma, she waitin' for you. This is MY house!")
The next stop was a sports bar for game 1. Aside from the red sox winning, the best aspect of the night was definitely our neighbors on the balcony. Or the pirate. At the start it was just three already-drunk guys, complaining that their homo friends (including a soon-to-be groom) were sitting at the hotel playing poker rather than coming out for the game. As the bar started filling up, hesitant girls started seeking space in our area, but were generally deterred by the loud drunken assholeness (I kept telling Jordan to calm down but he just wouldn't listen). But then our new friends hit the jackpot - a bachelorette party arrived, and suddently the boys had 12 girls to play with. all their alleged fandom disappeared as they forged newer and sadder attempts to get laid. Around the 7th, a drunk mustachioed 45-year old stumbled upstairs and headed to our side of the balcony. He and I had a nice chat - he was looking for some young girls to hang out with, so naturally i pointed him across the balcony to our favorite meat market, and then proceeded to watch him chat up one girl after another, bring them drinks, work down the ranks, until being ejected by the sullen fraternity boys. oh and there was a captain morgan. he gave us free rum. i drew a red mustache on his face with a crayon he got mad.
we finished off the night with a law party. booze, important people, and a dj too into his toys. and of course the celebratory slice to cap a good day.
After a superbly-timed pickup at the hyper-linear DTW airport, we drove through the miles of desolation and stripmallity that approach the bustling metropolis of Ann Arbor. Upon arrival, we picked up a few companions and proceeded straight to an always-overwhelming indian dinner. despite our attempts, we failed to answer the age-old question "how much naan is really too much" (despite a 20 minute discussion with the waiter standing by in painful anticipation).
after the meal, we proceeded to Jordan's new digs. He lives in the tower of london - the only 5-story walk-up in the otherwise 3-story law quad. The 2 2-room "suites" come complete with hexagonal niches, gargoyle perches, and the perfect shot at that pesky professor who doesn't know when to stop asking questions. In addition to the built-in workout, the building also offers a brotherhood bathroom, shared among ten or so inhabitants of the top floors. The custodial staff were nice enough to provide me with an excellent cot and sheet combination, and the living room featured good old Tivo, so the accomodations were all set.
we spent some time at a couple of local college bars. a bit of friday night karaoke - humor highlight involves 5 guys singing "byebyebye" with complete knowledge of the lyrics, no vocal talent, and numerous adoring cheerleaders. for jordan the highlight likely was the moment that I felt someone's hands on my back and turned around to see a 5-4 170lb girl smiling and pointing at her 5-5 240lb girlfriend, who, on cue, compliments my hair. it was looking particularly great that night, so who can blame her.
waking up with a mild hangover, we went for a long walk through an arboretum, got completely soaked in the rain, and each enjoyed a wholly satisfying nature piss. you might say it was a perfect date. this was followed by some pickup basketball ("The only thing that's trippin' is you, now go on home and cry to your momma, she waitin' for you. This is MY house!")
The next stop was a sports bar for game 1. Aside from the red sox winning, the best aspect of the night was definitely our neighbors on the balcony. Or the pirate. At the start it was just three already-drunk guys, complaining that their homo friends (including a soon-to-be groom) were sitting at the hotel playing poker rather than coming out for the game. As the bar started filling up, hesitant girls started seeking space in our area, but were generally deterred by the loud drunken assholeness (I kept telling Jordan to calm down but he just wouldn't listen). But then our new friends hit the jackpot - a bachelorette party arrived, and suddently the boys had 12 girls to play with. all their alleged fandom disappeared as they forged newer and sadder attempts to get laid. Around the 7th, a drunk mustachioed 45-year old stumbled upstairs and headed to our side of the balcony. He and I had a nice chat - he was looking for some young girls to hang out with, so naturally i pointed him across the balcony to our favorite meat market, and then proceeded to watch him chat up one girl after another, bring them drinks, work down the ranks, until being ejected by the sullen fraternity boys. oh and there was a captain morgan. he gave us free rum. i drew a red mustache on his face with a crayon he got mad.
we finished off the night with a law party. booze, important people, and a dj too into his toys. and of course the celebratory slice to cap a good day.
You wake up in Boston, DTW, LAX...
