SOD: Tesla Boy "Neon Love"

The new wave and synth-pop genres that began in the 70's and came to fruition in the 80's have never really fallen off the map since then, but they're certainly experiencing an explosion in new acts today. Groups like Empire of the Sun caught on quite quickly, and for every popular name in the genre, there's a dozen more unknown ones, and new groups springing up all the time.

All of the music sounds very similar. I don't say this to try and discredit the artists, but I don't even see that much variation between them and their progenitors aside from the fact that the original acts were better. I mean acts like The Cure and Depeche Mode were very fresh when they hit the scene. And they were trying to figure out where all this new keyboard driven sound could go, being that it had become even a possibility only a decade earlier. But since then, there haven't been many strides taken. In many instances the music is a straight regurgitation of itself, and many of the acts today have even  made vocals sparse. This is when it becomes impossible to tell one act from another, as nobody has a distinguishing sound. In my opinion, this is especially not a good thing.

But there's always a contingent of people who will board the train. This music has retained and even grown in popularity, so that has to say something. Personally, I can listen to some of it, and even songs like this one which, are quite generic, has its time and place for me. I often enjoy listening to this stuff when I'm working, or just need some kind of ambient sound to calm and focus me. I know this doesn't say a lot for the music but still, it does serve a purpose and that has to be worth something I suppose.

I think a lot of the issues I have with this music also surround the fact that it does not lend itself to live performances. Sure, a guy can get up there with a laptop and keyboard, but I'm talking about that full band feel, not hitting the space bar or clicking a mouse to do any or all of the work. And that lack of performing something live and real, takes the life right out of the music. It draws no breath, and has no ability to take on a personality all it's own (good or bad), because so much about the piece is predetermined and prerecorded.  However, in fairness to this Russian trio, they do actually play their instruments live, and at times in the past have even employed a guitarist for the road I believe. Check it out if your curious about their live performances: Live at Crystal Hall                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Neon Love - Tesla Boy [ HD ]

SOD: Mother Love Bone "Chloe Dancer / Crown of Thorns"

If you haven't seen the "PJ20" documentary, the beginning of it has a nice little section about Mother Love Bone. Frontman Andrew Wood was the personality and forceful charisma of that band, and if it were not for his death, they may have become what Pearl Jam did. But alas, Mr. Wood chased the dragon, and the dragon got the better of him. Guitarist Stone Gossard and bassist Jeff Ament were left with a band minus the heart, and quickly disbanded. As Stone wrote new material, he teamed up with another Seattle based guitarist, Mike McCready. McCready convinced Stone to reconnect with Jeff Ament, and they sent a couple demo's out. One found its way into the hands of a very young gas station attendent named Eddie Vedder (by way of Jack Irons, the Red Hot Chilli-Peppers drummer at the time). While in San Diego, Eddie recorded demo vocals to three songs, "Alive," "Once," and "Footsteps," and sent the demo back to the boys in Seattle. The rest as they say, is history. 


It's a story that has a clear beginning, albeit a tragic one. Two bands fates completely dependent on one another. Had Andrew Wood not taken that extra dose lets say, we might be celebrating Mother Love Bone's twentieth anniversary. Then again, they could've disbanded after only one album anyway. But his death opened the door for one of the most iconic rock bands in history, to even exist. I don't know about you, but looking back two decades on a defining moment, and realizing that all the brilliant music that came after it was based on that one happenstance, gives me pause for thought.

Now this is hardly the only example of instances of this kind, it happens constantly. I'm a Jets fan, so I remember clearly in 2001 when LB Mo Lewis hit Patriots Quarterback Drew Bledsoe, shearing a blood vessel in his chest. At that time, QB Tom Brady was a sixth round compensatory pick, not expected to see any playing time. Not that season at least. And New England loved Drew Bledsoe. He had just signed a then record setting ten year, $103 million contract. But Mo Lewis got to him. In that one moment, when Lewis slammed into Bledsoe, he opened the door for arguably the best Quarterback of our generation to even get a shot. Had he not been injured, Brady may never have even played a day in the NFL, or if he did, it almost definitely wouldn't have been for the Patriots. And because of that one hit, Brady has gone on to win 3 Superbowls, 2 Superbowl MVP awards, and 2 NFL MVP awards. Ain't that a bitch?

Now I know this all has nothing to do with this Mother Love Bone, but hey, I get carried away sometimes. What I will say, is when I came to work today, I set my tens of thousands of songs library, on random. "Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns" was the first to come up. I don't know why, but it was. Could that have altered the course of my day, week, or life? Probably not.

It's a great song, and a clear example of Andrew Wood's emotive and powerful voice. There is no doubt in my mind that they could  have been successful, but that's just not what the cards had in store. So we're left with one album from these guys, and a thousand scenarios of what may or may not have happened. Yea, that definitely gives me pause for thought.

Mother Love Bone - Chloe Dancer / Crown of Thorns

SOD: Anders Osborne "Louisiana Gold"

I saw Anders last thursday at Brooklyn Bowl. There's nothing like seeing this guy live. He's reinvented the power trio. Seriously. The show is intense. It's fun, and it's lively. Like Dylan, his live shows display different takes on songs, than the album versions. Who wants to hear what they can throw on the ipod any old time? Anders is much more raw, powerful, and driving than he is on his usually laid back albums. Neither is better, both are amazing.

But Black Eye Galaxy is different. This new album is his most produced and cleanest yet, but it doesn't lose that natural Anders style and sound. In fact, they got some very gritty and distorted sounds from Anders on this album. Songs like "Black Tar" and "Send Me A Friend," immediately catapult to the top of Anders true harder Rock tunes. They'll get you in a mood, let me tell you. I found myself walking home from work yesterday with a little kick in my step, daring the world to fuck with me.

But then songs like this one and "Tracking My Roots"(Live in Cambridge, MA) which is my favorite so far, are what seal the deal for me. His ability to seamlessly transfer between the heartfelt, straight up, honest song, and the fire-breathing rock jams, gives him a very powerful grasp over your emotions. That's a big part of why the live concerts can be so powerful. If he is ever "in town," you need to go, and if you can honestly tell me you did not have a great time, I'll buy you a round.

Anders Osborne - Louisiana Gold

SOD: Nina Simone "To Love Somebody"

She has such a unique voice. It's certainly powerful and soulful, and tenor low. It's so definable, and never mistaken. "Sinnerman" was an early track I heard that sold me, but I never really got in too deep. A couple years ago I bought her album To Love Somebody, and was pleasantly surprised by her ability to do covers. Like the later Baltimore which I also enjoy, her song choices are eclectic, and her styles varied. It's a fun little departure from the music I usually listen to, and unless you listen to Nina Simone on the reg, I'd guess you'd feel the same.

Nina Simone has been a soul icon for a long time, but she's far more than that. She's a classically trained pianist, and a master and incorporator of many styles not limited to the gospel, blues, jazz, folk, and even counterpoint. Her songs have incredible depth, and can dance between large, orchestral sounds, and simple silences. It's no wonder she has influenced so many artists from so many different genres. Artists like Cat Stevens and Maynard James Kennan, to Janis Joplin and Mary J. Blige. And though I haven't listened to her too extensively, the albums and songs I have heard are never disappointing.

Nina Simone "To love somebody"

SOD: Jimmy Fallon, Carly Rae Jepsen, The Roots "Call Me Maybe"

Yes I know, we all want to hang ourselves when we hear this song. And I've tried for a long time to hate Jimmy Fallon. I even met him in an elevator once at Sound One when The Weinstein Company was doing the animated feature "Doogal." I believe he was the voice of the "Dylan the Rabbit." Coincidence? Fuck yea. And do yourself a favor, stay away from that movie.

And when Jimmy's late night show came on air, I berated and lambasted it with all my friends, very typically. I just didn't think the guy was that funny, except in the occasional Mick Jagger SNL skit. It wasn't "cool" to like Jimmy Fallon. Why should that pretentious ass get his own late night show. Who the hell would even watch him! But then again, he had The Roots as a house band. Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me? And I thought it wouldn't last, did anyone? But it did. And I'd tune in from time to time because the musical numbers and interludes throughout the show were fun. I'd just pop in from time to time. But as I watched, somewhere along the line Jimmy Fallon became a little less of a douche, and a little more endearing. "Wait a doggone second here," I said to myself. Was I actually warming up to Jimmy "That Fuck" Fallon? Impossible.

