Gettin' harassed on the morning walk to work.

Nothing big, just realized I forgot to bring it up yesterday.
I live across the street from this convalescent joint, right? Every morning there are these older guys in windbreakers and WWI Veteran ballcaps slumped in the lawn furniture in the side yard. This really isn't a big deal. I mean, they're just sitting there; I'm aware they're sitting there, they're half-aware they're sitting there, whoopity-doo.
Until yesterday.
I'm walking along, doo-doo-doo-doo-doo, and out of nowhere, "Hey, boy! C'm' here, boy!" Pause. "Come here, boy!" Pause. "Boy!" Now I gotta wonder who he's talking to, 'cause look at me:
Do I look like a boy to you?
I am the only guy walking down the street, though, so I can only assume the old codger wanted my fresh, young man meat, but I keep walking and I light a smoke.
I get down to the corner and there's these two hobos coming in my direction from the right. The short, black one says to me, "Hey, you got another cigarette, playa?"
I says to him I says, "Naw, I gotta go get a pack." This of course is a lie, but I'm in the middle of stretching out a pack until Friday, and I have a pack a day habit. (Yeah, yeah, I got myself down to a half pack a day last winter and eventually only five or six a day, but that was last winter.)
The two transients keep walking along and the tall, lanky, white one with a walk that looks like he's broken his hip in ninety one places yells at me, "TWAT!"
Prepared for an altercation, I see these two turn their attention to the next guy walking down the block. Still, out of the hundreds of people who shoot them down on the cigarette request everyday, how am I the one that gets singled out as a twat? That's Steven's Square, for you.

Regarding yesterday's product review.

Yesterday, I took some of the new features in FLS8 to task, and a lot of them I still stand by. Two new plugins, the Maximus and Wave Candy, I was able to dig into more thoroughly.
The Maximus is actually much more than a multiband limiter. It comes armed with a pair of filters, a stereo-enhancer, and the ability to easily combine both expansion and compression capabilities, even going so far as to gate and limit. That's pretty damned flexible, and the dual releases actually help make things pretty smooth.
What makes it a little goofy, though, is that it is REALLY easy to go from transparent to painfully obvious, as well as jacking my CPU load up from somewhere in the comfortable realm of 17MB to 500MB to 700MB. Essentially, a project file's CPU usage that was once the size of an average record in MP3 format can now take up to the size of a full .avi file while running. It also throws my buffer all kinds of out of whack. Keep in mind, this is me running an FLS8 proprietary plugin in FLS7. As far as how it interacts in FLS8? I guess we'll find out soon enough, but I really don't have that much of a use for it, so this is where testing will end.
Wave Candy, which I said I dug in a sort of back-handed manner, is actually nice to keep around. In fact, I don't think I could have tested the Maximus without it. Sure, there's the Fruity Big Meter or whatever it is, but that thing was pretty limited as far as PPMs go. The Wave Candy, once you ignore all the bullshit stoner options, is a really nice scientific tool that even caught my girlfriend's eye. She normally zones out when I start talking about engineering, but was now intrigued, and if she can easily see the dynamic range and the saturation of certain frequencies then you can.
Wave Candy picks up all of Big Meter's slack. Where Big Meter (which wasn't that big) gave you an idea of where you were sitting dB wise with some tiny, indecipherable lines evenly spaced between strategically placed numeric indicators, Wave Candy's PPM clearly lays it out for you. It's like this: Big Meter told me I had +/-3dB dynamic range in a project that include momentary pauses of silence (Now, I know my noise floor is hardly as loud as -3dB.) where Wave Candy's PPM told me I had +/-7dB, and measured the noise floor at a more accurate (or really just believable) -30dB. I was sold at this point.
Were there other tests I could have run this through? Sure, I could have put the Spectrometer function up against Fruity Spectroman but what would have been the point? Spectroman is wee, and Wave Candy is big. Spectroman runs from bottom to top so you can read it from top to bottom, Wave Candy runs from right to left so you can read it from left to right. Spectroman runs in grayscale for mono and purple for stereo, and Wave Candy shows you frequency saturation with gradients of red through yellow sort of like the weather channel shows you how heavy the rain is with gradients of dark green through light green. That's pretty much it.
These two are actually really nice additions. The others, from yesterday? Yeah, still not changing my mind on those.

Yankees got off two runs in the ninth...

... but the Tigers still took 'em, 6 - 4; that puts us at 12 and 15, tied with Cleveland one game behind Minnesota. Two more games against the Yankees, and then they're back here to take on the Twins.
Yeah, I'm not much of a sports writer.

It's the bottom of the sixth...

... and the Tigers are handing the Yankees their asses to them, 6 - 2!
Keep it up team, three more innings and another game tomorrow night!

I'm sure plenty of thought went into this when they were making it utterly useless.

Last night, since I didn't accomplish anything, I was completely free and open to new information to permeate my soft, fleshy gray area. So what did I do? I watched all six episodes of This American Life, the popular NPR program that made it to Showtime and forced us to confront one of the greatest conundrums of the twenty first century square in the bespectacled eye: Why does Ira Glass look like Reed Richards had his way with my mother?
Anyway, my soft fleshy gray area is still an open receptacle after all of this information, and it's after all six episodes of This American Life that I stumble upon an interesting morsel of news: FLStudio 8 has been released.
For those of you unfamiliar with FLStudio, allow me to post the link to the least annoying page on their site. Dig any further and it will probably annoy you.
To be honest, the newest features in FLS8 aren't really all that hot.
First of all, you can display waveforms in the playlist window in stereo, which is a matter of all kinds of whoopity-freaking-doo. Look, if there's a weird noise coming out of the right speaker, it's bad enough you have to listen to it and probably have to rerecord something. What possible good can looking at the obtrusive little transient do?
Another big step forward in the evolution of our friendly Windows-proprietary DAW is that the little drop dwon menu on the left now features thumbnail icons next to the plugin names, so that big-assed compressor you're looking for? Great, now you have a microscopic blob of color next to the name that doesn't mean anything.
But the biggest additions (I'm hesitant to say "improvements") in FLS8 are some new plugins, which I will now attempt to explain in the nicest way possible.

Soundgoodizer. It's an enhancer-maximizer, which in this instance obviously means "treble maker".
Let's get educational for just a moment. The sonic-maximizer, as made by BBE, is a little device that to the unknowing eye is the same damned thing as an EQ. But where an EQ boosts and cuts particular frequencies, the sonic-maximizer houses an internal crossover and controls the phase relationship between the frequencies above and below said crossover. Basically, it doesn't control how loud frequencies are, but what time each group of frequencies reaches your ears.
Engineers don't like them, some guitarists hate them, and fewer guitarist swear by them. I fall in to the rarer category of "They're cool, but I wouldn't die if it crapped out on me".
The thing about BBE's sonic-maximizer though is that, while you don't have control over the crossover, you do have control over the delay times affecting the upper and lower bands. This is where the Soundgoodizer fails miserably, fails miserably like a light-weight with whiskey dick and beer goggles. While the FL crew is normally knob-obsessed, this time around they choose to give you just one knob which controls how much soundgoodizing you want done. Further, you are limited to four (and I swear to god if there is one that they actually wrote this) "chrome-plated" presets: A, B, C, D. None of which are described in the help manual for this plugin. I have no idea if these control phase relationships like a sonic-maximizer, stereo-width via polarity inversion like some stereo-enhancers, or what. Fuck this plugin, fuck it square in the face. OUT.
By the way, copyright infringement, anyone?

The original You Wa Shock by Red Shine Sound	The exact same fucking thing by FLStudio

Next up is Slicex. Slicex is pretty curious. It's supposedly some uber-drum-pattern-slicer-dicer, kind of like it's FL's answer to Digidesign's Beat Detective, but with editing capabilities akin to FL's Edison. I couldn't get Slicex to run in FLS7, which was fine by me this morning; I had to go to work anyhow and couldn't get caught up in doing a full on test run. I could edit my heart out, but I couldn't get the damned thing to play my oven-fresh loop edit. Since it wasn't working, I decided to check the blogosphere to see if there were any backwards compatibility issues.
It's like this, I didn't want to get the party line from the FL site and find out I have to pay through the nose, I wanted actual third party information from people who don't push product, and where else can I find that but in the wonderful world of blogs? After all, reading blogs saved me from having to buy a US$60 program from T-Mobile just to get the damned pictures off my phone. There's a lot of awfully helpful, informative, friendly, and educated people out there in the blogosphere who have nothing better to do than acts of humanitarianism with their free time, which, like me, they have too much of.
Turns out that Slicex gets rave reviews for drum editing, meaning being able to move drums around. Kind of like you can do in Edison. And the step sequencer. And piano roll. And the play list. YOU ALREADY HAVE FOUR OPTIONS FOR THIS!
One of the noted benefits of using Slicex, is that you no longer have to "cut and paste". Apparently the idiot who came up that shit wasn't aware that that is exactly how the interface with Slicex (like Edison) works. And I swear that I can not make this shit up, in fact, in the interest of tast and human decency, I probably wouldn't: "You can add reverb to an individual drum!"
...
...
...
...
My fucking brain just melted, do you have any got-damned idea how asinine that sounds?
Slicex essentially uses slicing abilities like FL's own Fruity Slicer / Digidesign's Beat Detective, an internal step sequencer identical in most ways to FL's step sequencer save for the hit buttons are arranged in black and white like piano keys, Edison's GUI, and, like most things FLS, more knobs than you need. An attractive, Star Trek themed GUI and some nice features I can find, well, anywhere else do not make up for the fact that my learning curve is already geared towards performing all of Slicex's functions the hard way, and probably more efficiently. OUT.

Our next contender? Synthmaker, which is the exact same COPYRIGHTED thing as Synthedit. I've yet to put this thing through every conceivable bass-ackwards test I put Synthedit through, but it looks like fun. IN.

Maximus, a multiband mastering limiter. This could be handy. IN. That's about it, I mean, it's more or less an update on the Multiband Compressor, another mastering tool from FLS which has been around since V5? V6? The only difference? One of the fancy new FLS8 GUIs and a dual release. Wow. Two, um... releases. Yeah. Oookkkaaayyy, moving on.

The clear winner out of this batch? Oh, the good people over at FL are going to hate me for this, but it's Wave Candy. You know what it is? A Swiss Army analyzer, basically: An oscilloscope, a spectral analyzer, and a peak meter; everything you need to "watch" your music.
As if having a group of actual scientific tools at your disposal was enough, there's also a number of selectable color palettes or some such other dumb-assed horseshit available for you to sit there and zone out to, kind of like they're catering to the crowd that misses being able to put a CD into their Playstation and hit select.
Could I live without this plug? Yes. Will I willingly get rid of it? Probably not. IN. It's not as though it's eating up a bunch of CPU or RAM or whatever the hell else these things eat up, it just sits there and happily bops along. Maybe that's what they could do, is add a function to get cute, portly, smiling, little, faux-Asian blorbs reminiscent of Kirby to jump up and down in time with the music.* I'd probably watch that. For maybe something like, I don't know, two minutes.

New bedroom.

