Trick or Burp

One too many hoppy Halloween treats makes daddy sleepy.

Today, after weeks of checking out music-oriented blogs and waiting for an update to fix some functionality I wasn't crazy about, I pulled the trigger and started my own Radio Blog.

If you click on Radio SFT, you'll find yourself in a cornucopia of indie goodness. It will open in it's own window and everything. Go ahead. Click it. Click it damn it! This month's theme: Strange cover tunes.

I'll update the theme as I see fit. (To be read: When I remember.)

Now. Halloween nap. No more Sea Dog India Pale Ale.

Honestly, it was to flavor the chili. I just had some left over.

There She Goes, My Beautiful World

I have the new Nick Cave disc. Thank you eMusic. Thank you for allowing me to eloquently indulge in my dark side and frighten the children. It's no Murder Ballads or No More Shall We Part, but thus far it's pretty good.

Actual Conversation

Wife: And then the chiropractor massaged the area where sciatica causes me problems. It felt really great. I'm going for a follow up next week. You should go see him.

Me: I don't have back problems. I have neck problems.

Wife: Well, he can talk to you about your posture, figure out what's wrong and how to correct it. I think it will really help you feel better.

Me: Will he talk to me about diet and nutrition too?

Wife: Probably. He'll look at the whole package, your overall health.

Me: So he'll tell me to stand up straight and eat my vegetables?

Wife: Yes. He's your mother.

Me: One of these days . . . Bang! Zoom!

Cue canned laughter as husband and wife laugh at each others jokes and hug.

Fin.

She's in Pieces, In Pieces

Faced with a technical Snafu, all she could say was, "They're magically delicious!"

The Cardinals

Are making my eyes bleed. I can't watch anymore.

I can't believe we're being beaten by a team that appears to have Adam Duritz playing left field, a rejected member of the L'il Rascals at short stop and a G.I. Joe doll, as portrayed by Che Guevara filtered through Liberace's wildest fantasies in center field.

I mean, seriously. We might as well have stayed home and sent a first grade t-ball team to face the Sox. I refuse to watch anymore. This is why I stopped watching sports in the first place. It's too damned stressful.

Oh well. At least the Blues don't suck this year.

Things to Do on a Dreary Day . . .

If you work in your basement and you're stupid.

Nick Cave has a new album coming out today. And I can't buy it because I've used up all my funds on other crap this month. So, of course, I'm listening to Nick today.

Not. A. Good. Idea.

I'm in the basement. It's dark and dreary outside.

And I hear this.

And this . . . Especially this.

And I'm now afraid.

Very afraid.

The music is coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE! Of course, all of Nick's songs aren't these creepy, Milton-drenched medieval troubadour types. No, some songs are actually kind of pretty. Hell, even those songs, with their cryptic dread, are pretty. But, still . . .

Hmmm . . . Maybe I'll blast this stuff on Halloween. Heh. Scare those leaching little bastards off for good.

Forgot to Mention

If you look to your left, there is a new link for a "Hip Album". This is a photo site dedicated to dorks like me and their Sidekicks. Since I now have the Sidekick 2 (extra Geeky!), courtesy of the fine folks at Levelbest Communications, i.e. John, I'm using my phonecam a lot more these days.

So, you'll find random photos over there when I remember to use it. One is of Gert trying to fall asleep at night. Yes, she was that upset before I took a picture of her. After that she went all Sean Penn on my ass.

I’m Only Sleeping

Weekend conversation about afternoon naps:

Gertrude: I don’t want to take a nap. (Cries in protest.)

Me: I’m sorry sweetie. But you have to. If you don’t, you’ll be crabby all day.

Gertrude: Matilda doesn’t take a nap.

Me: Well, when you get bigger you don’t need to take naps anymore. Although I’m bigger and I want to take a nap.

Gertrude (beginning to sob): I try to grow bigger but it doesn’t work!

And there she begins to wail. Wail against the injustice of being a child.

Poor kid. It’s tough being the youngest.