Well, not impossible. Unlikely, yes. Then again so is a Tsunami and look at what happened there. And I'll still tune in from time to time if I flip past it, but I find myself enjoying his bits a little more, and heck, he's still got the Roots. Who by the way are great in this video.

At first I thought, "really, do they have to play the whole song?" But that actually gave me time to focus on each of the players. First off, I now know what Questlove (far left) looks like when he holds a penis. I fully blame this flub on him, it was a poor choice in instruments. I expected more from him. And you definitely have to watch this video twice. On the second pass, focus all your attention on "Frank Knuckles" on the bongos (back left). With that smile he belongs on a Jamaican Department of Tourism commercial. Was that racist? It wasn't intended to be. Tuba Gooding Jr. on the kazoo and recorder wins the contest for best name, but Black Thought (back center on tambourine), wins the "coolest cat" award. Black Thought is the lyricist for The Roots, and the fucking guy makes everything look good. From playing the tambourine, to fedoras, to breathing. He just does everything a little cooler than the next guy.

And this video isn't anything special, but on a Monday after a hell of a weekend, I need mindless enjoyment in the few moments I get to surf the web. This did the trick.

Jimmy Fallon, Carly Rae Jepsen & The Roots Sing "Call Me Maybe" (w/ Clas...

The Apology

Have you ever caught yourself in the act of saying something, and wondered why the hell you were saying it? It's a frightening feeling. It's too late, and you know it, the words have been spilled into life, and you will be judged. I've found myself in this position before, albeit rarely. I've definitely said some controversial things before, but I've always meant to say them. Either for a little shock value in a comedic story, or because I just plain believe it. 

But once in a while, you're in that position of spectator to your own life. Watching as you spew these words you don't really mean, and never meant to say. Now, the only thing left for you is damage control. You assess what you've done, and think about how to start cleaning up the mess. It's a bit like BP after the oil spill, but I'm no Tony Hayward. I know the impact of the disaster I just caused is not "likely to have been very, very modest." When you hurt someone's feelings, they remember that forever. Sure you can be forgiven, but that feeling is not "forgettable." Because to hurt someone's feelings means the care about you, and your opinion in the first place, and nobody wants to be let down by someone they love. 

An apology is always in order, but to inundate the wronged with them is inappropriate and awkward. I think a solemn and honest apology, untainted by any form of excuse, is usually the best approach. And unless you need to pickup the pieces up of something you broke, it's probably best to excuse yourself from their presence. That is unless you're asked to stay. But if they want to pick a fight, go with the literal excusal of yourself.

I sometimes have a knack for making a situation worse. I think it's fair to say that usually I can make it better, at least that's what anyone hopes of themselves, no? But there are times that I've dug my hole a little deeper because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I don't mean to, my intentions are pure, but that does not translate to my behavior. That's always a real bummer. But hey, it happens. And I'm pretty sure it'll happen again. Not sure when, but I hope not soon. And I'm aware that this was a very generalized and nondescript way of conveying my feeling on something. There's not an example or even reference to incident in any of this. I know that. It's more my "philosophy" on the subject (think "Vinnie" in My Blue Heaven ). But it's also a round about way of saying "I'm sorry."

SOD: Dennis Wilson "Rainbows"

Often called the "Dark Horse" of the Beach boys, Dennis Wilson was the middle child of the Wilson beach boys. He was also the only real surfer of the group, personifying the attitude and themes that the group often covered in their songs. You could say he was the only literal "beach boy."

His solo album Pacific Ocean Blue (1977) was critically acclaimed, and I loved it from the moment I first heard it. Johnny burned me a copy of the album, and I was truly surprised by how much I enjoyed it. I have to admit, I find the beach boys to be a bit too much for my taste. Their in-your-face harmonies, and overtly happy and optimistic music is just a little too contrived for me. They admit to intentionally creating music geared towards making people feel happy and positive. So if their pigeonholing themselves into that structure, there's not a lot of room for other emotions or diversity in their work. I need a little more grit. Plus, Mike Love is an asshole. 

But Dennis Wilson was onto something with his solo effort. He's still got the beach boy vocals going, but it's all done a bit less dramatically. And though I suppose the music is somewhat as beachy, I was much more readily able to connect with this album, than any beach boys album I'd heard in the past. I think some of it has to do with Wilson's more earthy voice, and the fact that not every song was geared towards that "good vibration." But hey, that's just one man's opinion.

Rainbows is apparently about being happy, and being alive. It's a melodic tune full of those patented beach boys harmonies. But Dennis Wilson's raspy, intuitive vocals are a standout, and certainly make the song and album for me. I would recommend it to beach boy and non-beach boy fans alike, because I think everyone can take a page out of its book, or at least find something to appreciate.

Rainbows - Dennis Wilson (Pacific Ocean Blue)

SOD: Blitzen Trapper "Furr"

This Portland based country/folk band was introduced to me by a friend after I sent him a Band Of Heathens song called LA County Blues (it's about Hunter S. Thompson, I mean how awesome is that). "Furr" was the song he sent me, and after that I started digging a little deeper, intrigued by what I'd heard. Turns out, these guys have been around since 2000. Of the five man lineup, Eric Earley (guitar/harmonica/vocals/keyboard) seems to be the band leader, and writer of most of their original material. And though their sound is somewhat par for the course as far as indy folk/rock goes these days, there is a quality to these guys that makes them worth the time. The lyrics are well crafted, the music is accessible and offers a simple kind of enjoyment, making them a great band for those lazy summer days at the beach, or on the deck.

They've got six full length albums to date, but Furr is my favorite. It's rife with imagery and quality storytelling. Songs like "Black River Killer," and "Gold for Bread" have made it onto many of my playlists. And the song "Furr" is no slouch either. It was the first track I heard by them, and the song that turned me onto the band. Sometimes all it takes is one good song, and there's nothing like a first impression.

Blitzen Trapper - Furr (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

Your Civic Duty

"It's your civic duty." That's what they keep telling me about this Jury Duty business. Just like voting. But that's about all the two things share in common. Voting is very non-intrusive. It's held behind closed doors (or curtains), you don't have to reveal which side you went towards, and besides the line that you sit in to get to the booth, you're in, out, and on your way.

Jury Duty is a nightmare. Frankly, I think the system is an inexcusable mess, especially federal jury duty, which I'm currently in the midst of serving. Your "sentence," as I like to call it, is for two weeks, no matter what. That is unless you're selected to a jury on a case, then you're really fucked. But as I learned yesterday, I could sit on a panel and subsequently be released from that particular panel, and still have to call in every night after 5pm, to see if you're scheduled to come in the following day. It's disorganized, and very inconvenient. It's also highly invasive.

When seated on the pannel, potential jurors are asked a whole slew of general personal questions, and then depending on what the case is about, an additional set of intrusive queries. Things like occupation (or lack thereof and if you were fired or resigned), marital status, level of schooling, where you live, if you have children and whether or not they live with you and, what their occupations are, age, disabilities you may have, etc. I think you get my point. They look to explore the ins and outs of your personal life, right there in front of 50 other potential jurors. For some people, it is understandably jarring.

Fortunately, it's not everyday. You have to call in after 5pm every night for two weeks to see if you need to report the next day, but you won't be selected everyday. If you're selected to a jury though, well, then you're screwed. You could wind up sitting on that jury for over a month. For some people, this can be highly detrimental to their careers, especially those who earn hourly wages. The only compensation the courts give you is $40/day. $40 a day, no internet, and a crowded room of pissed off New Yorkers. That sounds more dangerous than being held up in a Harlem bodega. And they have the nerve to call this your civil duty.

SOD: Patti Smith "Because The Night"

Once in a while, my father asks me to burn a mix cd for him. I used to do it more frequently, but he kindly asked me to stop. I would try to update his listening by giving him new music I thought he might like, mixed with some old classics I knew he liked. You know, expand his horizons and what not. He wasn't biting. He got sick of some of the "crap" I was wasting space on the cd's with, even if once in a blue moon I gave him something he actually enjoyed.

So now, he gives me "lists." About twice a year, I'll get a call from him and he'll say, "Ok, I've got my list, you got a pen? Make sure you put them in this order on the CD, ok?" And I will proceed to write down the songs he has selected for his next mix. Yesterday, the summer mix came in. Much of it was typical (Rolling Stones, The Animals, Springsteen, Warren Zevon), but some of it was a bit surprising (Band of Horses, White Stripes, Phil Collins, The Troggs). But neatly squeezed between two of my own original pieces he asked me to include (one he helped write), was a real choice cut. Patti Smith, "Because the Night." Track #9 on Big Fat's Summer Playlist.