Yesterday, I helped George rearrange the bedroom furniture. Whoopity-doo, right?
I did get some more recording done on Saturday after I posted the blog.
Sunday? Yeah, I know, I neglected to report on the recording, primarily because the recording setup is nearly second nature now; same setup as always.
What's left to be done:

1. Sequencing, or whatever the technical term is for "putting the songs in the order that they're supposed to be".
2. Art, which can't be done until the track list is set.
3. Oh, and a title for the damned thing. Possible choices include:

• Days Without Eating
• Sex Without Condoms Feels Better
• The White Pigeon
• A Pox On Your House

Remember to cast your votes, kids, both for the title and what records I can get rid of.
Ooh, and because the Tigers' website didn't crash Firefox this time when I opened it, I can tell you that Saturday we took the As 6 - 4, Sunday we handed them a 2 - 6 win, and we're sitting at 11 and 15 for the season right now. Tomorrow night, our Tigers take on the Yankees at 1905EST, so all you Tigers fans out there, send 'em some Detroit and Ypsilanti mojo and play some MC5 and Stooges really fucking loud. Call some Yankees pitchers at their home numbers and crank "Ramblin' Rose" or "No Fun" through the phone. That'll show 'em.

It's Flier Time Again!

First Show As soon as Joe, Mike and I had our shit together, I immediately propositioned Hubbcap about doing a show. I think it was Andy I talked to because his girlfriend, Nikki, worked booking and bartending at Checker's, which was the toothless NASCAR bar on the south end of BG that occasionally hosted metal shows when the hipsters took too many liberties with Howard's Club H, which was pretty fucking often. Completely done by hand.
Second Show, Unused This was my then-girlfriend's favorite flier at the time, but, in all honesty, I only just finished it this morning. The little heads in the circles? Yeah, those are a pain in the ass to make and squeeze in. Enough so that I needed a computer to do them. Everything but the little heads and the text was done by hand.
Unused, Unfinished Yes, that's a hermaphrodite with a scimitar. My then-girlfriend always hated when ever there was a depiction of men in dominating positions over women, and I was sick of the BG flier aesthetic of half-naked anime women; in order to avoid an argument with my old lady and weird-out the hipsters, I drew a hermaphrodite. Completely done by hand.
Later used as the cover of IO - The Kilowatt Hour But you'll never own a copy of it because I still think it sucks. This handsome character is supposed to be my take on Beta Ray Bill, this crazy goat looking motherfucker from the Marvel Comics Thor Universe. He's actually pretty fucking creepy looking; I don't know if my interpretation does him any justice. Completely done by hand.
Fourth Show This was actually a flier idea I had for years, as far back as the Straightaways, actually. Bob and Karl thought I was fucking deranged and should just stick to drawing fliers with vampires and amputees and shit, which was a particularly boring prospect. The list of bands on this flier, though, are all just a little bit fucked up and forward thinking enough to really fucking dig it. Scot T saw it and immediately said he wanted to cover an entire wall with multiple copies of this. Completely done by hand, which was more of a bitch than you can imagine.

The Minnetonka City Planning Commission Clusterfuck, Daver the Hater, and Revisiting a Fan Favorite

In reference to the Spring Cleaning/MP3 Erase-O-Rama, Dave said...

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Really? Oh, c'mon.

I know I'm the guy who thinks every band has something to offer, but come on, these guys are dog shit.

Saturday, April 26, 2008 4:43:00 AM CDT

I think the more important thing is why were you awake at a quarter to five on a Saturday?
I stand by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs record.

Anyway, yes, yes, yes, Minnetonka, Minnetonka. Now that I can look back and laugh a little... Well, no. I can't. Motherfuck MetroTransit.
I'm still pissed and my head still hurts, but the headache is probably from the wine I drank last night because yes, I turn to alcohol for comfort. I just do it less often, anymore. Back to the point, or at least getting to it, I was pissed off enough that I wanted to email my ex-girlfriend, that's an example of the scope of people whom I felt should immediately know about this clusterfuck.
Before we go any further, I have a disclaimer:

What you are about to read is not in any way, shape, or form in chronological order except for the beginning and the end. The middle is all fucked up, and it's hard to keep track of the order of the events when you have no idea where the fuck you are up to your ankles in gooseshit.

So, I swear to god, the bus driver calls out, "Wayzata" while we're on Ridgedale, because I saw the street sign that said, "Ridgedale", and, if you follow logic, that means I'm on Ridgedale. Well, I need to go to the corner of Ridgedale and Wayzata, so when the bus driver says, "Wayzata", I do what anybody would do and I pull the cord to get off, and because I asked the bus driver about dropping me off at the corner of Wayzata and Ridgedale, when he doesn't say anything to me regarding my departure, I can only assume that I am where I need to be.
It is after I deboard and the bus is easily a half block away with that jack ass's driving abilities, that I see, to my horror, that I am at the corner of Wayzata and Tonka. Somehow, the road sign that said, "Ridgedale" was now null and void. We were on Wayzata when the bus driver called out, "Wayzata" at the stop on Wayzata at the crossing of Tonka.
Tonka.
The job interview at this point doesn't start for another half hour, and the street number of the building I'm in front of is 10 something something something. I need to be at 12450. I figure, "Okay, two more blocks".

No. Eeehhhhhh. Wrong, Charlie. You need to be at 12450 MOTHER RIDGE FUCK BULLSHIT DALE and you are at 10 something or other blah blah blah WAYZATA.

The coping mechanism has obviously kicked in early and my brain is glossing over facts as thoroughly and swiftly as any inquisitioned republican since the twin terrors of Watergate and the Cold War, and I start walking along like Bill Bixby at the end of every episode of the Incredible Hulk ever made. It should be noted, that there are no sidewalks in this area of Minnetonka meaning I've got to walk on the grass, which wasn't so bad at first...
Sure, it was a bit chilly, it was drizzling, and I clearly had no clue what I was doing, but I had a half hour and it was only two blocks away. WRONG!
So things are going smoothly, or at least the numbers are ascending, meaning I'm going in the right direction. WRONG!
As the numbers keep ascending, the earth becomes softer, soggier, as supple as a seventeen year old's unsuckled breast, and as vehemently venomous and violently absorbative as a jellyfish. And I fucking hate jellyfish*. It's at this point that I'm glad I didn't get the PF Flyers, because I'll be damned if I'm going to fuck up US$60 shoes. I'm getting pissed off as it is that my US$30 Canvas Cons are getting fucked up. A new pair, not the old ones.
And it's as I'm getting sucked into the loving earth to meet the great god Hypnos that a funny thing happens. No, really, trust me, this shit's hilarious. The road JUST FUCKING ENDS.
Thankfully, it ends at a MetroTransit Park & Ride Terminal. So I go inside and whip out my cellphone and call the temp agency and tell them, "Hey, I'm going to be a little late, [explanation why I'll be late, which is the above story thus far without the vulgarity], but I really have no idea where I am."
Whoever the squeaky-voiced matron on the other end of the line is this time, she says, "Okay, I know right where you are. You see the 394 West exit? Now you're going to want to take that-"
"Um. I'm kind of on foot."
"Right, so you just want to take the 394 West exit... [and this is where shit starts to get blurry] ...Ridgedale Shopping Center... [there are two of them from my vantage point] ...and you'll see the Sports Authority? We're right across the freeway from that."
Okay, so what have we established?

1. I can see the 394 West exit, but I can't take it.
2. They don't listen.
3. I have to find the Sports Authority and then find a way to get directly across the freeway from the Sports Authority.

I can only assume, at this point, that the general direction of west is located in the general direction of the sign indicating the 394 West exit. Outside of that, I know nothing, which is a pretty close approximation of how much I know, anyhow. I should be feeling pretty good by that logic; I'm par for the course.
This doesn't change that I'm lost and the Chipettes over at the right staff haven't exactly paid attention to a got-damned thing I've said so far.
Fuck all y'all, I'm calling in back up. I'm calling George. George has access to the internet. And you know what's on the internet? Maps. Isn't that right, Dave?
So, I've already been moving in the aforementioned general direction that what's-her-fuck told me to move in when I tell Georgie exactly where I'm at.
"What's the number?" She asks.
"12450 Ridgedale," I say, "I'm at the corner of [whatever the fuck it was this time] and [whatever the fuck that other one was]."
"I don't see a bus stop anywhere near there. What's the number?"
"I don't have time to catch a bus, I just need to know which way to go."
"Right, so what's the number?"
"12450," I says to her I says again.
"I'm not seeing a route for that," she tells me.
"Well, the bus was supposed to drop me three blocks from there."
"From where?"
"ONE TWO FOUR FIVE ZERO," I'm irritated now.
"Oh, that's a building number?"
"What the fuck did you think I was talking about?"
"I thought you were giving me the bus number."
"Why would I give you the bus number?"
"That's what I was wondering..."
By this point, I'm in the middle of one of now several Ridgedale Shopping Centers having turned around as I more or less ignored half of what Georgie was telling me anyhow (really, try to get a simple yes/no answer out of her on the phone without a preamble that includes three minutes of silence) while Georgie is switching from metrotransit.org to googlemaps
At this point, shit gets blurry again. Something about going west.
"I don't know where west is," I say.
She says, "Well, you see the freeway? That runs north and south-"
"But I don't know which lane is north and which lane is south, therefore I don't know where the fuck west is." That much I remember, because this sequence was repeated at least twice more in this phone conversation, and would be repeated several more times through out the hour.
I also remember that Georgie got unusually verbose now and I had to end things with the plea that I had already used probably four times: "Can I please hang up now and ask a local where the fucking Sports Authority is!?"
Which I did. And he told me. And it looks like we've come to the end of our story...

NOT SO FAST MOTHERFUCKERS!

No! We're still going!
I see the damned Sports Authority, but I remember I'm supposed to go across the freeway from the Sports Authority. The problem is that I'm now at the corner of Wayzata and Ridgedale where I was supposed to get dropped off at in the first damned place! Well, I can go down Wayzata under the overpass, which I do, to find I'm at the intersection of Wayzata and Ridgedale!
Go ahead try to follow that: From the corner of Wayzata and Ridgedale, I walk a block down on Wayzata away from Ridgedale to come to the corner of Wayzata and Ridgedale.
Fuck it, I'm calling George, whom I see has left me a text message: "Text me t bus number." This was received by me at 1328CST, twenty eight minutes after my interview was supposed to begin.
Now, this is obviously where shit gets really blurry.
We have learned that there are now two intersections for Wayzata and Ridgedale. We know that there aren't any damned sidewalks. We know it's raining. We know George wants the bus number. What we don't know?
There are geese. Geese everywhere. And where there are geese, there's gooseshit.
This means my new Canvas Cons, that I wore on the assumption that I would depart from a bus directly to a warm, dry, carpeted office, are now covered in mud and gooseshit.
From Georgie's directions, I'm supposed to be near a few things. I should see a lake. I see three lakes. Which one should I walk around? Well, only one lake is on the map so I should walk around that one, but there are no signs on the real lakes that indicate which lake is the one on the map.
Also, the umpteenth Ridgedale Shopping Center I've encountered should be on my left. It's on my right. I should follow this Ridgedale Shopping Center on my left to the YMCA. If you anagram YMCA you get MACY, and there's a Macy's on my right. Is that it? No, I need to follow the shopping center on my left to the YMCA. The problem is exacerbated by that the shopping center is still on my right, but now I've found the YMCA.
I keep going that way until I come across a building numbered 12455-12501. This is on the left. Across the street is the shopping center which spans quite a number of sidewalkless blocks, so that's not 12450. Further down I see a building. With the rain all over my glasses, it's not until I'm halfway to the door that I see this is 12601. Great, I've gone too far, so I turn around, going back to the YMCA.
Georgie says googlemaps is saying that I haven't gone far enough. By the logic of street numbers, though, logic that the Minnetonka city planners have chosen to ignore anyhow, I've gone too far.
And it's while I'm now back between the twin intersections of Wayzata and Ridgedale that it happens. It finally happens. The kind of shit you see happen in sitcoms: Some cocksucker drove too close to the curb and...SHIT GODDAMNIT SONOFABITCH FUCKING COCKSUCKER MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE JESUS CHRIST YOU FUCKING PRICK ASSHOLE COCKSUCKER GODDAMNIT!!!
This happens to be while George is on the line. I was able, thankfully, restrain myself enough to prevent her from having to hear the whistle of air and clanking of broken glass. Seriously, I wanted to fuck that guy's car up real bad like.
How about another quick recap?