I Heart Jon Brion

You know, I really want Jon Brion's soundtrack to I Heart Huckabees (click on the little radio tab on the bottom). Why? Strange, irreverent, seems to channel Brian Wilson in a hybrid Pet Sounds/Smile era, has groovy oooooohs and it just plain damn sounds good. Not that Jon has ever steered me wrong before.

That is all.

Goodnight.

Bless the monkeys.

Living is Easy with Eyes Closed

Like many other mindless monkeys, my wife and I are completely addicted to ABC's "Lost". This is an important event because I don't think I've been addicted to a network show for a long time.

Basically, a plane crashes and the survivors are stranded on a remote island where strange things happen. Groovy.

I was talking with a friend and I decided to make a CD "soundtrack" for the show. All songs that were about the basic emotions and story points on the show. What I've put together works pretty well, I think. You start in the plane, get stranded, encounter monsters, misunderstood people, violence and finally lose all hope.

It's an uplifting disc, really.

The only thing I was missing was an attempted message to the outside world. A message that would go unheard. Nothing really worked that well. So, I enlisted the help of the Conet Project, which is a haunting recording of short wave numbers stations filled with oblique phrases, static, strange noises and other wonderfully musical, aural treats.

But it wasn't enough. There was no melody. So I took the Belle & Sebastian song "Freak" from their Storytelling soundtrack and overlayed pieces of the Conet Project. All done and said I mixed together about five different Conet pieces that I felt were frightening, haunting and desperate. I enjoyed playing around with the stereo channels in the opening bit. My intention was to give a sense that a message was being lost. To close out the CD with a complete sense of hopelessness wrapped inside an attempt at hope.

I think it works. I kind of like it. I used the most cliched piece of Conet in the middle because I figured it would be easily recognizable to my intended audience and they might hang around throughout the song, until the end, so that they would get the final effect I was going for. So, don't hold it against me that I used it. Okay? I'm fragile. Be gentle.

Anyway, here's the track list. Copies are available upon request, of course. I'm also including the song I mashed together for download. God knows how many people could sue me over it. However, I'm sure both of my loyal readers, who are probably both related to me, won't turn me in.

1. Neutral Milk Hotel - In the Aeroplane Over the Sea
2. Beach Boys - Sail Plane Song
3. Pavement - Hit The Plane Down
4. Wondermints - Porpoise Song
5. Joe Henry - Ohio Air Show Plane Crash
6. Death Cab For Cutie - President Of What
7. The Kinks - I'm on an Island
8. Rasputina - Thimble Island
9. Radio 4 - Start A Fire
10. AGK - Neon Dog
11. Aimee Mann - Real Bad News
12. The Roswells - Monsters from the Id
13. Les Savy Fav - Tragic Monsters
14. Wilco - Misunderstood
15. Jim White - Static On The Radio
16. Wilco - Be Not So Fearful
17. Destroyer - It's Gonna Take an Airplane
18. Great Lakes - Become the Ship
19. Tom Waits - Lost In The Harbour
20. Golden Smog - Please Tell My Brother
21. Joe Purdy - Wash Away
22. The Conet Project/Belle & Sebastian - Call For Help (Gary Mix) (2.5 MB)

Oodle Doodle?

To use the parlance of the youngsters, WTF? Give it a chance to load. Then fire up your email and please explain it to me.

I mean, okay, I like eggs. They are versatile. They provide a nice emulsifier for many yummy treats. They also aren't bad scrambled or nogged.

But never have I had the brilliant idea to have a bunch of dancing chicken ovum prance around declaring their love for themselves. Nor had I ever thought of dressing them up, especially as some sort of iron spiked S&M king. And that last image of the egg with a nipple, blinking and smiling while a human child sucks out its inner goodness? It horrifies me.

Maybe North Korea did test a nuclear bomb recently. Because something happened to seriously mess up the brains of the South Koreans.

Be Not So Fearful

Gertrude feels with an intensity that should make the rest of us envious. She is so in touch with her emotions that sometimes they seem to come exploding out of her not from an emotional outburst but due to a simple overload.