Granted, this song is no hidden gem. It peaked at #13 on the Billboard Hot 100, and propelled Smith's  album Easter, into the mainstream. But I must say, I haven't heard the song in quite some time, and I'm a bit ashamed to admit that when I listen to it, I usually listen to the 10,000 maniacs version or the Bruce Springsteen Live version. After all, he co-wrote the song. But after putting it on my fathers mix, I gave it a once over, and I have to say, Patti's version is how the song was meant to be played. It's painfully beautiful both in that opening piano lick, and in it's lyrics. But its gains a forceful momentum, and a strength in music and character that only Patti can do as well as "The Boss" himself. The woman is truly a rockstar.

Springsteen originally wrote and recorded the song during sessions for Darkness on the Edge of Town, and I can absolutely see this song fitting into that album somewhere. But Bruce wasn't satisfied with it, and because Jimmy Iovine was apparently producing both Bruce's and Patti's albums in adjacent studios, he brought the song next door to her. After re-writing some of the lyris, Smith released it as the first single off Easter, and propelled the song to stardom. Bruce occasionally played it on the Darkness tour, and continued to play it live thereafter, with his own lyrics of course. Both versions are undeniably amazing, but I will definitely be giving Smith's version more air time now.                                                                                                                              

Patti Smith Group ~ Because The NIght

SOD: Blind Melon "No Rain"

I was ten years old when this song and video came out. Both were equally impacting. I'll forever remember this video as "the one with the girl in the bumble bee outfit." Of course at ten, I didn't understand it really, and the idea of being an outcast or standing apart from society, went largely unnoticed. In 1995 when lead singer Shannon Hoon died of a cocaine overdose, I didn't really understand what that meant either. I just knew he was another rockstar who got swept up in the drug culture like most of them did, and ultimately died from it. Another lesson as to why drugs are bad. But they're not really. You see, people have to actually make the conscious choice to do drugs, so it's people that are bad. Or stupid. Drugs are just there. Like fast food. Whether you choose to indulge in them or not, and in what amount is up to you. If you know how to control yourself, and understand what moderation is, then no, drugs are not bad. Granted, that ideology might be difficult with harder drugs like cocaine and heroin, but my point is that you can't just tell kids "Drugs are bad, don't do drugs," you have to make them understand that it's a decision, a choice that they make and are responsible for, and it's not black and white. Help them understand what drugs do to people, and to their mind and body. Educate them on making the right decisions, which isn't always the all out exclusion of all substances. To tell a bunch of rebellious teenagers not to smoke pot, is practically an invitation to do so. In their eyes at least.

But I've gone a bit off topic now. This usually happens to me when I hear this song or think about this band though, because it was one of the first times in my life that I really thought about this stuff. I was twelve, the "Blind Melon guy" had OD'd, and he was the frontman of a band I really liked. This wasn't like hearing stories about Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin from my mom and dad, this actually happened in my lifetime, and I was affected by it. It was sixth grade, and we were being inundated with drug talks, pamphlets and seminars. But none of it was real. Shannon Hoon's death was.

"No Rain" is such a beautiful, light-hearted, and happy song to be associated with something so sad. But alas, this is indicative of the world in which we live. If this is how Blind Melon is remembered, at least even by me, then I'd say Hoon's legacy is better than most. I still feel good every time I listen to this song, and clearly, I still think about his life and it's tragic end. In a strange way I think he even became a lesson to me. Not necessarily in what not to do, but in what can happen if you're not in control. And he was not in control as he had problems with drugs and the law for a very long time.

An interesting tidbit regarding Hoon, is that his sister's high school friend was Axl Rose. Axl invited him into the studio when they were recording the Use Your Illusion and Use Your Illusion II albums. Hoon actually sang backing vocals on a few of the tracks like "The Garden," and appeared in the video (as well as sang) for "Don't Cry."

Blind Melon - No Rain

Knife to a Gunfight

I walked the streets a bit after work yesterday. Meandered my way home, but took a different route, and as I came upon a row of benches on the North side of Madison Square Park, I saw two guys talking. They were about my age, and one was leaning back on the bench, arms spread wide, gut stuck out, in a restful position. Not a care in the world did he appear to have. His presumed friend however, was encroaching on his space. Leaning forward, gesturing with his hands, I could see he was explaining something. A few moments later I was within earshot. I heard the man leaning forward say "I want to be the guy who wins a gunfight with a knife." He paused, and stared intently at his friend, but his friend gave nothing back. He just sat their, gut stuck out, eyes set forward in an uninterestred stare. And then I was out of earshot again.

I want to be the guy who wins a gunfight with a knife. I thought about it for the rest of my walk. Did he mean he wanted to be heroic, or beat the odds in a tough situation? Or was he implying that he wanted to challenge himself, and come out on the other end stronger for it. Whatever it was, I fell in love with the line. It was the kind of phrase I wish I'd thought of myself. Granted, I'm prone to brief flashes of insightfulness and literary wit. But this was different. This was real. And it was how the man had said it, so impassioned. He believed it. He truly believed it for all he was worth. It was a profound moment for that guy. Maybe his friend didn't see it, or maybe he didn't care. Or maybe I misread the entire situation as we often do when we merely overhear a small bit of conversation. For all I know he could have been quoting someone. And though I wish I could've eavesdropped a bit longer, the brief moment I did catch was absolutely perfect.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

The Courtship of the Heavenly R

I ride the subway a lot. Most New Yorkers do, unless you don't mind wasting your hard earned bucks on cabs, or your filthy rich and take town cars and limos everywhere. But if you're a common man or woman as most of us are, you know the subway system of NYC pretty well. It is the fastest and cheapest way to get around, hands down. And for all the bitching we do, it is a very diverse system that when running smoothly, is actually a convenience that other cities lack. So cheers to the good old MTA.

A New York City subway can also be one of the most rotten places on earth. Vagrants set up shop in it like it's their own personal studio apartment (bathroom included), and the smells that can wash over you at any given time are more intense than a fishmarket in june. People eat a buffet of disgusting fare on it, and leave their leftovers under the seats. People cram in at rush hour, bumping, touching, sweating, panting, coughing, hacking, and rubbing, making it as uncomfortable as a burlap jockstrap. They holler and curse, preach and beg, or just plainly converse with their friends and companions at an unacceptably high volume. No sane person would put themselves through anything remotely close to this on a daily basis, much less pay for it. But then again, we're New Yorkers.

I used to take the 1, 2, and 3 trains religiously. Anywhere I needed to go (home, work, entertainment, etc.) could be accessed by the "red line" as I call it, and if it wasn't, I'd just take one of said trains to the closest possible point to my destination, and hoof it the rest of the way. But since I moved, I am no longer bound to the west side, and I found myself exploring new colors. The "green line" (4, 5, and 6 trains) opened up a world of possibility on the east, but I find the service is not as consistent. The train cars are much nicer though. The "orange line" (B,D,F,M) is still mostly a mystery to me, as I've largely avoided it aside from going to Yankee Stadium on the B or D. The "blue line"(A, C, E) essentially ran parallel to the "red line" in the areas that I frequented, but it was just less convenient and overall less reliable so, fuck that. Now, I'm all about the "yellow line." The N, R, Q, W. It kind of just rolls off the tongue, NRQW. Specifically, I find myself on the R train more than anything.

Yellow is the color of cowards. The color of fear. It's also the color that says "I'm into water sports" if you wear a yellow colored bandana to a gay bar. But that's a bit off topic and color (no pun intended). Yellow pretty much sums up my riding experience these days, and the R train is at the heart of it. Late at night, the Herald Square stop becomes a homeless haven. There's one man I see their frequently who reeks of rot and filth, and is hellbent on annoying the shit out of anyone stupid enough to stand near him. He hollers at people, makes disgusting noises with his pursed lips, and can't help but muster up feelings of disgust and hatred in all who have the pleasure of looking upon him. Once you board the train, happy to escape the putrid platform, you may be in store for something far worse. Bums on the train. Though usually docile in the sense that they've passed out cold, it often means that they've pissed and shat themselves as well. In this instance, you enter into a contest with yourself to see how long you can hold your breath before arriving at the next station and car jumping to escape the nightmare. That's always fun.