1. I'm lost.
2. I'm cold.
3. My glasses are covered in rain.
4. My sexy pants (that's right, I wore the sexy pants) are drenched with gutter water.
5. My shoes are covered in mud and gooseshit.
6. I'm forty five minutes late for my interview.

I call the temp agency back. Again. I tell them exactly where I'm at. They tell me I need to get over to Frontage Rd and go past Frontage Rd to the corner of (you guessed it) Wayzata and Ridgedale and look for the Sports Authority and go to the Sports Authority, not, as I had been told before, across the freeway from the Sports Authority. This new, though similarly squeaky-voiced woman, thankfully avoided such abstract concepts as "west" which I would've been able to find if I could follow the sun like the Indians or some shit, save for the fact that it was overcast. Turns out the office is not across the freeway, but in a building next to the Sports Authority.
Three story office building. Brown brick. Big banner on the front that says, "Enroll Today".
Boom. I understand that. This, I understand. Understanding is flooding back into my frontal lobe. Understanding is understood.
So I get into the building, locate suite 200, walk in, and it's just milfapalooza in there. Women in their mid thirties to early forties, some work done, squeaky voices, faint Minnesotan accent coming through in a bit of lilt; I was too tired to be turned on though. I had been walking in circles for an hour at this point.
So they give me a cup of water and a number of tests. On numeric and alphanumeric data entry I scored something like 6700 keystrokes in three minutes, which they said was really good. I scored I think it was 80% Beginner and 50% Intermediate at Excel, and something like 40-some-odd% Beginner and 91% Intermediate at Word. So, now I'm feeling pretty good about myself. Pretty women telling me how good I am? C'mon, of course my first inclination is to want to rub one out.
What I'm forgetting, however, is that I have to go back outside to catch another bus. I get down to the appropriate corner of Wayzata and Ridgedale. Minneapolis being east of Minnetonka, I figure I'll wait right here at the bus stop facing 394 East. Georgie is on the phone telling me that I have about four minutes to get to the YMCA to catch the bus. I tell her that there is no way in hell I can get to the YMCA in ten minutes and that so far, googlemaps has helped me do dick all, metrotransit.org can suck my fucking dick, too, NO, I am standing right the fuck here at the bus stop at the corner that I was supposed to get off at in the first got-damned place facing the exit for 394 East, because Minneapolis is east.
"Well, all I have to go on is the Metro Transit website, and they're saying you need to get on the one at the YMCA."
"NOPE, I'm standing right fucking here and waiting for the bus; I'm not listening to the internet anymore today," I say.
"Right. It's just that the site says you have to get on at the YMCA."
"NOPE. I'm at a bus stop, if it's not the right one, I'll go across the street to the one that goes in the other direction," I tell her.
George says okay, and sure enough here comes a bus, the 675D. The driver stops, opens the door, and I ask, "Are you going to Minneapolis?" The woman getting off the bus tells me that I want the stop across the street. I thank her and go across the street, light a smoke, and sure enough, 675D Express/Minneapolis comes along.
I get home by 1700CST and George shows me the googlemap she had to work with. The multiple Wayzata and Ridgedale crossings are nonexistent. There is indeed only one lake. One loop by the freeway is spatially incorrect. Yesterday's lesson? FUCK GOOGLE MAPS.
I got the job, by the way, and then Georgie bought a bottle of wine.

Earlier, you may recall I used an asterix. Well, here's your footnote, motherfucker.

JELLYFISH DO NOT DESERVE TO LIVE.
A Rant submitted to Blogger on Saturday April 26, 2008, originally published on Tuesday, April 24th 2007, no shit.
by Charlie (you don't need to know my last name)

Jellyfish don't deserve to live. I don't understand how they can. How the fuck do they even know they exist? They don't have any damned brains. If we subscribe to the statement by Descartes, "I think, therefore I am," than clearly an animal (if we can even call it that) without a brain is not. It doesn't think, therefore it is not. How the fuck does that thing even know when it's hungry? It aint got no damned stomach,it doesn't even have a mouth, and if doesn't have those things, then it certainly doesn't have to poop, but if it doesn't eat it will die, but if it eats it has to poop because if it doesn't poop that means that it's defying an essential law of physics that states clearly that matter cannot be created or destroyed. Even if you burn a log you get equal amounts of matter in smoke and ash and creosote and whatnot. So what the fuck is the jellyfish doing then? How the fuck does it respire? No fucking lungs, no fucking gills, I call bullshit on the jellyfish. These little bastards have reeked so much havoc on good-natured common sense with their shenanigans (that's right, I'm calling BULLSHIT and SHENANIGANS) that I could give a fuck less if they ever went extinct. Why isn't the jellyfish extinct? There are no males, no females, no sex organs, how do jellyfish make little baby jellyfish. That's right. I'm 26 years old and I'm asking where babies come from. There's no logical reason that these things should be reproducing. And on top of that, why the fuck do I gotta give someone a golden shower when they get stung by these little motherfuckers? What the hell is a jelly fish doing stinging anybody? It has no method of perceiving threat or prey; does it have a little nonexistent laugh to itself when it stings somebody knowing that somebody else will have to pee on the victim? The CIA really ought to be looking at the jellyfish for some sort of psychic-covert-ops research, because these little bastards are just all kinds of screwed up in the fuck.
Okay, wait, I was wrong. Look at this:

ITS MOUTH IS ITS ANUS!
Say it with me now!

WHISKEY!

TANGO!

FOXTROT!

What on god's green earth is that!? Its fucking mouth is its got-damned anus! That's some bullshit. Basically I'm expected to believe that this thing is just some floating stomach that will poison the fuck out of you with its bullshit-assed stinging tentacles that just hang there. They just hang there. You want to know how to avoid a jellyfish attack? MOVE TO THE FUCKING LEFT! Or right, it really doesn't matter, it's a fucking stomach for crying out loud, it doesn't even know your ass is there. Tell me, where do you see a brain in that picture? It doesn't know what the fuck is going on, it doesn't even know that it ought to know what's going on, IT DON'T KNOW JACK SHIT! It's not self-aware in the least, yet, somehow, people are dying from jellyfish-stinger-poisoning. TAKE ONE STEP IN ANY OTHER DIRECTION, shit-for-brains, it won't know. It can't know. It's just a stomach, it shouldn't even capable of locomotion for Christ's sake. It's not like it's really going to come after you anyhow, and if it does, sorry: You deserve to die if you can get an animal with no thought processes to speak of pissed off. That's why I don't fuck around with jellyfish. Them bastards are scary. Now dolphins and squids and octopi, baby, those animals are cool. The electric eel? Cool. The jellyfish? FUCK. THAT.

Spring Cleaning Episode 3

The fourth fatality:

Snow Patrol, "Spitting Games"
C'mon, we all knew it had to go.

Spring Cleaning Episode 2

The third fatality:

Kelly Clarkson, "Since U Been Gone"
Really, was I on fucking meth? Look at that shit; "u" instead of "you". Pshaw.

Spring Cleaning Episode 1

The first two recordings to leave the realm of my hard drive:

Deftones, Adrenaline
Deftones, Around the Fur
Remember, you still have time to cast your vote for what stays and what goes, and you can find your scavenger hunt list here. Hurry before my judgment gets to it before you have a chance!
I'll tell you about how fucked up Minetonka is, tomorrow. Trust me on this one, it's fucked up.

Update 4/25/08 Charlie's Ukrainian Mail Order Bride Fundraiser

This week we're dealing with forty eight women, and I'm all dressed up for them. You see, I have a job interview today and I had to prepare, so the beard is trimmed into a pleasing geometric and symmetrical shape, the hair is currently drying, and I went ahead and got laid last night to relieve tension, but we can pretend that I got all gussied up to meet our prospective brides. Let's get started, shall we? LET'S GET RID OF THE BLONDES.
Well, we've actually cut the inbox down by half, meaning four dozen are now two dozen. You know what we have to do now; LET'S GET RID OF THE BORING ONES.
I get that you guys don't want to sit here while I do some math and pretend to be a misogynist xenophobe, so here, let's pick a random bride whose pics we can pick on. Hmm... Elena.
I don't know how much Japanimation you've watched (Yes, I know the PC term is "anime", but that word sucks. "Anime", to me at least, is etymologically linked solely to the word "animation", as it is the first three syllables of the word. This does not, however, denote any country of origin, as even in Japan the term refers to any and all animation. The definition of "anime" as we Westerners know it, is strictly a Western invention / appropriation of the term. Don't believe me? Wikipedia it, bitch. 1, 2), but Elena has that look that so many Japanimated women tend to have: flawless skin, hard and geometric nose, long neck, bangs down to the brow, half naked... everything but those huge, inhuman eyes, and even there we can make an exception because the eyes in this instance do expose a good amount of white and big honking corneas. Because I'm bored and because why the fuck not and because who hasn't ever wanted to nail a cartoon (Don't lie. You know what you did to your mother's terricloth bathrobe while looking at a picture of Daphne in a Scooby-Doo comic book.), we're going to give her a pass. For now.

• Okay, look at this. Is she being propped up by a plank?
• This one? Creepy eyes, kind of reminds me of Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula.
• Then there's one of my biggest pet peeves, lying about your age. Does she look twenty two to you?

Well, we're down to eight after this week's cavalcade of mediocrity, let's move on to phase three: LET'S GET RID OF THE UGLY SHOES.
Nina. Nina Nina. Nina Nina Nina. Nina, sweety, hard plastic cerulean blue clogs with four inch heels are not a fashion statement, they're a conscious social decision. Now, you're a twenty three year old white bartender; you're undoubtedly popular with the gentleman patronage of your establishment, why would you want to go and ruin that by making the decision to willingly make your feet look like one of those mandrill's noses? You and Olyesa, who has apparently taken to wearing money on her feet, are out.
After all the commotion has died down and the dust has settled, we're left with a half dozen hopefuls, including our aforementioned anime girl. We all know what needs to be done now: PLAN 9.

• Daria is 19. Daria's reminding me of somebody, but it's not coming to me. She is both unemployed and drunk. OUT.
• Another Marina means another boat parking lot. Yeah, yeah, I beat that joke to death the first time, when it wasn't funny. This Marina is a Lecturer, meaning that when I fuck up, I've got to hear a speech about it. On top of that, she's a single mom. OUT.
• Elena the Business Owner has mannish features and I'm okay with that. She's got a strong jaw and horrible taste in hats. Since hats are not shoes, she's IN.
• Elena the Salesperson looks like a cartoon. OUT.
• Inessa the Web Designer has a horrible introductory photo that doesn't do her or her ass justice. Really, it's a fucking chore to look at, like Square Pegs era Sarah Jessica Parker. Outside of that lapse of judgement, I'm sure that she looks like somebody I would enjoy coitus with. IN.
• Nataliya the Designer looks like the in between point on a scale from Michelle Trachtenberg to my old roommate Renate. That would be awkward. OUT.

