Archive for September, 2009

What’s the name of that song? I have no idea either. But man, Sesame Street in the 1970s felt REAL. I don’t know how else to put it. You watch children’s shows today, including Sesame, and they just feel so … sanitized, so dumbed-down. Does Oscar even still live in a trash can anymore, or was it deemed to be too representative of a homeless derelict so they moved him to a condo or something? I’m not sure. But I wouldn’t be surprised.

There’s something about the 1970s that makes me insanely nostalgic. When I pop in Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On or Stevie Wonder’s Innervisions (both on cassette, naturally), it instantly takes me back to a decade for which I was only alive four years but feel as though it’s … home. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess the early 1980s in Philadelphia weren’t much different than the decade previous, and I do retain a fondness for my extremely early years growing up there, but there’s something about the whole urban soul vibe that seems to call out to me.

Also: Northern Calloway rocked some badass sideburns back in the day.

(Clip via Mark Evanier)

What’s the name of that song? I have no idea either. But man, Sesame Street in the 1970s felt REAL. I don’t know how else to put it. You watch children’s shows today, including Sesame, and they just feel so … sanitized, so dumbed-down. Does Oscar even still live in a trash can anymore, or was it deemed to be too representative of a homeless derelict so they moved him to a condo or something? I’m not sure. But I wouldn’t be surprised.

There’s something about the 1970s that makes me insanely nostalgic. When I pop in Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On or Stevie Wonder’s Innervisions (both on cassette, naturally), it instantly takes me back to a decade for which I was only alive four years but feel as though it’s … home. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess the early 1980s in Philadelphia weren’t much different than the decade previous, and I do retain a fondness for my extremely early years growing up there, but there’s something about the whole urban soul vibe that seems to call out to me.

Also: Northern Calloway rocked some badass sideburns back in the day.

(Clip via Mark Evanier)

As I’ve lamented here previously, I no longer blog with the frequency I did back in my LiveJournal days. Not even close. Depending on your appetite for my nonsense, that could be a good or bad thing.

In general, I simply don’t just write for the sake of writing anymore either. When I was a young lad, I’d sit at a coffee shop every night for hours on end with nothing but a pack of cigarettes, a bottomless cup of sludgy coffee and a binder full of ruled, loose-leaf paper awaiting the inevitable scribbles from my tightly held pen. Back then, I wrote because I had to. Because something inside of me (likely hormonal rage or teen angst or something) had to be forced out, and for me, writing was the best outlet (so was music, but that’s a different subject altogether, though they are obviously connected).

What started as mostly poetry and short stories led to more journalistic-style work. I started a ‘zine, for which I wrote most of the content. Once the internet became widely used (but before it overtook our lives), I moved away from the creative writing altogether (save for the stray play or song) and expanded the reporting to the web. That self-made experience writing and editing articles eventually turned into freelance writing gigs, and combined with the web experience (and finally, a formal college education), a professional career alternately editing and writing for a variety of publications and websites.

Sounds like the ideal path, right? I mean, I started out doing something I was just good at, and it turned into a lucrative (mostly) career. So what’s the problem? Now when I write, I do it because I have to. Because an editor assigns a story. Because a paycheck is on its way. Because a client’s needs must be fulfilled. So at the end of the day, the last thing I want to do is … write. Oh, Catch-22, you devil’s plaything, you.

See, when I had to write, when it was my “out,” my escape from whatever shitty job I was working or emotionally crippling personal experience I was enduring, the words came easily. And they were a joy. I delighted in assembling nouns, verbs, modifiers and punctuation into a perfect storm of mostly cohesive thoughts and concepts. Now? Now I fret over word counts, deadlines, maintaining appearances, networking, publicizing …

And so here we are. You and me. Writer to reader. Only, I haven’t been giving you much to read. And I haven’t been giving myself much to write. And I’ve been immensely restrictive with what I post here, when in truth, I should be more transparent, more spontaneous, more direct. I’ve become so concerned with professional appearances and image that I’ve painted myself into a corner in which creative expression is so regimented and polished it becomes nearly void of life.

And brother, that ain’t no way of living.

So yes, you’ll still see me pimping my various endeavors here — the band, the comics, the articles and the appearances — but you’re also going to start getting behind the curtain, inside the process and, for better or worse, beyond the surface. And I’m going to try, like mad, to update this here blog/site/whatever daily. Yes, daily. Because otherwise, what’s the point?

I hope you stick around.

Why, yes, that’s me ducking behind a giant cigar outside S.F. Deli in San Francisco with my two pals, The Fist and Little Aaron. Little Aaron is the foam board-mounted miniature alter-ego of Michigan buddy Aaron Stahdjkfhrghdyghdiwicz.* Aaron’s a character. He takes Little Aaron with him every time he travels, and takes pictures of him, with him, etc. Little Aaron got run over while in England, where Aaron was trying to take his picture at the famous Abbey Road crosswalk. But he survived to tell the tale — and take his picture with The Fist.

*Aaron has one of those crazy Polish last names with too many consonants and not enough vowels, so this is as close as I’m going to get in spelling it without looking it up.

In response to a friend’s posting on Facebook about her fantasy football team, I offhandedly commented “Fantasy football is the jock equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons.” Satisfied with my cleverness so much that I just had to share, I blew it out to Twitter, slightly modified:

“Fantasy football is the sports equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons.”

Seriously, you guys, that’s it. I spent my entire load right there. I’ve got nothing left.

So remember it, because this sh*t is going on my tombstone:

Man, has it been three years since this picture was taken? Can that even be possible? I guess so. This time around we have me in possession of a mallet during “Gong Karaoke” at Mist Lounge inside the Treasure Island Hotel and Casino. On the right is Brian Henry, one of Las Vegas’ favorite visual artists, and one of the co-conspirators in the dead-but-never-forgotten techno-noise-hip-hop act Side Project 7. I believe I wrote about the entire experience here, and there may be some related video over here.

It’s that time again, kids, where I squeeze into my hipster jeans and lug my Ludwig drum kit out of the house to entertain your lovely faces. This time, As Yet Unbroken is kicking off the semiannual Neon Reverb music festival, which takes over just about every club and bar in downtown Las Vegas from Sept. 17 to 20. We’ll be playing at the Thunderbird Lounge inside the Aruba Hotel this Thursday, Sept. 17 at 10 p.m. with The Black Jetts and Collinz Room.

I’ve never heard of Collinz Room, but The Black Jetts is probably one of the most well-regarded, rawest, rockingest bands in Southern Nevada. The guys were recently picked “Best Local Band” by the Las Vegas Review-Journal, for what it’s worth, so even if you think my band sucks, you should come out Thursday night to see how it’s really done. Admission is only $5 and, sorry children, you have to be 21 or older to come shake your ass with the big boys.