But the R isn't always a beast. Sometimes it can be kind. It's often not crowded, and the service has been pretty good since I've begun riding. There's not an abundance of panhandling as there was on the "red line" which, is always a plus. I think everyone can agree when riding the subway, it's best to be left in peace. The people riding the R train at the times I normally do are also often of good demeanor. They're not loud, they keep to themselves. They're usually heading to or from work, reading, listening to music, or watching their 4 inch mind erasing devices. There's also not a lot of kids, which means you don't have a lot of raucous behavior and chances are you won't get stepped on, elbowed, or accidentally sack-tapped (that has happened to me before - I caught an errant soccer cleat to the groin). There's also not a lot of door holding for friends, as the people traveling are not in large groups. Like I said, they're usually heading home from work and they don't have the energy to play games. At least on the few stops I ride it for. The red line had a plethora of young packs of heathens, looking to cause trouble or just make noise. Two things I don't invite after a long day, though I can acknowledge I was of that mindset once too. So in the grand scheme of things, I can't really complain too much about my new line, because it's treated me pretty fairly as far as the subway goes.

It's a dance. A mating ritual. A courtship. Just like "elevator karma," I definitely believe in "subway karma" as well. Do unto your subway, as you would have done to you. Just respect the steel beast, keep your head down, and ride her 'til your stop done come. Don't litter, don't eat smelly food and leave samples of it behind, and don't make the ride uncomfortable for others. Let the people getting off, out of the subway first, then enter (same goes for elevators), and give up seats to handicap, elderly, and people with kids. Fat people do not get special privileges in my book, in fact I think they should have to stand to make room for people who eat normal portions. Like carry-on restrictions in airports, if your ass don't neatly fit in one seat, you don't get to overspill into a second. Basically, like Spike Lee said, "do the right thing," and maybe this journey gets a little easier for us all.

SOD: John Prine "She Is My Everything"

How can you not like this song. Even if it's not your kind of music, it's got to make you smile. The lyrics are childishly clever, but perfectly crafted. He has a very good sense of what he wants to say, and I think the message in most all his songs (at least that I know) comes through clearly, but never in an overtly literal, or forced way. Just listen to songs like "Angel from Montgomery," or "Illegal Smile." For that matter, listen to his entire self-titled debut album. He's very poetic. At one point, he was even being referred to as the next Bob Dylan.

 But this song is a simple gem. You don't have to make it out to be more than it is, to enjoy it. He rhymes "Copenhagen," with "Eggs and Bacon." He rhymes "karate" with "Maserati," and "eveready (batteries)" with "going steady." Not your typical lyrical fodder in a folk song I'd say. And because of that, I'll never forget how wide I smiled when I first heard the song. I had to listen to it again and again until I knew all the words by heart. It was just that fun to sing along to. And sometimes, that's all it takes. Here, give it a try:

She is my everything
From her suntanned shoulders
Down to the freckles
On her wedding ring
Here feet are so warm
They could melt the snow
In the early Spring
She is my everything

She goes everywhere from Copenhagen
To making eggs and bacon down in Jackson Square
I'd like to drive a Cadillac
The color of her long black hair
She goes everywhere

Kisses that come all the way from China
Kinda remind her of memories of Spain
If I get lost you can always find her
Standing right beside me in the rain

She uses Eveready batteries to keep
Her electrical appliances going steady
She can do fourteen things at one
And then the phone'll ring
She is my everything

She know everybody
From Muhammad Ali
To teaching Bruce Lee
How to do karate
She can lead a parade
While putting on her shades
In her Masarati
She know everybody

Kisses that come all the way from China
Kinda remind her of memories of Spain
If I get lost you can always find her
Standing right beside me in the rain

She is my everything
When she wakes up in the morning
That's when the birdies
Start to sing
When I hear her voice
I'll tell you boys
I forget everything
She is my everything
She is my everything...

She Is My Everything - John Prine

SOD: New Order "Ceremony"

After Ian Curtis' death by suicide in 1980, the band known as Joy Division became New Order. Probably most famous for a little tune called "Blue Monday"(maybe you know it), New Order went on to see some real success in the Post Punk/New Wave age. They even started playing together again last year (after a four year break), with a modified lineup.

Joy Division was an amazing outfit. They may have been inspired by punk (like the Sex Pistols), but I like to think they were more effected by it given their rise in the late 70's. That conveniently allows them to fit the mold of a post-punk group perfectly, but there is a uniqueness to their sound that has never been seen again. Most of that came from Ian Curtis.

When I worked at the Weinstein Company, we did a black & white film called Control, which was a biographical account of Ian Curtis and the band. I enjoyed working on the film, and the film itself is entertaining for both fans of the band, and newcomers alike. When it was released in 2007 I knew little about Joy Division. After learning about them through the film, and seeing Sam Riley's incredible portrayal of Curtis, I was intrigued. I found myself wondering what would have become of the band if Ian Curtis hadn't taken his own life. What we got in reality was a look at what happened because he did. This was New Order.

New Order has some tacky stuff. But they balanced that by creating some very influential music. "Ceremony" came out before they went to a much more synthesizer based sound, the sound that they're better known for. But Ceremony was the groups original release. It was a song that was written weeks before Curtis committed suicide, and thus, sounds very much like a Joy Division song. The album Movement (1981), retains the dark, brooding sound of Joy Division, but you can hear the influence of synthesizers on it, foreboding what was to come. New Order went on to become a very big band in the 80's, but I still prefer Joy Division any day of the week.

New Order - Ceremony

Christopher Park (Pt. 2)

Heading downtown again this morning, I passed my favorite "gallery of strange," Christopher Park. This time it wasn't filled with the usual fare of degenerate or delusional humans, the people actually looked somewhat normal. Somewhat.

First off, I got to start my day with a laugh which is always preferred to tears. As my cab approached the park and was stopped before the intersection, a strange scene unfolded. There were two white tourists (probably Germans), taking pictures of the ugly white humanoid statues. But pointing and kind of snickering at them was an Asian couple. I'm sorry for making this a racial thing, but I just can't help myself. There's something wrong with this picture. Shouldn't the Aryan race be laughing at the Asians for snapping shots? After all, everyone knows Asians take way too many pictures of everything. This has been going on since the dawn of my time. So I wonder, is this a sign of the Times 'A Changin', or simply a brief anomaly in a city full of them? Maybe the irony of that scene doesn't tickle you like it tickles me. Or maybe you just think I'm racist now.

But also in the park on this lovely morning was a kid and his dog. Just a couple of pals, chumming it up. The kid was no more than 16, the mutt probably the same age in dog years. He had the dog on one of those retractable leashes, and at first it was pretty much completely wound up. The dog was itching to get some space, and when the kid finally let the leash go slack, the dog sprung into action, lunging at a pair of pigeons that were picking at the ground. The birds narrowly escaped, and judging by the smirk on the boys face, and the dogs wagging tail, both were sufficiently amused. The boy then wound up the leash again, assumedly preparing for round two.

And then the light turned green, and we were off again. Another brisk moment at Christopher Park.

SOD: Fleetwood Mac "Gypsy" (pt. 2)

Stevie Nicks has been getting a lot of face time in my world. Or maybe that's "ear time" really, because she's been heavily played by Mike and Kimi for the past year and a half. "Gypsy," has by far gotten the most attention, but Stevie's solo stuff and Fleetwood Mac in general have both gotten more than their due.

I'm not sure when it all started with Gypsy, but somewhere along the line it became an anthem of sorts. Whenever a select group of us are together, in an apartment, bar, or anywhere with a speaker, this song gets playtime. And never just a single play, we're talking multiple takes. And that could get annoying, but there's something so genuine and sentimental in the moment that never lets it get too old. We get oddly nostalgic about the present. Almost like we're aware that these are the good times, the glory days, the moments we'll look back on in twenty years and feel truly nostalgic about. The way Kimi will drop whatever she's doing to sway like Stevie Nicks on stage, or how Mike immediately closes his eyes, tilts his head back and belts out that all to familiar opening line:


        So I'm back, to the Velvet Underground, 
        Back to the floor, that I love
        To a room with some lace and paper flowers,
        Back to the gypsy that I was
        To the gypsy, that I was.


It really is a good song. And for us, at this point, we need only hear that single, opening note to know exactly when it's on. In those ensuing five minutes, life gets put on hold so we can all dance and sing, arms around shoulders, together. Yes, this sounds incredibly lame, but hey, sometimes what seems lame from the outside is a completely different experience when you're within.