Let's meet our Dynamic Duo:

Elena the Business Owner keeps it short and sweet. Straightedge, 5'4", 108lbs. and has this to say: "I am interested in a man, who leads healthy and active life style and is occupied with sports!" Lady, I have trouble keeping up with the Tigers on a regular basis. Walking down to the bodega to get a pack of squares is about as much exercise as I get. Sorry, Elena; look on the bright side, though, half of all private business startups in the US fail.

Inessa is also straightedge, 5'6", 116lbs. Her English... it needs some work. The thing is, she doesn't come and say anything stupid, just a typo or a misused word here and there; nothing near as funny as "I hate lice" from a few weeks back. The gist of her profile? She's looking for a tour guide / chauffeur. Honey, I don't have a car.

Obviously, there are no clear winners this week, meaning I got all dressed up for nothing. This should not, however, prevent you doing the right and good thing: SEND MONEY.

Recent Loves

Shellac, "The End of Radio" BBC Sessions: I get a little choked up whenever I hear this version. Essentially, Shellac had already written this song and it had become a staple in the live show before John Peel of BBC Radio 1 died. The song takes on a new meaning as they play it on the program, omitting no lines, but adding a quote here and there from Peel, making this a fitting eulogy and celebration of the guy who championed punk, grunge, noise, industrial, and just about every other little genre of music that would ever craze the masses, before ginormous groups of people got into them.

	White Zombie, Gods on Voodoo Moon: The first White Zombie record from 1985 is a surprising little treat. First of all, it's not metal. The drums are simple but groove in a manner like the Birthday Party era Phil Calvert learning to play drums by watching 60s stripper exploitation flicks, the guitar does an occasional Black Sabbath deh-neh-neh-deh-neh bit here and there between jumping in and out of Sex Pistol mode, Sean Yseult's bass work has its Stooges moments (one song sounds easily like it was born of the same family as "Dirt"), and, perhaps most shockingly, Rob Zombie sings in a nasally voice (without his trademark bark) that evokes the Damned, the Buzzcocks, and Johnny Rotten. On top of all this, it's just completely drenched in echo. "King of Souls" reminds me of Violent Femmes' "Add It Up" with fuzz boxes. Play this record for your friends and make them guess who it is.
	ABBA, "Dancing Queen" and "Fernando": Yeah, everybody loves these two, there's a reason for that, y'know.
	Paul Anka, "Put Your Head on my Shoulder": Paul Anka was not a good looking man, or at least I hope that was a model they put on the cover of the 7", but he knew what every good date-rapist should know: How. To seal. The deal. Homely looking guy with a big schnoz + velvety smooth baritone-tenor voice + lyrics about love and tenderness = ladies' defenses are down. After all, how could he possibly have any sort of sex drive? He's so sweet, he's so sensitive, and he's got a honker like Cyrano De Bergerac, there's no possible way he could have a lustful, sexual beast clawing at his insides to get out and fuck the living daylights out of everything that moves. (It is a classical misunderstanding that ugly men don't want to get laid. As one of these men, let me attest that this is certainly not the case.) He's no Neal Sedaka, but, man, fuck Neal Sedaka; it's all about Paul Anka. And if your mental cinema doesn't conjure up some sort of twisted horror movie scene with this song on, you've never seen American Werewolf in London, or at least you saw it and you didn't pay attention to a fucking thing that was going on.

It's back to business as usual.

I'm running short on time this morning. All that really happened yesterday was that I got a call for an interview with a temp agency in Minnetonka.
More importantly, though, kids, go ahead and take a look at my mp3s, and this time, really take your time to indiscriminately tell me what I can get rid of. There are 165 recordings (LPs, EPs, singles) over seven pages, I'm sure you'll be able to spot a dozen or more that look to you as though I've dropped the ball when it comes to human decency. Go ahead and leave a comment with your top (or bottom, as it were) picks and tell me what the hell I can get rid of.
You'll get extra points for also commenting on your rationale for each decision, "extra points" in this case meaning I'll put your comment right in the blog body and you'll get ye olde orange text treatment based on my level of dis/agreement.
I'm going to go poop, now.

AMENDMENT: There are now 155 mp3s. Hurry kids, before they're all gone!

Coming to you live from an unexpected day off.

What is today? Tuesday the twenty second? Why in hell is the office closed, today? Go ahead and look it up on Wikipedia; does anything there look like it's worth taking a day off for? No, it's because the supervisors claim that things will be too hectic today what with hosting a focus group for physicians, that's why my department is closed.
With all this, is it any wonder why I've doubled my efforts in the job search? I can't wait for monster.com, job.com, careerbuilder.com, or any of the other .coms I've become a member of to pop up with anything close to a "dream position" or whatever other happy malarkey you want to use to describe suitable employment, precisely because the only employer to contact me through these sites was John Deere, and that was just to get me to go to the annual John Deere job conference in Sacramento. Or was it San Diego?
First of all, has anything I've ever typed here indicated that I have the kind of money necessary to go to a job fair in California?
Secondly, let's take a gander at what my qualifications are: This, this, and this*. Does any of that shit look like it could be easily associated with a got-damned combine!?
Look, I need a real job. My job now? Yeah, it was cool when I was in school: Few responsibilities, flexible schedule, my girlfriend would float me... But now, I've been out of school for nearly a year; I need an actual adult job. I'm twenty seven years old for fuck's sake, it's about time I had one.
Later on, I'm thinking 'round-about noon, I'm going to waltz on down to the post office and get next month's student loan payment taken care of, and hope to god that Sallie Mae doesn't goof this one up like they did the one back in November, when they apparently had someone on the collections staff that couldn't tell the difference between a 2 and a 3, thus shorting my payment by US$1 and then never telling me about it until I call up looking for tax information.
Dumb asses.
Under normal conditions, I would fight this. These so-called "normal" conditions would be if things were simply as they said, which was that I owe a late fee of US$1 when my payments have been processed anywhere from one to three weeks before due date. But you see, it's not normal. Six months ago, somebody goofed up reading the good Arabic numerals we've been using since the founding of this country, and couldn't get it into their soft skulls that that extra loop on the bottom of the digit indicates that that number is a 3. The records, knowing Sallie Mae, are probably lost to the annals of time, filed away in the same storage space the US Government used to house the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark, never to be found again except by use of some strange combination of the Dewey Decimal system, hexi-decimal location, geo-coordinate positioning, and motherfucking Kreskin. This will effectively take four to five months of constant phone calls to settle the dispute, and lets keep in mind we're discussing US$1. Is it really worth it?
Probably not.
In other news: Go rent Lars and the Real Girl. You might think it's going to be one of those raunchy-yet-sweethearted Judd Apatow style flicks, but it's actually very deep and touching; well worth watching. If you don't get a little choked up at a few of the scenes, you were probably born an adult, you heartless, joyless bastard.

* Interestingly, google image search, of course with the safe search off, brings this up when you search for "1176".

AMENDMENT: There is a good reason to take today off; today is Bettie Page's birthday! Happy birthday, Bettie! You crazy, Jesus loving, husband knifing, pinup modelling octogenarian icon, you. Bettie turns eighty five today, so ladies, get out the fetish gear and cut your bangs; fellas, take that long shower. It's Bettie's birthday, let's do it up right!

They've got alligators there.

Scheduled city: Tallahassee, FL
Actual city: Panacea, FL
Distance differential: 30 Miles
Previous City ~ Next City
Holy shit, stop everything. Somebody realistic is posting. Someone tell me why you have to be in your forties before you have your shit together. I have put my favorite line in bold.

who wants to jam............? (panacea)

---

Reply to: comm-xxxxxxxxx@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-20, 3:01PM EDT


I begin working in Tallahassee at the beginning of May. I will be living in Panacea. I would like to meet some musicians to play with. I have a drum set, electric and acoustic guitars, mandolin, bass and amps, harmonicas and a kazoo......i like bluegrass, rot gut blues, What-what blues? funk, country (not the modern garbage, no offense None taken) rock etc......I am 42 years old, have no delusions of fame, No shit. playing out isn't an objective at this point, Okay. just meeting some decent players. Fair enough. I am not a "pro" with "pro" gear and all that horse manure, Ooh, you beat me to it. but i can play and hold my own. Let me know, I am open to many dimensions of music. Not really interested in being a classic rock band, Needle in a haystack, I tell ya. though I do enjoy playing some classic rock. Drop me a line, we can take it from there. 420 and libation friendly, though not necessary.

• Location: panacea
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 649466679

Sampling, Harmonicas, and Naked Astronauts

Yesterday, because I was bored, I figured, "Hey, why don't I just do something completely fucking lame!?"
My plan: Sampling. The end result was ugly, but the act was necessary.
You see, I can play recorder, but my recorder is so old and fucked that I get about three good notes out of it, and if you've ever played recorder (and if you went to public school, of course you did), you know the range is limited in the first place. Therefore, sampling became necessary; and I was able to squeeze out a C, a D, and a D#.
The problem, of course, lies in the timbre of the instrument and its less than an octave range. I get that I wouldn't need to go above an octave and that within that range the timbre wouldn't really differ. The problem applies more to harmonica.
I have a harmonica. Sometimes I wonder why, seeing as how I can't play it. I believe I applied myself to it for about a week when I was sixteen or seventeen, but all that goofy tongue play I just couldn't get the hang of. Harmonica is a lot more complicated than just blowing. My solution? Sampling. I was able to get a C and a D out of it without any of the surrounding notes, which can be pretty wonky:
Just so you know what's going on, take a look at the top row, the blow row. There are only two chords: C Major (C E G, E G C [1st inversion], G C E [2nd inversion]) and E minor (E G). If you really want to get wonky, you could, I suppose, use your tongue to achieve the following: C5 (C G), G6 (G E), and Em6 (E C).
It's the draw row where things get funky, and I was going to draw you a little diagram, but the shit got too crowded, and I would normally get you all hot with some html chart action, but I don't feel like typing that much code, so I'm just going to type it out.

Pay attention:

Holes 1-3: 2nd inversion G (D G B)
Holes 2-4: G (G B D)
Holes 2-5: G7 (G B D F)
Holes 3-4 / 7-8: Bm (B D)
Holes 3-5 / 7-9: Bdim (B D F)
Holes 4-6 / 8-10: Dm (D F A)
Holes 5-6 / 9-10: F (F A)
Holes 5-7: FMb5 (F A B)
Holes 6-8: 2nd inversion Dadd6 (A B D)

Now, I ask you, does that shit look like it makes any sense!? We have Gs, Bs, Ds, and Fs. Reasonably, you could construe that the entire draw side is in the key of G7, but, hot damn, that's a lot of chords and with a lot of chords comes a lot of tonguing.
A funny thing happens when you sample a harmonica and run it back through a program: It sounds more like an accordian. I guess that's cool, but not the desired effect.
I'm sure this is all fascinating to you, but what was I going to write about? Drawing naked astronaut women? I did that too, yesterday. I cleaned the kitchen also.

Addendum, because I'm bored.
The intervals between blow and draw:
Hole 1: II; Hole 2: iii; Hole 3: III; Hole 4: II; Hole 5: ii; Hole 6: II; Hole 7: VII; Hole 8: vii; Hole 9: vii; Hole 10: VI.

Only geeks will understand the horror.

This morning, I wake up suffering from the delusion that I had forgotten the difference between the VCAs and the Plastic Conductive faders on the SSL. Imagine my horror as I my eyelids jerk open to show me the ceiling and the first thought that comes to mind is: "What's the difference between the VCAs and the PCs?"
Look, I get that one day I will die but in the interim I would very much like to not forget that one controls the signal to tape and the other controls the signal to the monitors (right?) and that you can assign which goes where. I remember my patches, I remember my on-board dynamics, EQ, filters, auxes, groups, all that shit, but, for the life of me, my brain blanks this morning on the fucking faders.

