you really don't want to know

does it bother you that your advertising job isn’t really helping the world in any way?

So I have this idea. It’s gonna be all the rage. My hope is that it’ll spread like wildfire, and pretty soon everyone will be doing it:

If you don’t know something…
…say “I don’t know.”

Get it? It’s fucking brilliant.

I see it all the time on VWvortex. Someone asks a question while they’re working on their car (or looking for advice to use later), and someone confidently presents their “vortexpertise,” which is clearly based in a reality in which none of us actually reside. Who cares, right? The problem is, more often than not, advice of this sort, in the car industry, will likely cost someone a healthy chunk of their hard-earned money.

I went out on my lunch break today to get some 2 gauge wire so I can relocate my car’s battery to the trunk (don’t ask). I figured “hey, why don’t I go to the stereo shop in Redwood City that the dude at Kragen’s told me about last night? He said they’d definitely have the wire I’m lookin’ for.”

They didn’t have it. What they DID have was an employee who drives a kickass VW Caddy with Porsche wheels and a healthy drop. Cool dude, too. His boss told me to go to this huge auto parts store over on Veterans Blvd. They’d have it.

They didn’t have it. Dude behind the counter (charming as he was), said to go over to Performance Fabrication over on Industrial Blvd. They work on hot rods, they’ll have what I’m looking for.

They didn’t have it. They said I should go to the welding supply store up the street. This time, I knew for a fact that they were right, and that the welding supply store would have it. Guess what?

They had it. Betcha thought I was gonna say they didn’t have it, didn’t ya? Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought too, since that was kinda the trend I followed for the better part of two hours.

I had to call and cancel/reschedule the smog referee appointment I was trying to fix my car for. I ended up getting what I need (and then some), but I spent way more time, money and gas on it than I bargained for. Each place was only 1/2 to 3/4 mile from the place previous. But I’m riding a motorcycle. Each time I stop, I gotta find a good spot for the bike, take the glasses, gloves and helmet off, unzip the jacket so I don’t die of heatstroke…

…beautiful day out, though.

So I doubt most of you give a shit about Folk music, but the show last night was awesome. When it comes to “dude with a guitar” concerts, you can’t get much better’n Ellis Paul. He has an undeniably unique style, his voice is buttery smooth, his lyrics are smart and funny, and although he’s incredibly consistent, no two shows are ever the same.

For the first time in many moons, we picked seats that allowed us both a perfect view of the stage. As soon as we came in, I spotted a few seats on the aisle, part-way to the front. I chose them for a reason, and that reason will become apparent in a moment.

Ellis has a habit of unplugging his guitar halfway through the second set, and coming out to the audience to give the show a little different feel. Last night when he stepped out, he came right up the aisle and stood about ten inches from me, played his guitar a little while chatting with the audience, and asked me “can you hear me ok?” The crowd roared with laughter. “This is what we call a folk singer lapdance.” Hahahaha, too funny.

He went on with his song, which we’d heard at a previous show in Vienna, VA, and it ruled. There’s nothing quite like a master guitarist, singer-songwriter with an awesome voice belting it out to the crowd while standing directly next to you.

The show was in Berkeley, and Liz and I couldn’t help but laugh at how “Berkeley” the whole show was. We stopped just short of singing Kum Ba Ya, and ending with a group hug. After Ellis finished his first step-out song, he asked if it was ok to come out into the middle of the audience. Y’know, how could we say no, right? Anyway, chairs were moved, people made a hole, and he took his place in the center. He sang an old gospel-type song, something about “it’s a lonesome valley, and you got to walk it all by yourself.” It’s one of those songs with really ominous lyrics, but it’s sung with the uplifting spirit that only gospel can give (it was actually featured acapella in O Brother Where Art Thou, but not so uplifting). As the song went on, it became something of a call-and-response sing-along, and then it kinda melted into more of a round, in which one of the female singers in the audience added a decidedly Alison Krauss feel to the backing vocals. The overall effect was awesome, and we all freakin’ loved it. The only drawback was the dude sitting next to Liz, who was really off-key, and liked to improvise the lyric timing as if he were the lead singer.