The plane creaked its way over to the runway. the pilot slammed on the breaks to avoid running over a scurrying Cessna, overeager to get away from the now mundane surroundings of the graying airport. the passengers anxiously awaited the brief thrill of the ascent, some additionally frightened by the minutes of silence passing away in the absence of approved and non-approved electronic devices. the girl next to me was attempting to calm her friend across the plane, who was innocent enough to be nervous about flying. I suppose unincorporated people spend a lot less time flying than I do. Or maybe more time.
the plane revved its engines and coasted to an easy ascent. the first few minutes were spent in the dense clouds, purveyors of melancholy upon an otherwise ecstatic red sox nation. Heroically, we burst through to a serene landscape, a soft sea of whipped cream, set off by a red and yellow sunset. In our continued arrogance we pursued the sun, anxious to prolong the daylight hours of what at 5pm had officially become a weekend. I kept expecting the wing adjoining my seat to spontaneously combust, causing the quick return to home base. I knew though that we would maintain the altitude as long as we needed to, and land when it was time to go and when the fuel was on the low side. Thanks, engineering.
while waiting in the airport I had been reading a book about Zen. Over the last six months I had gradually been evolving my perception of life, and the process had alerted me to having become a Buddhist in essence. My actual knowledge of the practices is pretty limited, but it does not really seem relevant. What I have learned is a slightly different attitude toward change, time, present, being.
the zen book illustrated with a number of zen stories and koans how teachers try to make people grasp the essence of Buddhism. the koan concept seems like an interesting art. Creating a statement or idea that is different enough from daily thinking which can make a shift in perspective possible and give you something to unthink about. And personalized for the questioner. the book also talked about the ritual/meditative aspects of Buddhism as ways to attain this understanding, to focus yourself in the present. the koans are enjoyable in a similar way as mathematical paradoxes. They can expose some cracks in the system, and oftentimes at a point when you didn't even realize there was a system there.
Buddhism seems interesting in that it simultaneously enables and squashes mysticism associated with it. It's almost as if it plays on that instinct that causes people to seek a life outside the present (religion, etc.), but then bitch slaps them whenever they think they have attained something mystical.
it also seems to me perfectly compatible with rational thought and a great life. Nietzsche labeled it an honest creed for the meek, an unapologetic version of Christianity. It does not need to be that (as the samurai exemplify). [I am going to stop prefacing everything with "seems to me" now, which I am doing in order to not present my own half baked ideas as representative of anything about "real" Buddhism.] Buddhism is nietzschean - take what your self is today, and do the things that the self responds to well. Become what you are but make what you are at the same time. Buddhism is inherently non-violent and compassionate, whereas Friedrich gives struggle the respect it deserves. the transition occurs when you become self enough that you can expand your sphere of influence to shape the world around you in the same way - constructed by you into forms that fit it and that makes sense. the artistic impulse and ability become easier as soon as you recognize that, in the background, life just is and will be, and you will be fine in it as long as you want to and need to.
creation does not need to be violent, though it sometimes is. But conflict is a great driver, and there is no reason to do away with it. You can be compassionate of your opponent as you vanquish him or as he vanquishes you, and yet not waver in your pursuit. He makes you better, so how can you not respect him.
my transition at the convenient quarter century mark took me a bit by surprise, though I can quite easily construct a coherent story of the path that got me here, everything quite predestined in hindsight. I am excited to see how having this as a starting point for the next twenty five years will work out.
in case you've read this far and are feeling a bit gipped by the rambling path that these thoughts have taken, I will try to sum up what makes sense to me.
though there are endpoints to the life line, they are generally not as relevant as people think. It's better to model life as a true geometric line. When you are at any particular segment on the line (a point would be a bit too simplistic and creates some of these philosophy paradoxes), you see a bunch of lines before you, and probably a few lines behind you, depending on how good your memory is. Because the line is infinite, your current segment is not further or closer to anything that you want. As you change, you move through segments, but the context stays the same. Within the segment, you pursue, seek, desire, plan, remember, race. You work to make things are you like them to be. You make everything an act of creation and a focus of attention. And the line is always there, ready to grasp when a segment gets tough or great. So now you can laugh at everything, and still take it seriously. You can feel more pain then ever and know that you can heal. You can be where you are first. You can dance if you want to. You can leave your friends behind. Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance well they're no friends of mine (except ahren).
the plane revved its engines and coasted to an easy ascent. the first few minutes were spent in the dense clouds, purveyors of melancholy upon an otherwise ecstatic red sox nation. Heroically, we burst through to a serene landscape, a soft sea of whipped cream, set off by a red and yellow sunset. In our continued arrogance we pursued the sun, anxious to prolong the daylight hours of what at 5pm had officially become a weekend. I kept expecting the wing adjoining my seat to spontaneously combust, causing the quick return to home base. I knew though that we would maintain the altitude as long as we needed to, and land when it was time to go and when the fuel was on the low side. Thanks, engineering.