Just

gone.

Nothing's freaking happening. Then my brain, that rotten gray bastard, is trying to convince me to do a piece that basically tells single people to please shut the fuck up because they have no idea what the fuck it's like to have the "us" discussion at 0100CST after eight beers stemming from an argument over which supermarket to go to. Admittedly, that topic is lame but, yes, single people, shut the fuck up and keep having your non-committal sex with other random single people. Please stop doing sitcoms about finding love. Just wanted to get that out there.
It's while I'm getting my laundry ready this morning that I realize why my brain blanked on the faders: Look at my rig.
Come July, I'll have been out of school and away from the monkey big trucks for a full year. In that year, I've had to completely rearrange my train of thought to figure out how to make this work, and that, mon frer, was a royal pain in the ass. It's noisy, clumsy, and any real engineer would have to laugh at the sight of it. But I made it work. Now it's NOT noisy, only slightly LESS clumsy, but still goofy to look at.
It's precisely because I've dedicated my brain power to figuring out how to make this damned thing work that if you got me on the big boy toys, my patching skills would be slow, and patching is integral to recording:
(For the non-engineers:) Imagine a body. Completely normal in every way, except it comes packaged in a box that says "Assembly Required". You have the heart which, under normal circumstances, pumps blood to all the necessary other parts of the body: The brain, the lungs, the stomach, and back again. In one of those little plastic bags that normally have nuts, bolts, screws, and washers in them are your arteries, veins, and capillaries. You need to hook these up to get the blood to go where it needs to go.
You think sound just shows up in the board by some manner of prestidigitation? Nope, it's cable time, buster.
So it's like this: When somebody comes into your studio and is paying a large amount of money to fulfill their artistic vision or whatever other pretentious art school nitwit language is in use (tolerable only because of the aforementioned large amount of money), do you really want to piss them off by taking two and a half minutes to figure out how to get the blood to the brain when the task is supposed to take only 1.4 seconds? No, probably not, because you would like them to come back in the future with more large lump sums of cash and tell their friends that, in the interim, they should give you large lump sums of cash as well.
Me? I figure I'll be rusty at it.
But this is the way I've always done it. From the first bedroom recordings figuring out how to hook up two cassette decks to "multi-track" (I called it "dubbing" back then, which is still a more appropriate term for the actual method I employed) and learning how to record a full band with two mics in Demi's garage by moving people around and adjusting amplifier levels to setting up four track decks and mixing drum mics on the fly in basements, it's always been guerrilla style; making the best possible sounds with some of the most uncooperative, malfunctioning, bargain basement hand-me-down, mystery equipment that was on hand. And you know what? It was generally pretty good. Not every session yielded winners, but the ones that did shine through are the things I can still listen to today and say, "That was recorded on a Lafayette stereo cassette deck on a used cassette with some cheapo mics ten years ago," and still marvel that it came out as good as it did.
Good equipment isn't everything, I suppose; it's your skill and what you can apply your brain to. How many workarounds you can figure out, how much trouble you can shoot.
Yeah, I guess I've been rambling. Let's just do a recap to straighten up this mess.
1--> My brain is fucked. Why in all holy hell are the functions of the SSL faders the first thing that comes to mind when I wake up? Shouldn't I be more concerned with something like taking care of the morning wood?
2--> I think I've got the whole situation with the faders taken care of.
3--> I'm afraid I'm getting rusty. This could be like the time I thought I was going deaf, though, and then it turned out that the left monitor in Master Mix A was fucking up, not my left ear. I had sent emails to my brother and ex-girlfriend saying something to the effect of "I can't hear above 6kHz in my left ear". Fucking tech guys had me worried for two days.
4--> I'm pretty damned good at working with junk and getting great sounding results, but that's my opinion.

Recent Loves

	Smoking Popes, "I Need You Around": So this song is from 1996, so fucking what? There's crooning, hooks, and romance, all the essential elements you need for a good pop song. Sure, Cheap Trick did it better and sleazier, but do you really need all that sex-stink all over you all the time? No. Clean yourself up and check out this little jewel that got massive play on 89X (89.3 Windsor / Detroit) back in the nineties and just enjoy it. Like six times in a row.
	Depeche Mode, "Enjoy the Silence": Do you know how many fucking parts there are to this fucking song? It should've been a KRAKOA song. More crooning, more hooks, more romance... yeah, yeah, yeah; this time there's synths and a drum machine and a lot of echo. Your metal friends will make fun of you for listening to Depeche Mode, but fuck 'em. Especially if they listen to Iron Maiden. What's lamer? The band that wears its unbridled romanticism on its sleeve and whose name means "Fast Fashion" in French, or the band that wrote "Run to the Hills" and made a music video with computer animated dune-buggies?
	Big Black, "Every Man for Himself": I think Steve Albini is saying "IwannagoaAustralia, Iwannalearntaswim", don't quote me on that, because I can't quote Mr. Albini. It sounds like it was written / recorded somewhere between Atomizer and Songs About Fucking, and if you've ever heard Songs About Fucking, you know that this was a record that was not made on Earth or made by Earthlings. Pure, unadulterated, stainless steel scraping against stainless steel with that inhuman THUMP courtesy of Roland.
	Shirley Bassey, "Diamonds Are Forever": Fuck you, this song is awesome.

UPDATE 4/18/08 Charlie's Mail Order Bride Fundraiser

It's a three day weekend again, which means I get to sleep in. And because I slept in, I missed a call. And because I missed the call, the person calling me left a voice mail. And because they left a voice mail, the T-Mobile jingle goes off on my phone, waking me up. And because the T-Mobile jingle sounds like this little bit of keyboard in Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time", Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" is stuck in my head. And because Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" is stuck in my head, I find myself learning how to play Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time". And because I can, it sounds like Leonard Cohen singing the country version.
To kick things off, I decided to not wait around sitting on my hands waiting for a donation, so I joined another bride service. They said I could call these ladies instead of this email malarkey, so I figured "What the hell?" and told them I would like to order 400,000,000,000 minutes of phone time. For those of you who took remedial math, that's FOUR HUNDRED BILLION MINUTES, figuring the next step is a credit card number.
Nope.
They were just like, "Cool, fuck it." At US$3 per minute, I just threw myself into US$1.2 trillion of debt. So, naturally I wrote slavicbridge.com a pair of emails where all the text said was "Please Cancel My Phone Order". Just thought I'd share that with you.
Otherwise, our good ol' standard service, anastasiainternational.com, has fifty five emails waiting for me, so why don't we take a gander, kids?
Phase One: LET'S GET RID OF THE BLONDES.
Occasionally, instances arise where I have to give a blonde a pass. That blonde would be Alla, as she's a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe and by the rules of PLAN 9, applied here in an unprecedented preemptive fashion, she's in.
Otherwise, from fifty five we have subtracted two dozen women, leaving us with thirty one women to choose from, and you know what the next criteria is: Can they stimulate my mind? Can they stimulate my body? Can they pay for dinner? It's Phase Two: LET'S GET RID OF THE BORING ONES.
Vitaliya the Housekeeper showed up to the photo shoot wearing a motor cycle jacket zipped up to her chin, which she she never removed. Honestly, I'm kind of intrigued. We also have a Sarah Silverman look-alike fluent in English and Italian in the mix. Maria the Student decided to have her pictures taken at the mall, so that's out. We're not talking about something along the lines of Glamour Shots at the mall, we're talking about she's in the hallway by the escalators at the mall. Out. Theres something gladatorial about Evgenia's get up. Maria the Manager looks like my ex's friend Jen Norton, and I think we've been through this. Julia slipped through the blonde filter.
And after all that work, we're down to eleven women. This leads us to Phase Three: LET'S GET RID OF THE UGLY SHOES.
Ooh, shit, Evgenia. Evgenia, Evgenia, Evgenia. Your woman-gladiator outfit, I dug it. I really dug it, but the shoes... Phew. That's rough. That, and I doubt you're really twenty three years old.
From eleven we're down to seven, so you know where we're going: PLAN 9.

• Remember when Cameron Diaz was hot? Yeah, neither do I. Alena's OUT.
• Julia doesn't remind me of anybody. But she's hot. But she's divorced. And a single mom. Eeerrraaaggguuuhhh... OUT.
• I can't help it, Alla looks like Marilyn Monroe and is IN.
• Tatiana the Manager has a cute little maid outfit. IN.
• On second thought Tatiana the Teacher does not look like Sarah Silverman. OUT.
• Anna looks like a porno star, but I can't figure out which one. I just watch that much porn. IN.
• Vitaliya with the motorcycle jacket looks like she smoked a spliff before her shoot. She kind of looks like "the bad girl" in high school. I can't decide if she's IN or OUT. Oh, wait, what's this? She's a single mom? OUT.
  

Let's meet our Thr[mumble mumble] Three*:

Alla the Student is a drinker, and I know I keep going on about this Marilyn Monroe thing, but if she's anything like Marilyn, she's probably popping sleeping pills with her mint julips, and I like that in a woman. Call it "living on the edge", call it "chemical dependency", call it "hopeless addiction", hell, call it "Decatur, IL" for all I care. I call it hot. Quote: "I live with my parents and my brother in the flat with wonderful view of the city." I don't know how I feel about that.
Tatiana the Manager doesn't touch the juice. Right, your honor may I introduce to the court exhibits A and B? Quote 1: "I have sparkles of playfulness in my nature!:)" Quote 2: "Dancing charm me a lot." The language barrier, in this instance is cute, endearing even.
Anna the Administrator isn't a drinker either. She's college educated. She's normal. She comes across as somebody who wouldn't ever piss me off. (As to whether I would piss her off is completely beside the point, if there is a point anyway.) I dig her fashion sense. She speaks German. That's trilingual, B. That's impressive. That's three times the dirty talk.

*Do you know how hard it is to alliterate "three"? Fuck that.
Anyway, send money.

Thank goodness for auto-back-up.

Of course you read the blog this morning, of course.
So you know that last night I went through a huge "let's clean the hard-drive spree". This morning the disc was still in the drive, so I opened it up just for shits and giggles, and what should I find but that the project file is missing. In its place is the .wav file. Great.
Now this wouldn't be so bad except:

1. The project file holds the automation.
2. The project file holds the drum track.
3. The project file has been deleted.

So all that exists is the guitar, bass, and vocals. After the blog this morning, I start freaking out until I remember that FLS automatically creates two back up files. I check the FLS trash bin to find two back up files, one is blank.
OH. ALL. HOLY. FUCKING. PISS.
The other is the very session I had deleted from the computer last night, taken from the last "save" command, shortly before I added compression to the vocal. The settings were easy to remember:

• Threshold: -20dB
• Ratio: 3:1
• Knee: Soft
• Attack: 21ms
• Release: 479ms
• Gain: 0dB

So I does some quick applicationing I does, save the file with a new, snazzy, instantly recognizable name, throw it in the .zip program, test the files, burn to disc, check the disc, and bing bing bing, we're in business.
General fatigue can eat a bag of dicks. This just better not happen again; I was late to work this morning.
Remember to cast your vote for which records can bite the dust.
I don't even want to talk about the Tigers tonight.

Blah blah blah.