The love you feel for a child is unlike any you will ever experience in your life. Your entire life becomes loving that child. If it means you will be cold, hungry, thirsty or wet in order for your child to be comfortable, you will do without. You don’t think about it, you don’t even hesitate. You just do. The love you have for a child is the purest, simplest, most basic love you can ever feel. More than you feel for a wife, brother, sister, mother or father. It may be the only unquestioning love you will ever feel.

The love that Gertrude feels, however, consumes her. It bursts out of her with an intense burning. She feels her love strongly and she wants to share that love. She wants to hug her sister, pet the dog, sit on mommy’s lap and stroke daddy’s cheek all at the same time.

But, Gertrude is two. In the daily flow of things for a two year old, she makes mistakes, does things she shouldn’t. Whether it’s dumping the contents of the salt shaker on the table and drawing in the pile of white crystals or trying to ride the dog like a horse, her natural curiosity gets the best of her.

For this she must be corrected. But for Gertrude, being corrected means that she has run afoul of mom and dad. Worse, we may be angry or disappointed. She simply cannot handle this possibility.

She crumples, cries and apologizes profusely, promising she’ll never do it again. (Invariably she does, because a toddler’s curiosity is not wired to a toddler’s sense of right and wrong.)

“Daddy,” she’ll sob, “I so sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise.” And she’ll lay her head on my lap, crying while I assure her that she just made a mistake, that we all make mistakes.

Last night as my wife and I were going to bed, we were discussing Gert’s emotions. And, once again, we realized that a song sums up everything we want to tell her about her feelings. (This kid is going to rebel against music.) This morning she and I listened to it in the car.

“Did you sing this to me when I was a little tiny baby,” she asked.

“No, I didn’t know it back then. But now whenever I hear it I think of you.”

“You think of me?”

“All day long, sweetie.”

“You sing this song and you will hold me in your arms?”

“That’s right. You’ll always be my baby girl. No matter how big you get, I will always hold you in my arms.”

“You will always hold me in your arms?”

“Whenever one of us needs it, I’ll hold you in my arms.”

It was quiet for a while, as we drove down the highway. “Daddy,” she said, “I love you.”

In the rearview mirror I could see on her face that she had the warm feeling of loving and being loved in return. If that, a cookie and a little juice is all you need in this life, you’re not doing too badly.

This is the song we were listening to. It’s written by Bill Fay and performed by Jeff Tweedy. The lyrics are below. And, truly, this is all we wish for our kids.

Be Not So Fearful

Be not so nervous
Be not so frail
Someone watches you
You won't fail

Be not so nervous
Be not so frail
Be not so nervous
Be not so frail

Be not so sorry
For what you have done
You must forget them now
It's done

And when you wake up
You will find that you can run
Be not so sorry
For what you have done

Be not so fearful
Be not so pale
Someone watches you
You won't leave the rails

Be not so fearful
Be not so pale
Be not so fearful
Be not so pale

You must forget them now
It's done

And when you wake up
You will find that you can run
Be not so sorry
For what you have done

Be not so sorry
For what you have done

Jon Stewart Kicks Big Media's Ass

And calls Tucker Carlson a dick, too. (UPDATE: CNN keeps editing the transpcripts, thereby proving the concept of "news" is subject for revision. Ergo, get thee to a Bit Torrent client and download the video. If you don't like Bit Torrent, try a QuickTime here or a variety of formats on the ultra-slow iFilm or WMV here.) But, more importantly, he exposes our media culture as theater, not news. And he says it right to their faces.

Everyone talks about the liberal bias in the media. Say what you will, but that argument ignores the true bias in the media.

Stupidity. Our media is a bunch of stupid, salacious, narcissists who talk more as an exercise in mental masturbation than to actually say something of substance. They're all on the lookout for the next Watergate, Filegate, Marthagate, Weddinggate or Hummergate that instead of focusing and reporting on what's going on, they focus on what might go on, who might be doing it, and whether or not they were wearing pants.

News rarely exists in our media anymore. Punditry does. Partisan bitch-slapping and party whine-fests are what pass as news and commentary. Stewart's right. I'd love to hear an actual debate on television.

But really, do we need to see another pasty, bloated talking head to tell us what their party's guy was saying when he said what he said? If we need a translation of what politicians are saying, if we need it watered down and regurgitated for us, then some people are failing to do their job.