I think we spend a large amount of time not doing what we really want to do, because we're afraid to let people see that side of us. That vulnerability of letting people know what we really want in our hearts can be scary. But once in a while, something happens where we can't help but expose ourselves. Once in a while a little gem like "Gypsy" will come on, and a wacky bunch of twenty-somethings like us will let those freak flags fly for a couple minutes. And the bar will point, stare, and snicker, but we won't care. We'll be on the inside, living in that moment that makes all other moments worth it. And when the song is over, we'll go back to our beers and conversation. The bar tender will look at us a little funny, but he'll still serve us, and in the end we'll all be a little happier and a little closer for it.

Fleetwood Mac - Gypsy [Official Music Video] [1982] [High Quality]

SOD: Thelma Houston "Don't Leave Me This Way"

You've gotta love those Disco one-hit wonders of the seventies. This one actually won the 1978 Grammy for best female R&B vocal performance. And while Thelma wasn't really a "one-hit" wonder by standard, this was by far her most successful piece of work. She's lasted through the years, but never again did she break into the top of the charts like that.

What a lot of people don't know is that this song is actually a cover. It was first a hit for Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes in 1975. And guess who had the lead vocals on it? None other than the enchanting Teddy Pendergrass. Their version reached #3 on the US Billboard Disco charts, and #5 on the UK singles chart. Not too shabby.

But Thelma's version was the most impacting. It's known by damn near everyone, and to this day, it's still a great pre-game/party song. I mean come on, how could you not want to get down and boogie to this? My mom does, I do, and my kids just might. Oddly enough though, the song became far more than a great dancing tune, it actually became an anthem. For the AIDS epidemic in gay communities. Essentially it became a gay-male theme song, representing their struggle and fight against one of the most brutal viruses in history. I guess they were trying to say, "Hey, I should've used a condom and been more selective about who I stuck it in, but please, dont leave me this way, sick and abandoned, alone and scared." Whew, that's even heavy for me...

On a lighter note, take a look at the crowd in this video. Most of them do NOT look like they have any business stepping foot on a dance floor. And of that contingent, many of them don't look like they ever have. Check out the guy at 3:10. Paul Bunyan took a wrong turn at Albuquerque for sure. Somehow he wound up here, but I've got to say, he looks oddly okay with it. Whether or not Thelma is, well that's another story.

Happy Friday.

Thelma Houston - Don't leave me this way 1977

SOD: Iggy & The Stooges: Gimme Danger

Iggy Pop was (is) the driving force behind The Stooges, but in my opinion, James Williamson was the driving force behind their sound (at least on one album). The album Raw Power features him as the lead guitarist for the first and only time, moving Ron Asheton, the groups original guitarist, over to Bass Guitar. I think it's their best album, and it's raw power is literally tangible. It's so stripped down, and if it weren't for solid songwriting, it would probably be a complete mess. But the more you listen to it, the more you realize how unique and special the album is. It was a forerunner to the emerging punk scene in the mid-seventies and you can literally hear how punk could evolve from this gritty sound.

David Bowie noticed it, and he got involved on this album too. That was huge. Iggy was in London with Williamson, and they wrote the entire album together. They then brought in the Asheton brothers as a rhythm section, and recorded it, down and dirty. One of the best descriptions of the session comes from Bowie himself who actually mixed the album. He said it was the first time he worked with Iggy, and the situation was ridiculous. Apparently they used 3 of the available 24 tracks: one for the band, one for Iggy's voice, and one for lead guitar. Not a lot of mixing to do on that, and thus, you get the sound of the album. Bowie said they "just pushed the vocal up and down a lot."

Nonetheless, it goes to show that sometimes the music can speak for itself. You can produce and mix things to high-hell, and sometimes that's what an album needs, but sometimes all you need is the idea. And the album's sound is very imperfect, but that adds to the rawness of it, and it certainly directly inspired the generation of punk that was itching to burst onto the scene. That music was also very intentionally imperfect at times, obviously picking up cues from the likes of MC5 and Iggy, among others.

Iggy and The Stooges-Raw power-Gimme danger

SOD: Bob Seger "Tryin' To Live My Without You"

There's no mistaking Bob Seger. His voice is among the very most recognizable in music. It's a raspy, hearty, whiskey-soaked howl that has become a staple of rock. Seger is a Heartland rocker through and through. He and Bruce together have become the poster boys of the genre and there's much to love about each. Seger, who still performs, has had a career spanning five decades, and he's given no indication that he's ready to hang it up. He's a blue collar rock and roll man, and those kind of guys don't quit. They'll die on that stage ,because it's everything the know and love.

"Tryin' To Live My Life Without You" might seem a strange choice for a Bob Seger SOD. What about "Against the Wind," "Night Moves," "Fire Down Below," "Like a Rock," or "Turn the Page?" What about "Old Time Rock and Roll," that's one of the most iconic Rock songs ever made. Tom Cruise immortalized it. But I chose this song for two reasons:

First, even though its a song written by Eugene Williams, and popularized by Otis Clay, it's Seger's version that is the most recognized. This is off of Seger's live album Nine Tonight, and the album is chock full of some of the best versions of his most popular songs. But that's what makes this one stand out. You won't find a studio version on any of Seger's albums, so when this one comes on, you recognize that there isn't a cleaned up version somewhere out there, there's just this. And believe me, that's more than fine because a studio version of this song wouldn't hold a candle this. The life that this song has, could simply never come from a studio version.

The second is that Joey mentioned this song a week or two ago, and prior to that it have been over a decade since I'd last heard it. And I liked it so much I hummed it to myself for a week straight. Then, saturday night, Joey sang it at Karaoke. First of all, I was really impressed the Karaoke guy had the song to begin with, but better than that was how well Joey sang it! From that point on, I haven't even bothered to try and get it out of my head. Instead, I'm going with the opposite approach: saturation.

Bob Seger - Tryin' To Live My Life Without You

SOD: Nightmares on Wax "You Wish"

Heard this song on my way to work this morning. It's a great walking tune. Garvey introduced me to Nightmares on Wax quite some years ago, and though I haven't listened to is as much as say, Marvin Gaye, I've certainly dipped into my collection at some point every year for an extended period of time.

George Evelyn is Nightmares on Wax, as many artists of this electronic age can do it all themselves. He's from Leeds, UK, but his music has a very international feel. Some songs are reggae based, others sound like dub-infused classical pieces, and others still may take on a spanish style and flavor. It's very good atmospheric music, great to cook to, read to, or really do any number of tasks or busy work too. That's because it's not distracting, yet it's till consuming.

Not everyone is going to like it, and to be honest, I'm always resistent to this kind of music at first as well. But Nightmares on Wax has a kinder, more accessible quality to it for me. It's pretty serene, and I think if you give it a shot, you'll find a place for it in your library as well.

Nightmares On Wax - You Wish

Camp Weirdo Pt.2 - Roles, Oddities, and Comedies

The great outdoors has a strange effect on people. Some more than others, but nobody is free of it's grasp. There's just something about getting dirty, and staying dirty, that changes a persons attitude about things. Everyone looks a little different and acts a bit more freely. There's no sidewalk to guide your feet, no make-up to cover your face, no couch to sit your lazy ass on. The beast that lives within us all gets a chance to come out and play, it's moment in the sun.

Camp Weirdo was a haven to nurture this animalistic inclination. I'm not saying people stripped down naked and started smearing themselves with mud, howling at the moon. Well come to think of it, that's actually pretty damn close to what happened to certain individuals, but it wasn't quite as rabid as it sounds. It was a controlled wildness, because some of us knew what we were doing, and kept the rest in line. By no means was I one of them. This being my first time, I was taking it all in. If asked to do something, I was happy to oblige. If told not to do something, my feelings were the same. A good camper is like a good child. He knows when he's needed, and he knows when to shut the fuck up and stay out of the way. That was my take at least.

But as I previously mentioned, most everyone had their role and personality within the camp. And I'm not just talking about chopping wood and flipping burgers, there were more subtle roles that could be overlooked quite easily. But that wouldn't be fair, because no matter how big or small, overt or subtle ones role was, it was a role nonetheless, and the experience wouldn't have been the same without them. Now I'm by no means the expert on this, and my word is far from law. After all, I'm a mere rookie. But I can only speak from my perspective because that's all I truly know. And agree, disagree, or plead impartiality, I'm going to give my opinion on the matter.