Last night I cleaned up the hard drive, which was a bit nerve racking. You see, having 1200MB worth of two months of work that needs compressed and burned to discs isn't exactly the easiest thing to do, especially when you have to test everything out and see to it that it all works correctly.
The whole process can be a pain in the dick, especially when it yields dreams like I had last night.
Essentially, Eric Olsen was using my laptop as an example for a class at IPR, and did a "My Pictures" slide show, which meant looking at pictures from Land of the Lost (a show I hated), wiring diagrams (which isn't too far out of line), one very funny flow chart about the GOP (?), and I think there was some porn (which I wouldn't doubt).
There's a good three gigs freed up on the computer and my fear that the whole damned project will be lost forever.
The real pain in the ass is now that I have everything just exactly the fucking way I want it, I had to go and write three more songs which need to get recorded, so the weekends aren't exactly free yet.
There's also been an addition to the list of possible titles: The Art of Chinese Kite Building.

Lastly, I've been striving to ditch some music on the hard drive to free up some space. Take a gander at the "digital" list from my record collection here and pick out a half dozen or so records that could bite the dust. Go ahead, be brutal, there're seven pages worth of records there. Leave your list with your rationale in the comments section below. Understand that I'm in no way obliged to agree with everything you say.

First nice day in Minneapolis in a LONG while.

So nice, in fact, that George and I went kite flying.


That's right, I just posted a blog where all I did was post a picture.

According to legend, Black Betty was from Birmingham, Alabama.

Scheduled city: Montgomery, AL
Actual city: Birmingham, AL
Distance differential: 90 Miles
Previous City ~ Next City

Callin All Holy Rollers - Gospel Tracks WANTED!! (AL)

---

Reply to: comm-xxxxxxxxx@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-14, 11:56PM EDT


Calling All Holy Rollers - Gospel Skate Jams Vol. 3 Call for Submissions
Calling All Holy Rollers - Gospel Skate Jams Vol. 3 Call for Submissions I heard you the first time.
Submit your Gospel Hip Hop or Gospel R&B track today to be a part of the Stellar Award Nominated Series
Got something unique that's hot and still skateable? Reggaeton? Rock? Pop? Send it to us for consideration.
BUT it's gotta be Gospel and Skateable
You see, this is where I'm starting to have trouble with this one. Are we talking about rollerblading? Because, stereotypically, skateboarding has been the sport of punkers and metalheads. Do Christians skate differently? Is that what's going on? Really, why is pop music in the mix?
visit www.gospelskatejams.com for submission guidelines
email .mp3 to xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@aol.com send us your website to hear your track
online or mail us a CD 9call for address) I'm assuming that "9" is supposed to be the other parenthese and that you simply missed the shift key.
ALL TRACKS MUST BE PROFESSIONALLY RECORDED!!! So then... the DIY aesthetic is out. Stop fucking yelling.
I can't not stress this enough! Don't send us any bathroom or boom box recordings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Woah! Woah! That's seventeen exclamation points. Kind of reminds me exactly of this guideline:

9--> The overuse of the exclamation point!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! That's seventeen exclamation points. If you use three or more more than twice in an ad, then I'm obligated to think you are a fucking idiot. The only thing that ever requires that many exclamation points is the explanation of how you just had an orgy with sixteen Bettie Page lookalikes on rollerskates.

How fitting that I also prestidigitated the skating aesthetic. Further, some of the world's greatest recordings have been done in bathrooms on boomboxes; Jesus would've made his records in the bathroom. Well, maybe. I never met the guy.
serious inquiries only call xxx xxx-xxxx or xxx xxx-xxxx with questions
___________________________________________________

Ready to Roll?

• Location: AL
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

OH, AND THE TIGERS ARE THREE AND TEN. EAT IT, TWINS!

So I sat around all day yesterday for nothing.

As tax time comes nearer to its close tomorrow, I like to think of all the good times I had with the 1040 forms, the M1 forms, the M1PR forms, and the good times I had hounding my current landlord since February for the tax information he is legally obligated to hand over to me by January 31st, hounding him so much that I indeed forgot to hound my former landlord aside from the last two weeks, which resulted in my not getting a CRP until I woke up this morning and found it in my inbox in PDF format.
This normally wouldn't phase me aside from not having any ink in the printer, but I had to try anyhow. Hopefully, that the IRS courtesy mumbo-jumbo at the bottom of the CRP with all the toll-free numbers got cut off won't affect anything.
I like to think of the good times I had in accommodating these guys, whom I've paid for the right to live in one of their properties, in doing the job they are prescribed to do by law, even as I called with "friendly reminders".
I like to think of the good times I've had being dependent on others for me to fulfill my civic obligation of what is essentially checking the federal government's math. When you think about it, that's all tax time is: Seeing whether the government took too much or not enough of your money.
I like how easy the government has made it. Yes, you can file online; try telling Georgie that, as the online forms caused a full, two-day debacle. Yes, you can file using 1040EZ, if you're not like me and have deductions and reductions and gross adjustments. Yes, 1040A is there, but I don't think I get what the deal with "A" is; I know 1040EZ is for when your taxes take you about 5 minutes to do because all you did was make one income from one source last year and didn't have any weirdness going on with your money flow, and 1040 is the bad boy you use when the whole of your finances has a more unsound infrastructure than The Towering Inferno, but what would you ever need with 1040A?
I really dug how it took me twenty minutes to notice that 1040 has two subtractions you make from your income, one of which is right in your line of sight, the other is hidden in the left hand margin that reside with all the crap that you don't read unless you need instructions on how much tax your Maltese Falcon is worth. Yeah, that I was wondering how in hell I could owe US$300 dollars when I lived under the poverty line was great fun. Turns out I'm owed around US$400. Yeah, that was fun, y'know, the whole feeling my balls creep back up into my sternum over money I don't have. Thanks IRS.
Further, I really got my rocks off searching high and low for my statement of interest paid to Firstmark, which in big, bold letters says "Statement of Interest Paid" and goes on to detail that the statement has the amount in "Box 1". So I spend twenty more minutes going back through the past year of old billing statements looking for something, anything that could conceivably be construed as "Box 1" when I finally give up, and it's just as I turn to get back to business that I see the little motherfucker staring at me as though to say in its own inanimate way, "What?" and when I find the amount I'm looking for, I see why I never find it: There's no fucking "box". There's no grid or chart or anything of the sort and the text is this fucking big. I had to highlight it so I wouldn't lose it.
Ah, the good times.
Oh, and I almost forgot: the Tigers are two and ten. Shit.

Yesterday, I saw a squirrel eating a tortilla, but he moved before I could get to my camera phone.

Anyway, fuck it, take a gander at this, mein geeken.
As we venture ever nearer to the tax deadline on Tuesday, I sit here listening to Prairie Home Companion after a full morning of filling out forms, calling irresponsible landlords, calling parents, checking account balances, getting hungry, and desperately wanting a beer.
Yesterday was pretty full, too, considering Domeir tried calling my ass at 0440CST yesterday morning, and since my phone was set to loud and it sits on top of my alarm clock, of course I think it's the alarm clock going off. I try turning the alarm clock off, and since it's a clock radio, this actually turns on Mexican radio, resulting in the most grueling thirty six seconds I've endured in 2008 not counting the horrible acid reflux I suffered the day after St. Patty's.
After writing yesterday, I got off my ass and did the rest of the vocals for the new record (again, I'm taking title suggestions), well, actually, I stayed on my ass and did the vocals from right here on my perch in the living room, resulting in my being able to give the Bowie "Heroes" trick a spin, which was decent.
While I would like to go down to Daver's and record Wurly today, I have to sit on my hands and wait for my former landlord to call me and tell me whether or not he can come over and put his John Hancock on the appropriate tax forms, which means the difference between US$1 and US$431 dollars worth of a refund.
Otherwise, I just have to do a few more tweaks to the mixes and I'll be through. Though I told myself I wasn't mixing anymore after the initial bout last night, I still wound up going back through the sessions at around 2300 CST, last night.
Other than that, it's just another boring looking Sunday around ye olde homestead down here in Stevens Square.

Almost. Al-fucking-most.

So, once the house clears out today, which it half is right now, I'm finishing the next Krakoa record. Well, almost. You see, all I have to do yet is lay down vocals for the rest of the songs and get down to Daver's to record some Wurly for one song and I'm done.
It's been a long process, mostly because I've been relearning as I go along, chiefly because this is my rig. I have had to find a lot of work-arounds to eliminate 60cps hum, unbalanced signals, optimum amp and mic placement in the house, and, of course, there was this epiphany:

I've been trying to figure out how to change this up when it dawned on me: Recording with CW7 defaults to a stereo track.
I'm using the four track solely as a preamp, because, like I said, I'm poor. With the four track though, I can plug in multiple mics for the same source.
I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier: I'll simply pan one mic hard left and the other mic hard right. CW7 will track the stereo signal and output the AT mic on one side and the WE mic on the other.
From here I can save the recording. After that I can convert the one mic to a mono (meaning both sides are the same damned thing) signal and save that, reopen the original and convert the other side. I then have two completely different mic signals I can mix as I see fit. Why the fuck didn't I think of that before?

This changed a lot of the sounds, so you can definitely tell what was recorded when.
As far as the idea to mic the stereo while it played the drum program, well, I tried it. It worked. But it didn't work well enough, so the sound of that didn't get used.

So far, here's what's been recorded:

• Guitar
• Bass
• Oscillator
• Drum Program
• Voice

• Violin: a recording of this girl I dated in high school for a week, made sometime around 1997 / 1998. Chopped, pitched, stretched, spliced.
• Saxophone: Anders' performance on the last KRAKOA record. Chopped, pitched, stretched, spliced.

Gear:

• Big Amp
• Little Amp 1 2
• Effects (Octave divider not pictured.)
• Pre

Staff:

• Assistant Engineer

All that's left are the rest of the vocals and some Wurly down at Daver's. In the meantime, there's a really bad demo version of "Song of the Russian Jews" up at reverbnation.com/krakoa, or you can just click on the widget to the left.
In the meantime, I'll be accepting suggestions for naming the new record. So far, all I have is A Pox On Your House and The White Pigeon. Both of those titles suck.

That's it. That's fucking it. I've fucking had it with this pussy-assed bullshit. That's fucking it.

Really. Listen. You. Yes, you. Do you have a band? Does it have the word "black" in the name? Does it? Do you make pussy rock? By pussy rock I mean, "Do you listen to Nickelback?", "Do you listen to Hatebreed?", "Do you listen to Trapt?", "Do you listen to Iron Maiden?". That's pussy rock. Please, stop doing that. Stop what you are doing. Stop what Black Days Down is doing. Stop this piece of shit bullshit cock-fuck bullshit lame-o syphilis bullshit fraternity-rapist douche BULLSHIT trend of putting the word "black" in your band name when you suck big fucking dick. Really. Stop now. If your band sucks big fucking dick, do not put the word "black" in the name. Don't. Don't. Don't fucking do it because everybody is sick of you trying to prove how heavy you are by putting "black" in your name when you're a consortium of homophobic, spoon-fed, upper-middle-class panty-wastes who've never had to lift more than a half ton in your lives, as if your job at Pizza Hut were that fucking tough. You fucking cock sucker, stop it. I've got shit stains in my drawers that are heavier than your chlamydia-carrying, date-rapist, "ooh, I'm so emotionally torn" bullshit band.
Only one band, and I mean ONE fucking band ever needs to have the word "black" in their name. That band is

BIG BLACK.