1. The media, for not telling us facts instead of what it all might mean and,

2. Politicians, for loading the world with such a load of bullshit that we'd rather watch Paris Hilton milk a cow.

It's Her Prerogative

"I probably will, Britney Federline, I like that," Spears, 22, told Germany's Bunte magazine on Wednesday. "Society probably won't allow me but I would like to change it."

Um, Brit? That's your publicist that doesn't want you to change your name to match that of the ironic trucker hat wearing mongoloid that you married.

You see, Mrs. Federline, Society is what ended Jim Crow laws. Society is what helped women get the vote. Society is what cause prohibition to be repealed.

Society's wish for you, Mrs. Federline, is to watch you become a bloated, acne-riddled, has-been, trashy whore. And, if you find it encouraging, you're so close to our goal for you! Keep on trying!

Call yourself whatever you want, Mrs. Federline. We'll keep watching the tornado sweep through the trailer park of your life.

Why is your downfall so interesting to Society? Well, Brit . . . There's one thing we like more than a Cinderella story. And that's a comic tragedy. It's our prerogative.

Lunatic Fringe

And yet . . . why do I fear one of my brothers was involved in this?

Guess I'm Dumb

Following up on my post about God Only Knows (and the frightening amount of versions I have) . . .

I was listening to the Wondermints recently. Two members, and one pseudo member, of the Wondermints are members of Brian Wilson’s band. These guys can play Pet Sounds live. They are so good, in fact, that in 1996, before Brian went back to touring or even thought about approaching SMiLE, he saw the Wondermints perform “Surf’s Up” at a tribute to him. Brian said, "If I had these guys in 1967, I could have taken Smile on the road."

Anyway, back in 1996 the Mints were popular on the LA pop scene, but weren’t doing much else in the US. This was before Brian anointed them, so they didn’t get much press. But, as the cliché goes, they were big in Japan. So much so, in fact, that the Japanese asked them to record an album of covers (which are very popular in Japan). And they did.

I got this disc before it was available in the US. I listened to it intently. I know every note on the album.

And I am a complete fool.

I love the album. I know every note. I love Pet Sounds. I know every note.

Then explain to me why the other day, when I was listening to this part of the Wondermint’s version of “Ooh Child”, I never noticed what the horn line was quoting. Not transparent enough? It’s this part of “God Only Knows.”

I’m an idiot. I’m kicking myself right now. Probyn, I apologize for not picking up on your sly references.

Before You Learn to Rock, You Learn to Roller-skate

Since school started, Matilda has been going to a school-sponsored skating party once a month. Mom takes her and a friend and I stay at home with Gertrude doing things that would normally get us in trouble if mom found out we were doing them. (Seriously, I think it’s fine that we play with Crazy Glue. Despite the rumors, it DOES come off. With acetone. So what if we smell like a flammable material? It adds to our mystique.)

When they returned from the first skating party, Matilda’s friend stayed the night. As soon as they walked through the door, they ran to her bedroom to confab about the evening’s events.

“What happened,” I asked mom.

“You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

But I did want to know. Desperately. What was my nine year old daughter up to that required a closed-door conference? I mean, she’s nine. Didn’t they talk about Polly Pocket and My Little Pony or something? Surely that’s all they talked about.

I pressed my wife for details.

“You don’t want to know,” She said. I think she was baiting me. “Fine, but you can’t tell them that I told you. They both like the same boy. And he was there, winning tickets for them at the video games.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you right. There was a boy there? A nice boy who wasn’t trying to show off or anything, right? He was just a generous, kind young man who enjoyed spending time with the girls, right?”

“If that will allow you to keep your fragile grasp of your own alternate reality, then yes. But they like his hair.”

Shortly thereafter I was in the basement in the fetal position.

But this weekend, it got worse. Friday night they went to the party while Gertrude and I innocently ate kettle korn. Little did I know the world was changing.

They came home. The girls went into their closed door conference. Mom debriefed me. They skated for a while, then they met with “Boy 1” who they gave money to win them prizes (and the little bastard did just that). Mom sat knitting and overheard a gaggle of boys discussing who they liked. “I like Matilda,” said one.