while waiting in the airport I had been reading a book about Zen. Over the last six months I had gradually been evolving my perception of life, and the process had alerted me to having become a Buddhist in essence. My actual knowledge of the practices is pretty limited, but it does not really seem relevant. What I have learned is a slightly different attitude toward change, time, present, being.
the zen book illustrated with a number of zen stories and koans how teachers try to make people grasp the essence of Buddhism. the koan concept seems like an interesting art. Creating a statement or idea that is different enough from daily thinking which can make a shift in perspective possible and give you something to unthink about. And personalized for the questioner. the book also talked about the ritual/meditative aspects of Buddhism as ways to attain this understanding, to focus yourself in the present. the koans are enjoyable in a similar way as mathematical paradoxes. They can expose some cracks in the system, and oftentimes at a point when you didn't even realize there was a system there.
Buddhism seems interesting in that it simultaneously enables and squashes mysticism associated with it. It's almost as if it plays on that instinct that causes people to seek a life outside the present (religion, etc.), but then bitch slaps them whenever they think they have attained something mystical.
it also seems to me perfectly compatible with rational thought and a great life. Nietzsche labeled it an honest creed for the meek, an unapologetic version of Christianity. It does not need to be that (as the samurai exemplify). [I am going to stop prefacing everything with "seems to me" now, which I am doing in order to not present my own half baked ideas as representative of anything about "real" Buddhism.] Buddhism is nietzschean - take what your self is today, and do the things that the self responds to well. Become what you are but make what you are at the same time. Buddhism is inherently non-violent and compassionate, whereas Friedrich gives struggle the respect it deserves. the transition occurs when you become self enough that you can expand your sphere of influence to shape the world around you in the same way - constructed by you into forms that fit it and that makes sense. the artistic impulse and ability become easier as soon as you recognize that, in the background, life just is and will be, and you will be fine in it as long as you want to and need to.
creation does not need to be violent, though it sometimes is. But conflict is a great driver, and there is no reason to do away with it. You can be compassionate of your opponent as you vanquish him or as he vanquishes you, and yet not waver in your pursuit. He makes you better, so how can you not respect him.
my transition at the convenient quarter century mark took me a bit by surprise, though I can quite easily construct a coherent story of the path that got me here, everything quite predestined in hindsight. I am excited to see how having this as a starting point for the next twenty five years will work out.
in case you've read this far and are feeling a bit gipped by the rambling path that these thoughts have taken, I will try to sum up what makes sense to me.
though there are endpoints to the life line, they are generally not as relevant as people think. It's better to model life as a true geometric line. When you are at any particular segment on the line (a point would be a bit too simplistic and creates some of these philosophy paradoxes), you see a bunch of lines before you, and probably a few lines behind you, depending on how good your memory is. Because the line is infinite, your current segment is not further or closer to anything that you want. As you change, you move through segments, but the context stays the same. Within the segment, you pursue, seek, desire, plan, remember, race. You work to make things are you like them to be. You make everything an act of creation and a focus of attention. And the line is always there, ready to grasp when a segment gets tough or great. So now you can laugh at everything, and still take it seriously. You can feel more pain then ever and know that you can heal. You can be where you are first. You can dance if you want to. You can leave your friends behind. Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance well they're no friends of mine (except ahren).
Friday, October 08, 2004
fuck me?! fuck you!!
http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/485987.html
Last night there was a bombing in the Sinai peninsula in Egypt, the home of some of my fondest travelling memories. Summer of 2000 we took a few days out of Israel to go down to this amazing, dirt cheap piece of red sea heaven. set off by red mountains on one side and the sea on the other, the coast is dotted with small resorts - tarabin, nueba, ras satan, and a few bigger ones like Taba and Sharm el Sheikh. We got there late one June night, crossing the border with our backpacks to the snickering of the Egyptian guards. What followed was the scariest cab ride ever, where Jordan agitated the already insane driver by failing to throw his lit cigarette butt out of the window, with it ending up in the seats instead. but the end proved worth it, as we found ourselves lounging on the beach, receiving shelter and food for $3 a day, playing endless backgammon, smoking shitty pot, scuba diving, and hanging out with the bedouin.