I think I’m gonna get another MD recorder and microphone. Fuck it. I need to record this type of thing.

I went up to the merch table before the show, and saw one CD that I wanted: Live at Club Passim. Nobody was there to take my money, so I sat down and waited for the show to start. When intermission came, I didn’t stand up quick enough, and the line gobbled up all those CDs before I got there. The rest of the CDs were his studio albums, which I honestly have never liked all that much. It’s sad, because I’d love to give the man my money for his music, but truth be told, if his studio music were all I’d ever heard, I never, ever would have become as big a fan as I am now. His live shows are mind-blowingly good, but his studio CDs are over-produced, too damn twangy, and just not what I’m into.

Anyway, the show was awesome, as they always are. If you ever see Ellis Paul playing in your area, GO.

…even long after they’ve proven themselves not to be worth your time.

A few years ago, I had a stupid fling with a girl in the local car club. While we were kinda screwing around, she said she was going to a concert (with her boyfriend…don’t ask), and I offered to let her borrow my MiniDisc recorder and microphone, so she could record the show. I kinda hoped she’d make me a copy in return for my gesture, but whatevs.

Our fling fell by the wayside, she completely broke it off with her boyfriend, and she started dating a dude she met at a car show. She and I stayed friendly, talked at get-togethers, hung out at a bar or two…but we drifted apart pretty quickly, for a lot of reasons.

I asked her a few times, if it wasn’t too much trouble, to return my MiniDisc recorder. After we drifted, I maybe chatted with her once or twice a year. I didn’t think about the MD thing at all, really, except when I’d get a chat from her, or when I was gonna be going to a concert. I’d ask her to please send it back when she goes to visit her parents (it’s buried in her room somewhere), and it never amounted to anything.

Last Fall, I traded a few messages back and forth with her on myspace, and I laid it out for her:

I don’t mean to be a prick, I just don’t like un-returned belongings to get in the way of friendship. And every time I think to myself “I wonder how *** is doing,” I also can’t avoid thinking “well, she’s had over $300 worth of your personal belongings for more than two years, and no real sign of returning it…don’t really think she cares as much as you do.”

It seems so shallow and petty. I hate shit like this, and I’m sure you do too. I’d rather be asking you about everything else that’s going on in your life, and being somewhat more useful of a friend. Can you help me do that, please?

Any reasonable person would apologize, return the shit, or just own up and send some money to replace the thing they lost. But this one? She accused me of taking my bad day out on her, removed me from her friends list, and refused to respond to subsequent messages.

I thought I tended to build friendships with more mature folk, but I really was fooling myself from the start with this one.

I’m going to an Ellis Paul concert tonight. I recorded the first Ellis Paul show I ever went to, and it ended up being one of my favorite recordings of all time. Ellis himself gave me permission to plug into the sound board. The next show I went to, I couldn’t record because my MD and mic were still in what’s-her-name’s possession. Tonight’s show promises to be really good, and I have no recording equipment at my disposal. I don’t have money to throw into a new setup, and even if I did, I really can’t bring myself to go buy shit I kinda already own.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

—–

On a brighter note, I’m going to the show tonight with my honey. She was with me at that first show too, and both of us have a soft spot for that recording for many reasons, not least of which is that we were together then, and we’re together now. I love you kiddo, let’s go have some fun tonight. Screw recording the show, let’s just go to more shows together.

Before I moved to the land of buxom beach bunnies (so far, false) and Porsches a-plenty (true), I worked in a little Volkswagen shop in a little army town where the ground rumbles daily as the little green army men blow shit up. Anyway…

One of our customers was named Mr. Littlefield. He always came in looking half-asleep, brought a book with him, and invariably fell asleep in one of the racing seats we had on display in our showroom. I’m pretty sure he worked third shift. His car was a diesel ’98 Jetta with the filthiest interior I’ve ever seen. The car, from the outside, looks looks a hundred cars you’ve seen before: it’s got two tattered American flags sticking up from the rear windows, and there are several bumper stickers in red, white and blue, with slogans such as “AMERICA ROCKS SOCKS!” or some shit like that.