Captain Patty was the Master of Ceremonies, the head counselor. Camp Weirdo was his brain child, and from what I could gather he and his brother Jay, had been coming to this site since they were boys. Patty knew the lay of the land, he was the cartographer and Captain of this earthy ship, and he had the hat to prove it. And a mighty-fucking-fine hat it was. He was among the first to settle the land this Memorial Day, and in addition to setting up our camp for all future arrivals, he and the first crew also pitched a faux-tent on the adjacent campsite, both keeping it free of any pests (Russians), and also claiming the land for any of our brethren who wished to sleep in peace, removed from the havoc we were sure to create in the wee hours of the morning.

Pat was the organizer of the trip, and of the group once we were all arrived. He would, at times, decide when a wood brigade would need to be sent forth, and conversely, when we'd all need to relax and form up a group jam (he's a phenomenal bassist by any standards). He damn near always had a smile on his face, and a certain sentimentality bled through all his actions. He gave a speech thanking everyone, but also thanked people individually for coming. A host in the purest sense, he was always concerned with the group, and everyones level of enjoyment, first. And did I mention he actually knew what he was doing? I guess I sort of assumed that was understood. Patty brought us together and taught us all a very valuable lesson about ourselves: the whole IS greater than the sum of its parts.

Dano was the first mate. The Yin to Patty's Yang. Not quite as organized, hard-lined, or driven as Captain Pat, Dano embraced the hedonism of the weekend, and infected anyone around him with it. He ate when he wanted to, drank when he wanted to, and did just about everything else he wanted to, when he wanted to, and enlisted a merry band of followers with ease. A pied piper of sorts, people are naturally attracted to his energy. He'd be just as likely as Pat, to call up a Jam session, but a bit less inclined to call for a wood gathering expedition, though I did hear him muster the troops on one occasion, and he always lent a hand when needed. With a smoke in his mouth, shirt off his back, and a twinkle in his eye, he kept the campsite wild, and without him, things just wouldn't have been as fun.

At some point during the trip, somebody decided that the nickname "Dano" would be an appropriate moniker for Danny. At first, this sparked confusion in him. "Why are you calling me this?" he asked quizzically and innocently. He was convinced this was the first time it had been introduced. Johnny however, corrected Dano. "What are you talking about" said Johnny, "I've been calling you this for years! Here, look at my phone, that's how I have you listed." Danny's response was dismissive if anything. And once the group saw the slightest bit of agitation, it was blood in the piranha pool. If Danny had somehow let it roll of his shoulders like a raindrop, I think none would have been the wiser. But a certain few had a natural instinct, and could pick up on the faintest scent of disturbance in Danny's demeanor. Tomasi, being one of the more alert ones, made sure to confirm this. He used the name incessantly after it's inception, and brought to the forefront the true nature of Dano's feeling towards the name. And I must say, some of the creations that arose were as comical it gets. One of Tomasi's better ones was, "Well I'm not going to Red Mango unless Dano does."

Jay, for all intensive purposes, was our Master at Arms. Trained in the arts of hand-to-hand combat, knife skills, and many other intimidating forms of physical engagement, I always picture him as sleeping with one eye open, and one hand on the proverbial trigger. Safety off. Jay brought throwing knives.  I don't know too many people who own those, and if they do, they probably keep it under wraps. But not Jay, and not in the woods. He was ready to have some fun, and he was looking for companions in this endeavor. Watching Jay and his lovely bride Jaime, fling some of the strongest steel known to man, into some of the thickest bark known to the forest, was a sight to see. They seemed perfect for each other. Camp Weirdo's own "Mickey and Mallorie." Then suddenly, they started getting good at it. They found their "sweet spot" and the knives were flipping almost effortlessly end of end, pinning themselves deep within the aged timber. It was frightening and beautiful. I felt pity for any Russians that thought they were going to get a leg up on us this trip. I certainly slept more soundly knowing his tent was closer to the entrance than mine.

But there's a lighter side to Jay. He's not all bullets and brawn, though he is in quite good shape (no homo). After all, he is Cap'n Pats older brother, and though the two of them are like night and day on opposite poles, in this case they are bound by a love of the outdoors, music, and companionship. And not only did I get a down and dirty lesson in some hand-to-hand skills, I got to hear Jay talk about something he was very passionate about. And to see and hear him speak with a boyish enthusiasm was very refreshing. Jay's always been more than kind to me when I see him. He's one of those guys who can't help but be who he is, and that's a compliment. He'll come up to you with a smile and an outwardly extended hand, and you know its all genuine. Like most of the guys on this trip, he wears his heart on his sleeve. It's those simple, little things, that can tell you the true nature of a person better than anything. And while he was certainly the armory and armorer, he was also highly involved in all the activities that occurred, especially the jams. The man can rip an axe (both a steel edged and 6-stringed).  Jay genuinely loved every minute of the weekend, and it was plainly written on his face.

Jaime was a trooper. For most of the weekend she was the only double X chromosomal carrier (that's female for those of you who didn't pass biology). She was ill when I first arrived at camp on saturday, but within a couple hours, she had forced herself into recovery, and begun slugging oat soda's with the rest of camp. She weathered the storm of obscenities and the tirades of men, with a light-hearted ease. She was also one the few people I saw (with Jay), who tried to keep the camp looking somewhat orderly. She picked up after everyone else, and never tried to recruit anyone to help. As mentioned before, she could also sling a blade with the best of them, so her skills around camp could not go unnoticed. She was a sport, putting up with us animals all weekend, and actually seeming as though she enjoyed it! If she actually did, then she's achieved god-like status in my mind, because I don't know another woman who could.

She's also a conversationalist, and that is a huge plus when you're spending 24 hours a day with the same people. I caught her talking astrophysics with camp nerd, Kiedro, and she roped me into the conversation as well. It was insightful, yet light. Never preachy. That girl's got her head on a swivel. She could take anything that was thrown her way this weekend as far as I could tell, and I can't quite imagine her not being there. Though I heard this was the first year there were women in camp, I can't imagine it would be the last after such a strong showing from Lady Jaim.

Kessler was the Mad Doctor. Recently having attained his doctorate of law, he is now a Juris Doctor, and he made sure everyone knew it. He was especially fond of giving commands, followed by the line, "doctors orders." But Kessler couldn't have been further from a doctor on this trip. In many instances, he had little regard for his own health. A master of the maul, I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone so dedicated to destroying fallen trees. Using mere brute force, and a willpower derived from god only knows where, he seemed hellbent to prove that logs could be cut from trees, by merely smashing the same spot aggressively and repetitively. At one point he had been hacking for so long, that when he stopped, the silence seemed unnaturally loud. He looked like a Paul Bunyan redux, with a fiery full red beard, a broad frame, and a hell of a wild streak (especially with enough intoxicants in his system). He's probably not the kind of guy you want to meet in a dark alley when he's had one too many. But on a camping trip, he's not a bad guy to have in your corner. His laugh alone could bring a smile to your face, and his downright ridiculous comments would keep it there. My recommendation to anyone going camping in the future, is to bring him with you.

Scotty is Captain Fun. A mischievous lad, always looking to stir up some trouble. He'll poke and prod you with his words and fingers, and keep you on your toes. I definitely wouldn't recommend sleeping on your stomach if this guys in your tent. And for all the lighthearted fun Scotty brings, it turns out he's pretty handy with a chainsaw as well. On saturday afternoon, he spent a solid two hours muscling out logs from the very same timber Kessler had been beating on. Scotty's method was quicker, but Kesslers was just more fun to watch. I must say though, I was impressed with his efficiency, even if it was for all of two hours. He got his share done, and the rest of the weekend was spent in a Rum-infused happy-rage. It's hard enough to understand him sober at times, and with a little of that captain in him, it's like trying to decipher german from a shepherd. However, he was awfully articulate when it came to antagonizing Dano, and he certainly had his opinions on food preparation as well. He was in direct conflict with Nicks "Food Borne Illness" speech, and he couldn't help but poke fun at Nicky's "Granola Fetish." He dubbed him "Granola Feet," and along with Danny, was ceaseless in his teasing of him. God forbid he caught the Old Tugboat in the act of actually eating one of those grainy bars...

Scotty was also one of the "late-nighters." Resilient to sleep, he lasted long into the darkness, and usually until the first shades of dark blue hit the sky. At that point, he'd pass out upright in a folding chair, and usually find a way to sleep in the most uncomfortable looking positions I've ever seen. Come the afternoon though, he'd be back in full effect. A joke always unsheathed and ready to be flung, much of the hilarity in Camp Weirdo was a direct result of Scotty's activities.