most of the place was basically a hippie haven. take your allowance and your birkenstocks, and go hang out in the heat for a few weeks. get some good diving in. it's where the cooler israelis went to hang out and get away from the daily bomb-laden grind. and now that's been fucked too. who do the bombers think they are screwing? sure the people they kill and their relatives (most of whom are probably against sharon anyway, after all they ignored his warnings not to go to sinai). but mostly it's the economy on that beautiful peninsula that is supported almost exclusively by tourist money, and their fellow arabs who will now have no way to feed their families. i suppose it's a good recruiting strategy - blame israel, make people desperate, and then recruit their kids into your shitty organization.
fuck you! what's mine is mine. fucking nihilists. you discredit your cause, your nation, and your religion, and no punishment is too great for you. and the rest of you fucking apologists! this is a problem that you, the arab and muslim people, have to fix. it's a cancer in your midst, and you hold the responsibility for making change happen. stop blaming everyone else, and deal with it. recover the name of islam and make it what you believe it to be.
Last night there was a bombing in the Sinai peninsula in Egypt, the home of some of my fondest travelling memories. Summer of 2000 we took a few days out of Israel to go down to this amazing, dirt cheap piece of red sea heaven. set off by red mountains on one side and the sea on the other, the coast is dotted with small resorts - tarabin, nueba, ras satan, and a few bigger ones like Taba and Sharm el Sheikh. We got there late one June night, crossing the border with our backpacks to the snickering of the Egyptian guards. What followed was the scariest cab ride ever, where Jordan agitated the already insane driver by failing to throw his lit cigarette butt out of the window, with it ending up in the seats instead. but the end proved worth it, as we found ourselves lounging on the beach, receiving shelter and food for $3 a day, playing endless backgammon, smoking shitty pot, scuba diving, and hanging out with the bedouin.
most of the place was basically a hippie haven. take your allowance and your birkenstocks, and go hang out in the heat for a few weeks. get some good diving in. it's where the cooler israelis went to hang out and get away from the daily bomb-laden grind. and now that's been fucked too. who do the bombers think they are screwing? sure the people they kill and their relatives (most of whom are probably against sharon anyway, after all they ignored his warnings not to go to sinai). but mostly it's the economy on that beautiful peninsula that is supported almost exclusively by tourist money, and their fellow arabs who will now have no way to feed their families. i suppose it's a good recruiting strategy - blame israel, make people desperate, and then recruit their kids into your shitty organization.
fuck you! what's mine is mine. fucking nihilists. you discredit your cause, your nation, and your religion, and no punishment is too great for you. and the rest of you fucking apologists! this is a problem that you, the arab and muslim people, have to fix. it's a cancer in your midst, and you hold the responsibility for making change happen. stop blaming everyone else, and deal with it. recover the name of islam and make it what you believe it to be.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
don't dubya up cheney
at the risk of repeating the same old argument, why isn't dick cheney running for president, with an idiot dubya for a vp? i mean at least he can communicate. at least he can make persuasive arguments and make up facts with authority. why is it that everyone just accepted that it's ok for a president (or a presidential candidate) to not be a good debater? if i am vying for the job of lead designer of the next supercomputer, how many people can i convince to let me do it by saying "well, i am not so good at math, but I am really good at making decisions." Isn't it one of the politician's main jobs to be able to convince others of their viewpoint? if not the only job?
say what you will about cheney, but he at least has the ability to respond to the opponent's line of reasoning, to attack. also, though likely this was a calculated action, i think the way he responded to the whole gay marriage thing was down right dignified - it seemed clear that he disagreed with bush on the issue, and he just left it at that.
i'd love to see kerry and rumsfeld debate. that would rule. or maybe ahren and aram. that would rule too.
say what you will about cheney, but he at least has the ability to respond to the opponent's line of reasoning, to attack. also, though likely this was a calculated action, i think the way he responded to the whole gay marriage thing was down right dignified - it seemed clear that he disagreed with bush on the issue, and he just left it at that.
i'd love to see kerry and rumsfeld debate. that would rule. or maybe ahren and aram. that would rule too.
Al Gore's Internet strikes again
'Cheney meant to cite FactCheck.org on another occasion during the debate but he got it wrong, and unintentionally steered Web surfers to a site run by the anti-Bush activist billionaire, George Soros. Cheney said "factcheck.com," when he should have used "org."'
I think after the e-bay claims and this, Dickey boy just needs to go back to his filing cabinets.