It gets worse. Later, she said, over the plangent tones of a sappy teen love song, the roller-DJ announced, “This one goes out to Matilda, from AJ.”

And now my life, as I knew it, is over. I’ve begun barricading the door, stocking up on shotgun shells, training the dog to attack adolescent boys and practicing my “I don’t know if that dude’s sane” look. They may try to date my daughter, but they’ll have to make it by me first.

I’m using the family in the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre as my role models.

So, this one goes out to Matilda from D.A.D.

And this one goes out to the boys.

Hey Hey Hey!

Holy flaming crap on celluloid.

Life's Been Good To Me So Far

How do I know? There's a half-naked toddler traipsing around the house, strumming a broken toy guitar singing:

I'm wearing smelly underwear and I don't care.

She sings until she breaks down into convulsive laughter. If that ain't what life is all about then color me shocked.

Plus, I'm playing with a demo of SoundForge and I'm dangerous. Damn it's fun.

Goddily Knows

Years ago I created a tape for Matilda to drown out the noise of traffic emanating from the road we lived on. For some reason when night fell and the general public went to sleep, ginormous trucks would barrel down the road at breakneck speeds. We often wondered if it was part of some sort of shadow government’s secret shipping policy, but we could never be sure (“When it absolutely has to be there overnight and no one needs to know”).

The tape served Matilda for years and years. She listened to it every night, enjoying such classics as “The House at Pooh Corner”, “Feed the Birds” and “When You Wish Upon a Star”.

Of course, time went on and technology improved. Upon getting my first CD burner, one of the first things I did was burn a new goodnight CD for Matilda. This time I included songs from more diverse bands, such as Chewy Marble and Splitsville, while still retaining some of the classics like Joni Mitchell (and yes Teri, I still feel like I need to spit up when I hear “Circle Game”) and James Taylor.

One of my centerpiece songs was “God Only Knows”. It’s no secret that I love Brian Wilson and I tried to pass that love on to the kids. (My only success, until recently, was Matilda going around massacring the Barenaked Ladies song by singing “combing my hair like Brian Wilson did”). When Gert came along I started her early (actually prior to birth, since she was gestating when my lovely wife and I saw Brian Wilson live). During her colic period there were few things that would calm her. One was my left shoulder. Only my left shoulder. Another was listening to three select Beach Boys songs: “Don’t Worry Baby”, “Please Let Me Wonder” and “God Only Knows”. I’d sing those songs to her and her little eyes would begin to roll up into her head and sleep would overtake her.

Eventually the girls were force to share a room. So, Matilda’s CD became a communal bedtime ritual that was integral to the sleeping process.

As time passed, Gertrude inherited the CD and Matilda moved on to her own music (Oddly, the soundtrack from Return of the King, of all things). One night when Gert was snuggling into bed, “God Only Knows” started to play.

“You know, I sang this song to you when you were a baby.”

“When I was a little tiny baby?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Ever since that day, “God Only Knows” has become her favorite song. (Followed, oddly enough, by Death By Chocolate’s version of Cat Stevens’ “If You Want to Sing Out Sing Out”. It’s a good version, though both are inferior to Ruth Gordon singing it in Harold & Maude. Still, it’s a riot to hear a two year old singing, “If you want to be free, be free.”) Whenever we drive, she insists on hearing the song. Over. And over. And over. For some reason it resonates with her, it’s her Daddy connection. I don’t mind, of course. I mean, I’m thrilled. It’s adorable whenever she sings, “Godilly knows! Godilly knows!”

But even with the best of songs, you need variety. So I made her a new CD with no less than seven versions of the song.

First you have the original version (Gert calls out, “This is the song you sang to me when I was a tiny baby!”). Then, a few songs later, you have a cover version (“Dad! There’s a lady singing!”). A few songs later I really mess with her and use only the stereo vocal track (a cappella) (“DAD! There’s no MUSIC!”). To mess with her sense of the world further, a few songs later it’s the stereo backing track (“DADDY! They aren’t singing!”). After a Wilco song or two you get a live rehearsal from their Hawaii shows in 67 (“Daddy! The song is different!”). Now that I’ve introduced her to a nice variety of versions, I really mess with her. I use a version by a FRENCH singer (“Dad? What the hell?”). And, finally, I go obscure and use the version with an a cappella tag at the end. But, to be honest, she doesn’t notice that. I was going to use the version where Brian sings lead, rather than Carl, but . . . well . . . it just isn’t as moving.