So I'm flipping through the City Pages and what do I see? Some more bullshit, some daddy's Porsche frat rock band, I forget who, and who's the opener? Black Stone Cherry.
Let me tell you something, Black Stone Cherry: That name fucking sucks. Get pissed off if you want; hell, come to my house and whoop my ass; that won't change that your band name fucking sucks. AND, by that name alone, I can tell you guys probably sound like that band that does that "Alcohol and Ass" song I was subjected to once. You probably at some point said you're a grunge band, right? Or did you say that you guys sounded like Zakk Wylde's band, Black Label Society, another band that does not need the word "black" in the name.
Well, Zakk Wylde probably makes some heavy music, I don't know and I don't care to find out. All I know is that it's not Big Black.
Why all the Big Black love? It's real fucking easy: Big Black struck real fear into everybody who ever lived ever. Jesus shit his pants over Big Black, and he's the son of the Judeo-Christian god, so we're told. If you scare poo-poo out of a deity's son, every aspect of everything you've ever done ever is completely unfuckwithable. And since Big Black is that band, and the word "black" is part of their name, do not name your band with that word unless you even come close to being one-half as fucking fearsome and mighty as

BIG BLACK.

Black Days Down, I'm looking in your direction, because you guys are neither fearsome nor mighty. You guys don't even beat your girlfriends, I'm willing to bet. Do you guys set fire to public buildings? No, probably not.
Okay, so that has nothing to do with anything.
Have any of you, you readers out there, have ever had your ears pummeled by the good loving grace of all total fucking devastation that is Big Black? If you've ever heard it, you know what the fuck I'm rambling about.
As soon as I read the name Black Stone Cherry I knew, I just fucking knew, that it would be some bullshit that wouldn't even come close to the pure immolation that is the majesty of

BIG BLACK.

Bottom line, if you are not incendiary, implosive, and just out and out fucked up, do not put the word "black" in your name.
I'm out.

See also: Black Flag, Black Sabbath. Those are good bands.

UPDATE 4/11/08 Charlie's Ukrainian Mail Order Bride Fund Raiser

Fifty three women today. Fifty three. Fifty three. Kind of hard to come up with a theme for that number, aint it? I mean, what can I do with this?
Fuck it, let's get a move on, buckaroo. Phase one has depleted our harem down to a scant sixteen brides, meaning this is the most-blondes-per-capita we've ever had in ye olde fuck coral.
Phase two knocks sixteen down to five. Some people are just really boring, and apparently they travel in packs.
On to phase three, getting rid of the ugly shoes. Natalya looks like Cutty on House M.D., which would be all well and good if we were on PLAN 9, but she has ugly shoes. I just thought I'd throw that out there. We're now down to two and a half.
And a half? Yes. Half. You see, we're on a special phase, now. A new phase which I will call "No means no". Olga has ugly shoes, but Olga has also been here before, twice. How can you double down on OUT? Is she so OUT she's IN? I think not.
Normally, I would just make a little, snotty comment and move on, but look at the photo below Olga's. That's Tatiana.
Tatiana is no stranger to this game either. In fact, Tatiana has played this game twice as well. Two women, both of whom have vied for my affections, are making a third attempt at wooing my ass, so it's like this: SEND MONEY. Each one of these women is desperate enough to get out of Ukraine that they are each making a third attempt at corresponding with me.
But I've explained it before: I'm broke. F-L-A-T-broke. I don't even have the faintest idea what the hell their introductory emails are saying. Sure, they're probably carefully crafted form letters, but their third attempt means they're dead serious.
Since I've contractually obligated myself to you, oh, my dear readers, to actually go ahead and marry one of these women, I think it's about time we stopped fucking around and you actually help give the little thermometer up there a little nudge. Just make a donation and we can see what all the hubbub's about.
Well, what with all the commotion, we really don't have a PLAN 9, but we are left with one, like the Highlander or some such shit. Meet Viktoria. Viktoria is our default winner because the other two ladies are on hold. Twenty one, five-four, buck-ten, straight-edge, college-educated, never-maried, hyphenated, "financial expert" with some pert-near-good English skills, Viktoria has written a damned book about herself.
Back when I had three-day weekends (thanks to hour cut-backs) (What's with all these damned hyphens?), I could get into serious detail about all of this, but as it stands I get to go to work. So I must adjourn to the potty to make poo-poo and brush the coffee off my teeth before I venture forth into the frozen Minneapolis morning. Yes, it's April and we just got hit with a snow storm last night.
SEND MONEY, kids. We've got one on stage and two in the wings.

Who knew Mississippi could be so boring?

Scheduled city: Jackson, MS
Actual city: Jackson, MS
Distance differential: 0 Miles
Previous City ~ Next City

looking for collaborators (jackson, ms)

---

Reply to: xxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
Date: 2008-04-09, 2:49PM EDT


brooklyn-exiled Exiled? As in the local government kicked you out? Look, don't use exiled unless your situation is the same as Napoleon, who was exiled to Saint Helena in 1815. indie rock Oh, shit. guitarist/songwriter Songwriter? If e'er there were a pretentious label to self-bestow. looking for fellow musicians in the jackson area. Good luck, I've been looking for three days and you're the first one that's come up outside of the "Bands! Let us make your t-shirts!" and "Get your camcorder out for the Biloxi Idol contest!" bullshit.

give me a call if you want to make music. all typical instruments, So guitar, bass, and drums. recording artists, Me thinks we doth found higher pretensions. web designers Who are completely necessary to the existence of a band. and graphic artists What are you trying to put together, the Exploding Plastic Inevitable? welcome.

call tobias at xxx.xxx.xxxx or e-mail me here.

• Location: jackson, ms
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 636253833

Alright, I think we need to break things down.

Avid reader, Kirian, wrote:

You need to buy this months Playboy, they have a several page spread on your Ukrainian women.

New reader, Wil, wrote:

That's some pretty funny shit man. I've been trying to talk the OL into letting "us" get one of those Russian brides but so far she ain't goin' for it. Bitch.

I think we need to distinguish the difference. Ukraine and Russia are not the same. May 2008's issue of Playboy indeed has a spread on women (no, not peanut butter). But the spread is titled "The Women of Putin's Russia". As far as Wil's interest in a Russian bride, that's cool, but I'm dealing with Ukraine.
Let's start with a simple difference:

Ukraine has fought and won its independence from Russia or the SSR or what the fuck ever consistently over the years, meaning that this little baby bird of a country has repeatedly handed a big, fat, one-eighth of the Earth's land-mass mama bird its ass more times than you can fathom. Why they decided to go back is like why you fuck your ex-girlfriend: It feels familiar and just so right, even though it smacks of stunted emotional growth.
In 1922, Ukraine came out of both the Russian Revolution and WWI to actually be one of the founding members of the USSR. Essentially, Russia was going through some changes, and needed the Ukraine as its sponsor.
Then in 1991, Ukraine just straight up cold dropped Russia's nervous-breakdown-having-ass and decided to play the singles scene. Though, to this day, the Ukraine still houses Russia's Black Sea Fleet in Sevastopol, the equivalent of taking care of your ex's cat while she "gets some help".
Interesting to note: In the 16th century, Ukraine was under Polish rule who converted everybody to Catholicism, so they enlisted the aide of the Cossacks who, like the Ukrainians, were Russian Orthodox, and if you know anything about Russian history, were just blood thirsty motherfuckers.
Other interesting things to note:

	UKRAINE	Score	RUSSIA
Disaster	Chernobyl.	Ukraine	No big-assed disaster.
Round Things	Easter Eggs, which are tasty.	Ukraine	Matroyshka Dolls, better known as "Those weird Russian Dolls that you keep opening to find smaller dolls inside".
Diet	Chicken, pork, beef, fish, potatoes, grains, and pickled vegetables. Then there's some other shit they eat that I wouldn't.	Ukraine	Soup, fish, sour cream and berries, essentially.
Rock 'n' Roll	Bands with names like Skinhate, Snuff, and Robots Don't Cry.	Ukraine	Bands with names like Amatory, Psychea, and Jane Air.
On the Risk game board?	Yeah, and it's fucking huge, too.	Ukraine	Fuck no.
Blood thirsty marauders?	Russian Cossacks on retainer.	Russia	The Cossacks
Totals	Ukraine = 5		Russia = 1

So, are we all up to speed on this shit, now? There's a world of difference between these two countries, without making the joke that Russian women take off their clothes for Hef at Playboy and Ukrainian women take off their clothes for Norm at Perfect 10*.

Source:
Wikipedia

FUN FACT: Mo Rocca was a copy editor at Perfect 10.

Goodbye to myspace

Well, I did it. I canceled my myspace account. Why? Because I'm a grown man, that's why.
There comes a certain point where you realize that you're an adult, and, as such, you really don't need myspace for "messaging". What messages? You do realize that you need a valid e-mail account to log in to the site, right? So, you have friends overseas, whoopity-doo. Guess what. If they have a myspace, they have valid e-mail, too. Do yourself and your friends a favor: use your damned e-mail.
As far as your profile goes, well, your real friends already know what books you read, what bands you listen to, what movies and TV programs you watch, your sexual orientation. As far as all those bands you're friends with, well, let's just say it's the same reason why I despised myspace before I got "into" it: You're "collecting" people. Somebody has some kick-ass html and it's like a really cool trading card, like when you'd get a pack of baseball cards and the Rookie of the Year or MVP cards would be gold foil embossed or holographic. You're not really friends with Cecil Fielder, despite having his card, just like you're not really friends with Fall Out Boy or As I Lay Dying or whoever the fuck is hot this month. You're just showing off what you have in your collection.
When people told me that there was so much more to myspace, I gave it a second chance, which was the wrong thing to do. It sucked me in. But I still had what my ex and I called "myspace shame", the sinking feeling of looking juvenile, asinine should somebody look over your shoulder and see your grown-up ass on a kid's site.
Which begs the next question: Why do junior high kids need to have a "social network"? They're surrounded by their social network everyday, is it just so they have an excuse to type "omg" and "lol" instead of the oh! so hefty burden of appropriately pronouncing the words "oh, my god" or "laugh out loud"? (And who have you ever met in your life, in the real, tangible world of the flesh, has ever responded to a joke by saying "laugh out loud"?)
Am I being a little rough on myspace? Yes, I suppose I am. Plenty of you are my friends (real friends), just as I'm sure that plenty of you have myspace accounts, and that there is a crossover between those demographics. If you feel the need to keep your myspace, by all means, go ahead; I want to make clear that I'm not hating the player, I'm hating the game. Because it's like this: Dungeons and Dragons has been usurped by Second Life. You make fun of D&D kids for living in a world of fantasy, and now there's an entire world of quasi-reality that people take part in.
Myspace : Second Life :: Cocaine : Crack Rock
You put a "personality profile" online for yourself and sooner or later you wind up living in that virtual world of your own creation, just like eventually the cocaine isn't working so hot and you need to up the effectiveness of it.

Let me break it down for you, babies:

1. You're not really networking socially. Social networking consists of actually making "business contacts" and "personal contacts" and then utilizing those contacts to a mutually beneficially end, not simply checking the "Networking" box in the "I'm here for:" section.
2. You are not really friends with that band unless you've actually met that band became their friend.
3. If the whole point is "putting your self out there" and showing your stuff, how come you set your profile to private?
4. If you're a kid, first of all you shouldn't be reading this blog. Secondly, go play outside.
5. It's not a bulletin if it's a survey. Don't believe me? Look up "bulletin" in Webster's. Further, nobody's that impressed by the time you made out at Arby's to a Kenney Chesney song. Most decent people don't admit to that sort of thing, anyhow.
   
6. All that html coding on your page looks fucking ugly.

That's it kids. I'm out.