Mega was the wanderer, in mind and on foot. Half the time, I can't tell what the guy's looking at. You'll catch him with these almost lifeless stares off into the distance, and when you look to see what he's staring at, you realize its something metaphysical (or should I say Mega-physical). Otherworldly. It seems as though he's looking through the forest in front of him, and the hills beyond that, and the world beyond that, into some eleventh dimension paradox. He either uses far more of his brain than the rest of us, or potentially a bit less. Maybe it's both all at once, there's absolutely no way to tell. Mega is a man who uses his feet. He walks, he meanders, he ambles, and he explores. More than happy to go it alone, the man has the incredibly enviable talent of self amusement. He's always occupied, and seemingly, always happy. When you do rope the guy in, you find out he's one of the nicest people you could possibly know. I was given the privilege of playing some music with he and Johnny for a little while and he was so enthusiastic about it, I damn near wanted to hug the life out of him. I showed him a little progression I had come up with, and he responded with a tight little spanish drum beat underneath. Smiling, tapping his feet, and ultimately complimenting me, he won over my eternal fondness in that moment.

He as well seemed no stranger to the outdoors. Less likely to engage in raw physical activities, he still certainly had a grasp of what was going on, most of that time. That was if he wasn't checked out to the eleventh dimension, of course.

Jon Burns, is the All-Star. Not just because a band was once named so after him, but because he's enthusiastic to do everything. Chop wood, play music, eat, sleep, shit in the woods, and everything else a man does. I've never seen the guy unhappy, or even remotely ill tempered. He's just one of the most agreeable and positive people I've ever met. He loved strumming his guitarra, and belting out a tune. And he's got quite the arsenal of them. I mean, this guy knows a lot of frakkin covers! He once said to me, quite some time ago at a Stalloners show, how much he loved and respected their level of play. He said that the best thing he could think of for himself, was to have the ultimate cover band, capable of playing damn near anything at anytime, and playing it well. Well Burnsy, you're definitely well on your way.

Burns was also one of the more motivated Axe men. Armed with a razor-sharp hatchet, he went to town on some of that dried up wood, and had a fluid and accurate diagonal hack. I was impressed. And when it was decided by the group that the Maul wasn't going to get it done anymore, Burnsy went out and found a true Axe for us to use. And even though the axe itself turned out to be shit, it was that proactive attitude of his that was commendable. He didn't just say what we needed to make things better or easier, he tried to make it happen. A good man to have on any team i'd say.

Schmelichar, is a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch with a knowledge of music theory that puts most to shame. He's also a damn good bassist. With a head full of ideas, and mouth full of metaphors, he actually knows what he's talking about, which is more than many of us can say on a consistent basis. He seemed most in his element around the campfire with an acoustic bass or guitar in his hands, and a beer at the ready. And for all the fire he spits, he's a pretty mello guy, always down for a good laugh. He's also even-keeled. Not much changed in Melichar's demeanor or routine out in the wilderness. The wild beast inside him apparently only comes out in the aggressive facial motions made during some rippin' bass lines. Nature itself can't even throw this guy a curveball.

Melky enjoyed all facets of the experience. He bathed in the lake, jammed by the fire, and hacked at the wood. But I was most impressed to see him put his good mind to work, when he and patty made some tweaks and adjustments to the apparently temperamental chainsaw. You see, Patty complained that Jay "cheaped out" and bought a shitty chainsaw. But Melichar was not ready to give up just yet. Piece by piece he disassembled the chain and motor, and figured out just exactly how to tighten the chain. Not too much, but just right. I would have blindly took the screwdriver to the screws, and tightened away. Melichar took the screws off, and actually figured out what the screws were tightening. Props to him. The next time the blade was taken to the timber, the log was cut in record time. Too bad shortly thereafter, the thing ran out of gas. Unfortunately, that was not something Schmelks could solve out in the wilderness, but all in all he is a grade A problem solver and every good campsite needs one.

Kiedro is proof of why you can't judge a book by its cover. With a mane of long, scraggly hair, and mutton chops that Lemmy Kilmister himself would swoon over, he looks more like a big game hunter, than a scientist. He's very unassuming, but always has a confident and pleasant air about him. He was the undefeated, de facto chess champion of the camp, the resident biologist, physicist and any other 'cist you can think up, and it turns out he's pretty freaking strong too. He kind of reminds me of Beast in X-Men (yea, I've been watching X-Men: First Class on HBO recently). He also knows a thing or two about the culinary arts (being his family owns a world renowned bakery: Kiedrowski's Bakery - god I hope that's the right place...), so his bacon wrapped rotisserie beef was a camp favorite. Kiedge can also play guitar, which kind of figures because it seems the guy can do just about everything else at a proficient level. But for all the glory that the man can bask in, there is one thing that he cannot seem to do; remain unscathed.

According to eyewitness accounts, apparently Kiedro is somewhat injury prone. Last time Camp Weird was in session, he sliced his palm open launching a flaming folding chair from the fire pit. Apparently this isn't his only injury in the past few years either. This year, he managed something just as painful, and ever the more uncomfortable. He ripped his toenail off. His big toenail. And it was gnarly. I heard him howl in pain from across the campfire, and I knew it was no small thing. When I got to him, it was pretty bad looking. Burnsy had a medkit so he decided to play doctor, and Patty propped up his leg and got the sterilization alcohol. I got the rum. In the grand scheme of things, I thought my move was the most prudent, but we won't split hairs. And when patty dumped that rubbing alcohol on his toe, he squirmed like an eel in a net. I forced the bottle of rum in his mouth, and gripped his shoulder. It was clear this was more than unpleasant for him. But once Burns put the bacitracin on the wound and bandaged him up, he was back to the same old goofy bastard we all know and love. He took it like a champ, and I respect a man who stares pain in the face and simply says, "Ouch." No tears, and no complaints.

Johnny Vla is the talent. He's a music man in the purest sense. His expertise was not acquired through schooling or fine tuning, it comes from the passion within. There's nothing more powerful than that. Patty bought him a Melodica specifically for the trip so Johnny would have some semblance of 'black and whites' to color our ears with, and Johnny mastered it in mere minutes. He's also getting downright nasty at the banjo, and no camping trip is complete without some Deliverance style tunage. He entertained us all at times as a one-man show, and at others, brought the group jams to the next level. I never get tired of listening to his music, and he's even kind enough to entertain me when I ask him if he'll play a song or two with me. He's always full of praise, and very encouraging. It's no secret that I'm shy about putting my musical skills (or lack thereof) on display, but Johnny Boy and the rest of the clan are always inciting me to man-up and grow a pair. Believe you me, I'm trying. And even if he is the barely "temperamental artist" of the group, he's a good friend and a hell of a good camper. And that's not just because he's an entertainer.

Vlamanos enjoys the outdoors. He was my ride to and from the campsite, and when he picked me up Saturday morning, he was amped and ready to get out there into the thick of it. He even teased the speedometer a couple MPH's to the north, which is a rare thing for this sure and steady wheelman. In addition to sharing the road, we shared a tent, food and drink, and pack of Redman. He was my "buddy," if the buddy system was ever invoked. He was as handy with the hacksaw as he was with the harmonica, and always participated in wood collection and chopping. An all around camping rockstar, like many others at the weirdo convention, Johnny Vla was in his element among the elements, embracing nature in full. He also ate a cold wiener right out of the package (gotta be a better way to say that), which was both repulsive and impressive. I've seen drunk asses do that before at BBQ's, but Johnny was just wrapped up in the moment. Living the dream. And besides, he's no drunk ass. He's just a man who loves getting wild in the wild, and if that means slammin' a couple wien pieces in the raw, than so be it. I've got his back, all the way. I hope none of that was misinterpreted.

Nick (aka Tugboat, Tugs, Beano) was the resident chef and foul mouth. A self proclaimed maestro of the mignon, I can personally vouch for his skill at the grill, his lovin' at the oven. But in the great outdoors, its a whole new ballgame, and the ol' Tugs McBoat is a rook in this department. The first warning flag should've been that Beano brought nothing but Granola for himself. Asserting that the conditions for meat and perishables storage was less than adequate, Tugs decided he would stick with something that could not spoil in the few days we were there. Since Johnny and I caravanned up with Kessler and Nick, I decided to take a page out of his book, and bought a box of granola bars myself. I however, did also decide to partake in other forms of nourishment thereby avoiding nicknames and phrases that were given specifically to Nick like "Granola Feet," "Granola Fag," and "I got bombed by the Granola Gay on Memorial Day 2012." Nick's only vindication would come if and when someone contracted an FBI (again, that's "food borne illness"), which he was all too keen on mentioning repeatedly. Fortunately for everyone else, their health remained in tact.