Friday, October 01, 2004
...that creep can roll
On wednesday night I attended a performance of the newly reformed, recongealed, reconstituted Colonel Claypool's Bucket of Bernie Brains, a.k.a. c2b3. Despite my traditional lazy ass late start, my financial irresponsibility came through once again as a $20 cab delivered me safely to the roxy, 2 blocks away from a t station, just as Bernie Worrel of P-Funk (that's Parliament Funkadelic to you, bitch) was gettin his groove thang going, signalling the preparations for the mothership liftoff. however, things were about to go horribly wrong.
enter the newly called up national guard reserve colonel claypool. for the first "song" he dons a rubber elvis hat and matching sunglasses and begins introducing creepy noises from his equally creepy looking bass. and when you hear creepy, you know who can't be far away - you guessed it, folks, the one and only, the man with 6 inch fingers, KFC's official rep to the underworld, BucketHead. In case his outfit was not weird enough, he put a nice little piece of funeral tape across the bucket.
FUNERAL
The noises continued filling the space over the already frenzied audience. from my vantage point to the side and above the stage i could see the evil brewing. finally brain, the drummer, came in to put a little order in the nonsense. put a beat around it and everyone will believe it's music. and we did.
just to top off the creepy build up the song concluded with an asian girl, dressed like one of those little anime girls with little antennas on her head, coming out to sing the closing "lyrics".
As the jam came to an end, claypool did that awesome thing that bass players do and started the run to righteousness. Buckethead was not far behind, and Brain kept them honest. Bernie just smoked cigarettes and looked cool - he'd "earned" it (doing all that acid).
The third song featured the reintroduction of the little asian girl - Gabby Lala, playing the weirdest looking instrument i had ever seen. It was like a guitar sitar weirdo thing, and she was great. her and buckethead did a pretty good duet for a while, and les came back with an upright, and they all had this great melodic pretty song. but i was not lulled into a false sense of security.
since i was becoming progressively more intoxicated, the later events blur into more of a melty experience. the highlights include claypool changing outfits a minimum of 5 times, buckethead wearing a much creepier than usual mask, claypool wearing a full ape mask while playing a bass with a drumstick and a lever, bernie clearly "wanting the funk", buckethead doing the robot, brain drum solo, buckethead playing with a rubber chicken, claypool's birthday celebration (he is 73, thank you albuquerque, new mexico), a star wars shred session by the bucket man, and a happy birthday funk jam kicked off by bernie, that sick old fuck, the most evil of them all, that doesn't have to do any work anymore - just wear good outfits and shake his dessicated head as the cigarette in his mouth further dilapidates the skin on his face.
fucking claypool, man...
enter the newly called up national guard reserve colonel claypool. for the first "song" he dons a rubber elvis hat and matching sunglasses and begins introducing creepy noises from his equally creepy looking bass. and when you hear creepy, you know who can't be far away - you guessed it, folks, the one and only, the man with 6 inch fingers, KFC's official rep to the underworld, BucketHead. In case his outfit was not weird enough, he put a nice little piece of funeral tape across the bucket.
FUNERAL
The noises continued filling the space over the already frenzied audience. from my vantage point to the side and above the stage i could see the evil brewing. finally brain, the drummer, came in to put a little order in the nonsense. put a beat around it and everyone will believe it's music. and we did.
just to top off the creepy build up the song concluded with an asian girl, dressed like one of those little anime girls with little antennas on her head, coming out to sing the closing "lyrics".
As the jam came to an end, claypool did that awesome thing that bass players do and started the run to righteousness. Buckethead was not far behind, and Brain kept them honest. Bernie just smoked cigarettes and looked cool - he'd "earned" it (doing all that acid).
The third song featured the reintroduction of the little asian girl - Gabby Lala, playing the weirdest looking instrument i had ever seen. It was like a guitar sitar weirdo thing, and she was great. her and buckethead did a pretty good duet for a while, and les came back with an upright, and they all had this great melodic pretty song. but i was not lulled into a false sense of security.
since i was becoming progressively more intoxicated, the later events blur into more of a melty experience. the highlights include claypool changing outfits a minimum of 5 times, buckethead wearing a much creepier than usual mask, claypool wearing a full ape mask while playing a bass with a drumstick and a lever, bernie clearly "wanting the funk", buckethead doing the robot, brain drum solo, buckethead playing with a rubber chicken, claypool's birthday celebration (he is 73, thank you albuquerque, new mexico), a star wars shred session by the bucket man, and a happy birthday funk jam kicked off by bernie, that sick old fuck, the most evil of them all, that doesn't have to do any work anymore - just wear good outfits and shake his dessicated head as the cigarette in his mouth further dilapidates the skin on his face.
fucking claypool, man...
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