I really liked Mr. Littlefield, so please don’t take any of my following comments to mean anything else. I got along great with him, genuinely laughed at his jokes, and thought he was an all-around good guy. I do have a hunch that, if we were to somehow descend into any sort of political discourse, my comfort-level would have diminished.

Mr. Littlefield is a Wal-Mart shopper of the highest order. That’s not really the point I’m trying to make, but it sums up many things quite nicely. His sweatshirts and baseball caps (notice, I said and, not or) all bore the likeness of an American Bald Eagle, or the American flag, or pictures of troops and ribbons. The sweatshirt slogans were similar to the bumper stickers. Fuck Bin Laden. Land of the Free. Proud to be American. Support Our Troops. All woven from the finest poly-cotton blend Sri Lanka has to offer. He didn’t seem to be the “buy american or die” type, but it still seemed funny to me.

I’d pay a nickel to see Mr. Littlefield’s closet. The sweatshirts hanging one by one, all white with screen-printed bald eagles and shit. At once, I think it would be both hilarious and sad. And I can’t really explain it.

—-

At some point in my life, I actually took a great deal of pride in the fact that I was an American. The American flag stood for something in my eyes. I’m not sure when things changed, but they definitely did.

When I was really, really little, they gave out little American flags at the 4th of July parade, and encouraged you to wave the fuck out of ‘em. Here kid, have a flag! Have fun. Aren’t you glad you’re an American? YAAAAYYYY!!! But then, at some point in my life, they stopped doing that….the flags were still there, but now they’re for sale. Well, that’s a kick in the nuts, but hey, I guess I’ll roll with the punches…here’s a dollar, gimme a fuckin’ flag. Yay.

When Operation Desert Storm was going on, I was in high school. Yellow ribbons were sold everywhere, huge selections of “American pride” apparel started cropping up, and every gas station you went in had shit like Saddam Hussein dartboards. I know a number of the products on the market had actual value as fund-raising tools, but my cynical ass just knows that the majority of them were tailor-made to capitalize on the emotions of a nation in distress. And of course, the same shit started happening directly after 9/11/01. The world hasn’t been the same since that day, and for more reasons than one.

Occasionally, there are news stories, movies, TV shows, and just simple moments that remind me, for a brief second, that I’m proud to be an American. And I can’t recall a single fucking one of them right now.

I will see Die Hard 4 for this reason, and this reason alone.

CLICK ME.

I stumbled upon this this morning. Too funny. Can you imagine getting into an argument on a freakin’ online forum with someone who claims to be Bruce Willis…and when you iChat him to prove he’s full of shit, you see this mug staring back at you? HAHAHAHA.

When I was in college, I worked at the local movie theater. For those of you who don’t know the Oswego Cinema, it’s a ragged remnant of a better age. The building was completed in 1941, and it’s one of the finest examples of art deco architecture remaining in NY state. It was built as a single auditorium with a lower level and a huge balcony. I can only imagine what it must have been like in the ’40s, but the only word that comes to mind is “grand.”

Anyhow, in the mid-late ’90s, it was looking a little haggard. My friend Peter got me a job there in 1994 when I started college, and he was leaving for the fall. Peter was a goofy type who liked to sing Moxy Früvous tunes while he walked from place to place. I liked working there so much, I ended up doing so for about five years.

The manager at the theater (I hesitate to call him “boss”) was John Wells. John, it is safe to say, was the best manager I’ve ever worked for. He was a product of another era…meaning, in this era, he’d very easily get his ass into trouble. I’ll explain: John was the type of guy who liked women. A lot. And when a leggy blonde stepped in the door, he’d turn to me and widen his eyes, making his mouth into a little “o”. Kinda like Eddie Murphy’s “Mr. Robinson” when the cops arrived. Anyway…when a hot woman walked in (he liked the tall ones…he was short), he’d say to me “look at the legs on her.” And my response would be “yeah, they go all the way up.” And he’d say “I think I need to go get the ladder.” Before long, whenever a tall woman walked in the door, John would do that “o” face, and I’d say “go get the ladder.”