I keep hoping one day she’ll come out and say, “Dad, you know that syncopated part in the bridge? That’s just amazing. The break and tempo of that was unheard of . . . no, it still IS unheard of in popular music. I really get the sense that Brian was trying to erase the boundaries of his genre and create something brand new.”

But, I worry that I’m just really messing with her head. Am I?

Dieu Sait Seulement! El Dios Sabe Solamente! Gott Weiß Nur! Il Dio Sa Soltanto! O Deus Sabe Somente!

Goodbye Hot Dog

Sigh.

I suppose it was appropriate today, given SpaceShip One's accomplishment. Still, I have a special kind of hero worship for the old guys.

Sweet

The XPrize has been won. I watched on TV as a new era of flight took place. Sure, everyone has their doubts about it. But who ever thought two bicycle makers would convince us to fly?

As for everyone who voted in this poll, I have one thing to say. Pussies.

Here’s How it Went

First off, Stereogum is just plain evil for posting this. I’ve been listening all morning and, well, I have to admit that it’s strangely brilliant. Hell, I love Shatner for all his campy goodness and egotistical puffery. To hear! Him! Sing! Common! People! Is! Simply! Brilliant!

Anyway, here’s how it went . . .

Matilda came home from school Tuesday and we chatted for a bit. She went into her room, where I had placed the Hilary Duff CD on her pillow. I heard her gleefully tearing into the packaging and squealing with excitement. She came running down the hallway yelling, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You are the BEST daddy in the entire world!” and she jumped into my arms and hugged me hard.

The sheer joy was infectious. In fact, it managed to trickle throughout the entire house. We all became happy and we sang and danced as we listened to Matilda’s new CD. And, for a brief, shining moment, Hilary Duff’s eponymous CD outshone Brian Wilson’s master work.

Okay. That’s how it happened in my head. Here’s how it really went down.

Matilda came home from school Tuesday and we chatted for a bit. She went into her room, where I had placed the Hilary Duff CD on her pillow. I heard her quietly tearing into the packaging. I waited in the kitchen for her to excitedly come out and excitedly tell me thank you.

I waited five minutes. Then ten. Nothing. Fifteen minutes passed and she went and watched TV without saying a word. So I went back to work. Five o’clock rolled around and I made dinner, still nothing. We chatted about what we were going to eat, but she never mentioned the disc. Mom came home, and nothing. We ate dinner and, nothing. I was steadfast in my refusal to say anything. I did something nice, damn it, and I expected her to, oh I don’t know, thank me.

Mom, however, had different ideas. As they were preparing to go to their knitting group Mom, exercising the subtlety of a hooker with a “Buy one get one free” sandwich board said, “Why don’t you bring a CD with you to listen to in the car.”

A light went on above Matilda’s head. She went to her room, got the CD and showed it to Mom.

“Where’d you get that,” Mom asked.

“It was on my bed.”

“And did it occur to you where it might have come from?”

“Yeah, I figured Daddy put it there.”

“And . . .”

“Oh. Thanks dad.”

I know, in her own way, she was excited. And I know she was honestly appreciative. Just not . . . effusive. Or emotional at all. But in her way, she was happy about what I did.

I just didn’t get the reaction I wanted. And, I suppose, the days of her little girl glee are over. But, still . . . I suppose I could dream.

And I have the dog. Hell, he has that little girl excitement every time I walk into the room.

“You’re HERE! Great! Want to play ball? Want to pet me? Want to rub my belly? Want to play chase? I’ll wrestle! I can wrestle! Let me sniff your ass! I’ll shove my snout in your crotch! I haven’t seen you since you left the room for the kitchen. I love you! Woo hoo! Oops. I peed on the floor.”