"Why I'm ready to live on my own" OR "How I drew a bath for a man".

I'm pretty sure that the next place I'll get will be on my own. You see, I've lived with other people my whole life, and I'm kind of done with it. It's not all that cool to not have your own living room or kitchen or bathroom and then on top of that, the fridge is free range to some people and then they eat what you'd set aside, and sure they replaced it, but that's not the point, the point is: How in hell did they know it was yours after, but not before, they "accidentally" ate it? (We're talking about 307 East, here.)
So it goes here in the Carriage House in Stevens Square. You see, I wake up this morning to the sound of bath water running. Now, this is at ten 'til seven, so the water had been running for a while seeing as how it was at that little hole that prevents the tub from overflowing. So I knock on the bathroom door, and Downstairs Tom's not in there.
Well, I think, by now, everybody in the house knows the routine. It's not a hard and fast rule, and there's never been any confrontation over it, but I'm pretty sure the whole house knows this much: Charlie gets up to the sound of Mexican Radio every morning at 0700CST and is done with the bathroom at 0720CST. So, then, why is it Downstairs Tom is drawing a bath, full-on, milk-maid, house-servant, hyphenated-word ass bath?
I do not feel bad about what I did, this morning. I turned the bath off, which triggered an emotional response in Downstairs Tom to come see what the matter was. I heard him coming up the stairs and I says to him I says, "I'll fill it back up; I need to get a five minute shower."
Downstairs Tom says, "Cool," and disappears back downstairs.
I switch things up for a shower and, sure enough, there's NO HOT WATER. It was... uncomfortable.
You see, it had to be done. Because it takes Downstairs Tom far longer to do "bath time" than it takes me to shower, and I have to shower. For work. Which I have to leave for in thirty minutes from now, one hour from the time I get out of the shower. In that time, Downstairs Tom will not have completed bath time. So I had the option of letting the bath water sit unused while Downstairs Tom lets it cool and thus never getting my shower, or I could pull the dick move I pulled this morning.
Of course, with no hot water, the bath I re-drew for Downstairs Tom is cold as ice, which is why I just boiled two pots of water. That's right, I just drew a bath for a man.

Check this out.

So, yesterday I was at Chipotle, eating a burrito. Stay with me, now, it gets better.
So, I'm sitting there, eating a burrito, and, of course, I finish eating the burrito. Since I have a dead muskrat on my face, I have to clean its coat... What? No, you see, what I mean is- the muskrat is a metaphor for- You uncreative lout, fine. I HAVE TO CLEAN MY BEARD BECAUSE I DON'T WANT BURRITO STUFF IN IT. So, I go to the bathroom and this cop has just gotten water all down the front of his cop pants from the spray-back from the sink.
He's standing there grabbing paper towel after paper towel repeating, "Oh, man. Oh, man." He sees me then thumbs over at the sink and says, "Don't use that one," and laughs. Since the two sinks in the Chipotle men's room are identical, I demonstrate to him in "my" sink the method of turning on the tap slowly.
The cop says to me, "I really don't like protecting and serving when it looks like I wet myself."
At this point, I can't do anything but sympathize with the guy, because, well, bitches, it's like this:

So, what can I say to the guy? I ask, "D'you want me to cover you? Should I walk in front of you?"
The cop laughs and says, "Right." And then I just left. I felt like I should tell his partner who was standing by the front door, but I figured I'd let Betsy-Wetsy explain it himself.

UPDATE 4/4/08 Charlie's Ukrainian Mail Order Bride Fund Raiser

Let's cut the crap, kids. I'm tired. I'm groggy. It's 0730CST and I've got to put together some html code for you? Fuck you. Is it the world's most complicated command? No, but fuck you none the less. Let's make this quick so y'all can get back to entertaining yourselves with your cocks in your hands.
Forty eight. Forty eight women want my ass. That's four dozen women just fucking desperate enough to play dumb long enough to get naturalized here. Do I really have to call out the "phases" for you? Shit. You know what the hell it is we do first. Here, type it in for me:

So, after we get rid of all the toeheads, we're left with twenty three. You need to check my math, bitches? Fuck you. I was calculating quantum physics while you were still swimming in your daddy's balls.

48		Foreign women.
MINUS 25		Hair pigment deficient.
EQUALS 23		Asshole.

Phase two: what the fuck ever.
Twenty three women MINUS the nineteen I can't stomach looking at busts it down to four.
Fuck the shoe thing, and this "PLAN 9" garbage? Screw that too. Let's get down to brass tacks: Who'd I nail?
Yulia looks like she was born into a white slavery ring, you know, as opposed to being kidnapped, so this "24" nonsense, I'm not buying. She's probably fifteen.
Alena has ugly shoes.
Elena slipped through the boring filter.
For the second time in the history of this joke of a blog, we're down to one.
Ekaterina is twenty six, she went to community college, she's a hairdresser, she drinks; what else could you ask for? We could settle down and she could open up a salon and blah blah blah. OR (and this is what I'm aiming for) I could snap back into reality, take a shit, and go to work.

Well, this is new.

Scheduled city: Nashville, TN
Actual city: Knoxville, TN
Distance differential: 179 Miles
Previous City ~ Next City

SERIOUS AND COMITTED DRUMMER AND BASSIST NEEDED ASAP FOR LIVE GIGS (KNOXVILLE)

---

Reply to: comm-xxxxxxxxx@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-02, 11:50PM EDT


I'm the previous guitarist of Multoc Never heard of 'em. (www.multoc.com) Oh. and my vocalist is the previous frontman of Scorned Who? (www.myspace.com/scornedband). Oh. We are a metal band: loud, heavy, energetic, and IN YOUR FACE Calm down, junior. metal is what we're about. It's good to have goals. What we need is a temporary drummer and/or bassist to work with us live for a while. This, I'm not getting. Really, I'm kind of stumped. Why only temporary? Is it because other, former bandmates are looking to join after they fulfill obligations? Is this just a studio project? What gives? We're in the process of writing our own material, but we will be working with covers until we perfect the original sound we are trying to reach. So you're saying you're looking to conjure up an original sound whilst working on already pre-established sounds. Let's just get everybody on the same page, here: It's been done. I don't care what you're thinking about, it's already been done. And that's okay. Think about it: The majority of cooking through out the last few centuries hasn't changed, and yet does anybody call Paul Newman a rip off when they have his ranch dressing? No. Nobody's talking shit about how Kraft is riding the coattails of Hidden Valley, yada yada yada. We can extend this to other mediums, such as music. There are, after all, only twelve notes separated by octaves. The number of combinations diadically within one octave yields only 70 combinations (if my math is right, which it probably isn't, but it's early and I have to go to work in a while). Just the same, trying to be "original" by working on other people's stuff is indicative of some serious head-up-assery. The positions of drummer and bassist are temporary for now, and they may become full time in the future. I got to tell you, I still don't get it. We are influenced by many: Metallica, Pre or post Napster? Trivium, Who? Pantera, Suck. Anthrax, Cool. Alice in Chains, Cool. Mudvayne Ugh... ugh. and Slipknot Okay, can everybody stop liking Slipknot, already? They fucking suck. to name a few. Here's what we're looking for:

- Must have own equipment. That's a given.
- Multiple basses As in plural? What the fuck is the matter with you? or a 5 string to switch from dropped B to standard tuning. Drop B? Expect to hear a lot of chugging.
- Flexibility and dependability on band practice and shows. If you're eventually going to get fired anyhow, what the fuck does your "dependability" matter?
- Double-bass for drummers a must, Okay, go buy a twelve string acoustic. slap and tap for bassist preferred. Look, there's a time and place for that shit, and it's either in Primus or Red Hot Chili Peppers or some jazz-fusion shit. Let's try to not sound like Goiter Jelly, guys.
- Ages 18-28 preferred.

If you have any questions, let us know. This is serious, Seriously temporary. and we hope to hear from all the interested musicians in in K-Town. Email a reply or call xxx.xxx.xxxx to set up a time to audition for us. Thanks.

• Location: KNOXVILLE
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 628396932

Way down dare in Kintuckeh.

Scheduled city: Frankfort, KY
Actual city: Ashland, KY
Distance differential: 143 miles. Hey, I even tried Bowling Green, KY just for the novelty, but the shit wasn't interesting.
Previous City ~ Next City

PROFESSIONAL DRUMMER WANTED

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Reply to: see below
Date: 2008-03-30, 6:52AM EDT


Pro drummer wanted for semi-national act. Like we've discussed here before, if you are an established act with national exposure and Lord knows how many "connections", there is absolutely no reason for you to be posting on Craigslist. Must be proficient in rock, blues and funk. Read that as: Must be able to count to four in all genres of a domestic, North American origin. Occasional "swing" and "triplet" drumming may be required to perform job duties. Candidate shall possess professional equipment, be available to tour and handle himself in a professional manner at all times. So you're not really looking to start a band, where drummers typically have road-worn, beat-to-shit drums that used to look professional, have to get time off from work, and get professional with a bottle after a week on the road because "what else is there to do?" Please join us in reality. To qualify for review, Oh, for Christ's sake. please forward a brief background or resume RESUME!? of previous tours or projects, contact info along with one or more mp3's of your work to:

National Acts
nationalacts@aol.com
Normally, I take care not to print return email addresses. Normally.

If you do not possess previous tour experience, please do not apply. Successful candidates will pass pre-employment background check and drug screen. EOE.

• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 623782696

All good things must come to an end.

Like my thirteen year stretch of wearing Converse All-Stars. The last two pairs I've had just weren't of the quality I had come to know and love over the years, and yesterday was the last straw.
Sunday was wonderful weather all over here in the Twin Cities, wonderful enough that when Georgie told me we were supposed to get three to five inches of snow yesterday (Monday) I figured she was full of shit. So I wakes up I does yesterday morning and I still figures she's full of shit once I look out the window and I throw on my Canvas Cons and head off for work when it does indeed start snowing. After I get to the office, the snow storm hits full strength and refuses to relent all day.
Sitting in my cubicle, I see something wonky with my left shoe. Upon closer inspection, it is revealed that the sole is coming loose from the rest of the shoe. These shoes have only cumulatively six months worth of mileage on them.
At the end of the day, I step outside for a smoke before I hop back on to the skyway to walk home in carpeted, climate-controlled dryness. This, of course, was a bigger momentary lapse in judgment than half of Napoleon's moves at Waterloo, as it felt as though my left foot was down at the YMCA having a swim while the rest of me was certainly not. In fact, the rest of me was pretty pissed off that my left foot went swimming without telling anybody.
Georgie was downtown cashing her check, so we met up at Target to grab some din-din, and while she's bra shopping, I call Daver up for the second time and ask him to look up some PF Flyers for me, seeing as how brand loyalty has panned out as it has.
The new models of Converse One Stars available at Target? I've never seen such an attempt to make grown men's sneakers look ladies' sport shoes and fourteen year old skater shoes. They looked ugly, shoddy, clunky, heavy, busy... all the things that are the opposite of a simple-assed sneaker. All I want is a simple-assed sneaker.
Turns out PF Flyers are still made. (Proof.) They make a model nearly identical to the low-cut Chuck's (these have a "gullwing closure"); but these are hard to find, even at Bay Street Shoes, who will have to special order them.
AND Bay Street Shoes has only the fall PF Flyer catalog, meaning that the only Bob Cousy model they can price out at the moment is the US$80 model, but the lady from Bay Street Shoes was nice enough to call the company today (Tuesday) and inquire about the canvas model.
All this for a pair of sneakers.