Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Shut Down by The Man
Now and then over the past few months Muso has practiced in Josh and Parker's small room thingy that's detached from their apartment. All the neighbors have been cool except for the upstairs next-door folk. A garrulous and grating couple, they sit on their deck at all hours yell-speaking. The conversations alternate between their slavic-ish native tongue and English.

Two months ago, our practice was cut short by pounding and some indecipherable hollering which I imagine meant, "stop the racket, you damn kids!". So we went to talk to them to apologize and work out a compromise. The woman, who stood from her deck with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, would robotically say, "I am sick. You no play". Didn't matter if it was a question, statement, or the middle of a sentence spoken between other people. "I am sick. You no play".

The man proved easier to deal with. He finally agreed to let us play once a week at night, which we've done. Last week, however, he came a-poundin' again. And earlier this week, he didn't even need to, 'cause he let the cops do it. Fifteen minutes into practice, we opened the door to the po-po.

They were pretty nice, I guess. They did play the "We could go by the book and fine you $500 and confiscate your equipment... BUT, we'll let it slide this time" card, and also said something about how it's a person's right to call the cops if he perceives any kind of threat to his home. I'm not sure how we constitute a threat. I mean, have you seen us? We're dorks. And our music ain't exactly a call to arms. I mean, go on and televise the revolution. We just wannna rock.

Anyway, now we're on the lookout for one of those communal, pay-to-play places that's sure to be mutually inhabited by the dregs of the LA rock scene. So if our songs start featuring epic squealy guitar solos, you'll know why.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Things That Happened at Work Today
-54 year old Black Friend made very lewd comment about 16 year old intern.

-Old, short Jewish secretary (who moonlights regularly as a singer at Canter's) walked through the office with what had to be the Sunday paper tucked under her arm and announced, "Ya never know how long you'll be in the john!".

-Attorney returned from bathroom, furrowed brow in tow, and said "Somebody just took a crazy dump in there. Can you take care of that?" (In his defense, I was wearing my snazziest janitor's outfit).

(note: though the last two things happened hours apart and in different bathrooms, I'm not entirely convinced there isn't a cause and effect relationship).

-A boss walked into the break room solely for a riff-raff inspection, as he's prone to do (if there existed an organization of professional hall monitors, he would be their king). Sadly for him, all he found was me with my head on the table trying to nap.

Thursday, July 22, 2004

at least i'm cultured, dammit!
The summer intern was helping in the File Room today, shredding documents. This is something I usually do, but because I feel bad about hording all the fun, I let him have a go. He's eighteen, just graduated high school alongside the Olsen twins, and leaves for college in a month. So as he's sitting there throwing paper into the shredder, one of the secretaries walks in and says, "See, THIS is why you're going to college. So you won't ever have to do this job later in life". She then smiled and winked in a way that suggested, "now go get 'em, champ!". My two degrees and I sighed.

Monday, July 19, 2004

I had bitched in detail about why this one secretary at work sucks because she runs around like a just-beheaded chicken whenever the littlest thing goes wrong... and then blogger f'd me. Well, I might've had something to do with it. Okay, it was mutual f'ing. Hate f'ing. Long Story. Just know she sucks. If today weren't one of those determined-to-not-be-bitter-about-my-job days, I'd recreate. Just ain't worth it.

For now, my starry eyes are fixed on the possibility of attending my first red-carpeted, Mann's Chinese big movie premiere. I guess they can't give enough tickets away when even the writer gets special priveleges. I jest. I'm sure I'll be bumping elbows with mega stars. Actually, the potential for D List celebs makes it even more appealing.

In all seriousness, this is a pretty rad accomplishment for Matt. And just so we're clear, I fully intend to exploit our friendship and surf his coattails.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Junk Mail
The summer intern just returned from a leisurely vacation in Israel. He showed up to work dispensing all kinds of factoids. Jew this, Jew that, Middle Eastern conflict, blah blah. All this information paled to what he said about the customs of suicide bombers. Specifically, they wrap their penises in layer upon layer of gauze before striking. The idea is to preserve the package so that when the attacker arrives in the afterlife, it'll be intact and ready for the surplus of glorious virgins to fight over. Which makes me think that the so-called martyrs must be reeeaaaalllyyy desperate, and that suicide bombing is nothing more than the answering of a Divine booty call. Finally, religion makes sense to me. On a related note, I've just purchased my ticket to Hell. Bust out the gauze!

Thursday, July 08, 2004

There's one attorney at work who, ever since finding out I play drums, calls me into his office to monologue about his favorite band, Rush. If by chance you're not well-versed in cheesy '80s prog rock, Rush features one of the all-time greatest wankers ever to pound the skins. That's right, I'm talking Neal Pert, the man who turned the simple drum kit into a symphony of toms, cymbals, and completely unnecessary accessories -- does one really need wind chimes? They are a nice companion piece for the four kick drums, it's true. And let's be honest, a "regular" drum set does not allow for Neal's signature epic ten minute solos. I guess you can only admire a man with that much unabashed hubris.

So the conversations between the attorney and I usually consist of him discoursing on the wankery, why this solo's better than that one, how you've got to be a crazy person to think later Rush dominates early Rush, etc. Me, I grin a lot and interject the occasional "definitely", "he's so crazy", "whoa". I don't even try to explain why he sucks. I dreaded giving him a copy of my old band's CD, but he wouldn't let it go. "Hmm", he observed while listening. I'm sure he wondered why I wasn't totally going off in every song. If only I had discovered chimes back then.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Cushion Forts
So the one-act festival thing I was writing for ain't happening. For me, anyway. But other friends with means are interested in the play. Extending it into a full-length, no budget extravaganza, which despite how it may sound, could actually be really fun. The play makes a tall order for suspension of disbelief, anyway. I'm likening it to when you were a kid and had no money and were forced to make fun out of cushion forts...

Anybody? Cushion forts?

The 4th was spent in the Republican wet dream of Coronado. So many red, white, and blue outfits. T shirts, bathing suits, hats, jogging uniforms. And more rich white folk than you can shake a stick at. I suspect we would've seen more of America at its proudest had we not been sitting in someone's backyard all day drinking PBR and watching fireworks over the bay. (By the way, drunk people trying to paddle boat is highly entertaining).

We capped the three day weekend with a viewing of Top Gun, because Marah had somehow escaped it. Now, the homoerotic over/under tones have never been secret. But someone made the point that the story's a metaphor for one (very dangerous -- chompingly dangerous) man's journey into full-fledged homosexuality, which I decided is a nice way to define a sum of the movie's parts. Well done TG scribes. Well done, indeed.

And then, still drunk from two days ago, we crashed out at 9.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Weblog Commenting and Trackback by HaloScan.com