Nicky and I spent a good amount of time together at Camp Weird. Put the two of us in a room, and we'll inevitably wind up together, talking some kind of ridiculousness. When the group went for a trip down to the lake, Tugs and I hung back and did just that. Give him a beer and a bench, and you can sit there with him for as long as time will allow. He's always got something to say, and some way to make you laugh your ass off. After a short while, Cotti, Benny, and his fiancee Jessica arrived, so we agreed to help them set up there stuff. Ben and his fiancee decided they would take the adjacent camp site for some peace and privacy, and Nick and I were enlisted as sherpa's by Jess. The cooler we lugged from the parking area halfway across Rome to their campsite, was extraordinarily dense. That's because she decided to pack the cooler full of ice, water, and beer, before arriving, thereby making our part of the job a living hell. I don't mean to complain, but then again I will. We might as well have gone for a swim with the rest of them down at the lake, because by time we dropped off the cargo, we were soaked. Nothing a few beers couldn't fix though. Halfway through the second one, Nicky's spirits were raised, is power restored. You see, Nicky's one of the easiest guys to get along with that I've ever met. His grotesque humor and foul mouth are often endearing, and that's completely unique to Nick. Anyone else would be branded a sicko for even mentioning once, what Nick talks about on a daily basis. Somehow, he's made disgusting, charming. That, my friends, is a true skill to behold, because I don't know another individual who could get away with saying the things Nick says, and still command the unreasonable amount of adoration and affection that he does. And though he got into it with one piece of wood during one timber collection journey, for the most part his duties were contained to complaining about food storage, making fun of damn near everyone, and keeping smiles on our dirty mugs. Oh yea, and eating unreasonable amounts of Granola.

Cotti is the anti-Nick. He may venture into the same realms as the ol' Tugboat and share his dirty mouth and mind, but it is not endearing. It's gnarly, angry, grotesque, slur-filled, and fueled solely by the rageful fire of comedic hate that boils in this boys blood. It's also frakkin' hilarious in it's own right, but its certainly not charming. There are instances, usually in the middle of one of his all to common tirades, that I find myself dry heaving and hysterically laughing at the same time. It should be mentioned that his delivery is also part of what makes him so hilarious. He's usually the first one to laugh after he's said something so hideous you feel like you need a shower having just heard it. And his hearty chuckle is a comedic routine in itself. Personally, I love it. He makes Dice Clay's inslut comedy look PG, and though Cotti arrived on Sunday afternoon, we got a weekends worth of verbal trash slung around that campsite. He certainly took Daaaannnnoooo, to the next level, and even figured out a way to make beers explode like eggs. Additionally, he was armed with some fresh new quotes from an experience with Benny's friends, and he had mastered his Irish accent to a comedic tee. Let's just say he wasn't going to ever run out of disgusting shit to say, and funny ways to say it. Don't even get me started on when the Russians came to camp to grace us with their presence. Cotti didn't quite give them the warm welcome they expected.

But maybe I'm hawking on this too much, and not presenting the full scope of Cotti's abilities. Though I didn't see him do much hacking, fire building, or cooking, I did see him play a good foreman, whipping the rest of the crew into shape. At one point, he attempted to fire up the chainsaw, before learning it was clean out of gas. His response to this failure came in his patented thick, bronx-type affected, New York accent, and he said "so somebody go get some gaslean' and oil. You gotta mix it fifty to one. Fifty one, remember that." Now, I can't tell if it's all an act, but if it is, he's one hell of an actor. He should sign up for one of those Colonial re-enactment towns that they take middle school trips to, because I've never seen him break character. This leads me to believe that this may just be his persona, and he doesn't have to act because this is who he is. And if that's the case, ship him off to Hollywood for bit parts, because this guy is pure comedy. Now, take that with a grain of salt, because you don't want to piss him off. At least not when he's holding a power tool. And if Cotti had been there for the full duration of the trip, maybe it would have worn a little thin, I don't really know. But I can't tell you how grateful I was to have him there for one night. One gloriously long night, that got weirder and weirder with each passing hour. And long after Kiedro had lost his toenail, and the women and children had gone to bed, Nicky, Cotti, Dano, Scotty, and myself were sitting around the smoldering cinders of a weekend gone by, exchanging unpleasantries, and howling in hysterics at the ridiculousness of it all. Nick and Cotti are more than enough on their own. But if you put them together, add one part Dano, and three parts liquor, you'll wind hearing things you never thought could be said.

Martocci was feelin' it this weekend. With all the activity and action going on, one could easily get lost in the fray, forgotten in the background. That doesn't happen at Camp Weirdo though. Maybe Martocci wasn't as vocal as say Dano, or commanding as Captain Pat, or obtuse as Cotti. But he'd chime in from time to time, and he definitely had a prominent role around the campsite, advising on what should be cooked when and how, and he seemed to have a good grasp on this whole camping thing in general. Lets just say it wasn't his first rodeo.

So saturday night rolls around and everyones feeling groovy, Martocci had certainly had his fill and then some, and was struggling to keep his lids open. When he finally succumbed to slumber, there was no time for him to make it to a tent or bedding. No sir. And in all my years, I've never seen someone sleep so deep and so upright, at the same time. At first I thought he could be dead. Maybe he'd contracted a flesh-eating FBI from an uncooked piece of pork butt? That would certainly brighten up Nicky's day, you know, give him a little of that validation for all the granola he was inhaling. But then I heard Martocci wheezing. And after we poked some fun at him, we started to poke him literally. He ultimately awoke, and tried to get his bearings. But before he could acquire them, he was asked to fetch a beer or two from the cooler he was propped up on. He opened the cooler, lost his legs, and fell into the giant white bin, ass first. Like a turtle on its back, he wiggled and flailed, but could not free himself from the tub trap. As we all broke down in side-splitting laughter, we realized that he was in fact serious, and ultimately helped him out. His response to the whole situation was "Why the hell are people hiding beers in my seat? This is no place to put your beers!" And the laughs just kept on a-comin' baby. I'm still waiting on Beano's snapshots of the weekend, and I'm praying he's got one from that whole ordeal.

Benny Boombatz is not a camper. I'm told however, his fiancee Jess is the outdoorsman (or woman rather) of the family. So when they arrived Sunday afternoon and decided to take the next campsite over, I figured they knew exactly what they were doing. After enlisting the help of Cotti, Tugs, and I, they got most of the heavy lifting out of the way. After all, we are three men of serious brawn. And that's not to say Ben and Jess didn't carry and wheel in stuff themselves, it just goes to show how much shit they actually had. When everything was unloaded, I wondered where their army was. Or at least the fifty plus guests they must have invited. Our flaming, grated pit was not going to be sufficient to cook their food, instead they brought their own mini weber charcoal gril. They must've been on Nicky's FBI newsletter. They had their own source of music as well. I counted two large coolers, a jug containing some kind of potion, silverware, plates, blankets, sheets, bed-wear and pillows. They even had small solar powered lights to brighten their path at night, no lie. "Roughing it" was not in their plan. Planning for everything was. Benny even purchased a harpo to start his own "Jam Session." I was given a twig, and Nick two stones to participate.

I must say, the two them impressed me in their determination to camp comfortably. Their site was not a hop, skip, and jump from the parking area, and they had quite a bit to unload. I think Jess made three trips on her own (but in fairness to Tugboat and I, she did not have to carry the beast cooler). I know how they got all the stuff there, but I wonder how they got it all back. Nonetheless, when they did grace us with their presence at the main campsite, they got a full dose of the absurd. If we're being perfectly honest, I'm not sure how Jess took it, though it's nothing she hasn't seen before. And as far as Ben is concerned, well as they say, the freaks come out at night. Once the sun went down and Benny was a couple libations deep sitting round that blazing fire, you could tell the camper in him was born. He was feeling it, living in the spirit of that glorious outdoors. I only wish we had another day with him to see the full transformation.

There's really no explaining it, you'll just have to take my word for it when I say, this weekend was exactly what was needed. A lot of the people I spoke to felt the same way. It was the perfect place, with the perfect people, at the perfect point in time. An unforgettable weekend, and damnit, I want to do it again. Soon. Long live Camp Weirdo, and the fucking lunatics who populated it.