John made it a fun place to work, because he knew we were all adults…even us young’uns. The majority of my co-workers were female (I see no huge surprise there), and they were mostly strong women. Falecia and Amy chief among them, they accepted John for who he was, and they had as much fun as I did while working with him. He respected them, and he treated them fairly. Overall, it really was a cryin’ shame the “boss” was such a twat.

Conrad Z (the owner of the theater, and dozens of others in a couple of states) was a rich man who didn’t give the theater its proper due. The place was falling apart because he wasn’t investing proper money into its upkeep…I’m sure he didn’t even attempt to tap into the resources that many historical societies could have helped him to get. Basically, all the money he put into the place was to ensure he’d keep getting ticket and concession sales. He didn’t pay his employees proper wages, nor did he do so for his manager. But I digress. Back to the important parts…

I worked as a projectionist (“threader”), so I was always on the move. There were five theaters when I started, and we added two more late in the game. This meant, when movie time rolled around, I had to run from booth to booth, thread the film from the platter to the projector and back to the take-up platter (if you ever get a chance to see the inside of a movie projection booth, take it), and time them all just right so I could start them on time. Because I was always going through the theaters, I got to know our regular customers quite well. I can still remember that great feeling I’d get as I would walk up through the upstairs theaters, and everyone knew I was coming to start the movie. When it was a big crowd, somtimes they’d cheer. I freakin’ loved it.

Joltin’ Jim was one of our regulars…but he never paid for a ticket, and he always got his popcorn and soda for free. Why? Because Joltin’ Jim ruled. And because John was a good fuckin’ guy.

Joltin’ Jim’s real name is Jim Green. Those of you from Oswego probably knew him well, without ever having heard his name. He and Radar were permanent fixtures in Oswego, always riding around on their bicycles and generally just looking like homeless dudes. For years before working at the theater, I thought Jim was Radar…I hadn’t seen Radar (people told me he had a beard), but eventually I did. Radar was kinda certifiable…always saying weird thing like “tune in, Mother on Mars.” Jim, on the other hand, was just slow. And nice. He often got picked on by mean-spirited kids, and sometimes he yelled or fought back. But generally, he just rode his crappy bike, hitched his heavy glasses up his nose with a quick squint, and went about his business.

Jim wasn’t homeless, but he was clearly not in a good way. And I can’t say for sure if he was retarded. He may just have been a product of a really hard life, having shut down long ago. I think he lived with his parents (who must have been older than dirt, since he was no spring chicken himself), but he was always (ALWAYS) out on his bike. Hell, I even saw him riding through Fulton once (about 15-20 miles south of Oswego).

John had apparently struck up a deal with Jim, allowing him to shovel the snow in front of the theater in the winter, in exchange for a place to come for refuge and entertainment. It seemed like a really nice gesture by John, since Jim was clearly not the best at shoveling. It always just really impressed me.

Whenever Jim came into the theater, John would announce his presence and make him feel welcome, “Joltin’ Jim!” he’d say, kinda in a “Norm!” fashion. Jim would smile and shrink, in the shy way he did. He’d mumble something and snicker a little. John would heckle him for not shaving today…man he was a grizzly fucker when he didn’t shave. The man might have had stubble on his eyelids. John told him (jokingly) that if he didn’t shave, he couldn’t come in.

Jim was always slightly amused that he and I shared the same name. “Hi Jim.” “Oh hey Jim, how’s it goin’?” “How you doin’ Jim?” “I’m great man, good to see you,” and I’d move along to my next movie. I loved the way he’d blink and squint and smile all at the same time in an ineffectual attempt to hitch his cokebottle glasses back up his nose. He mostly avoided eye contact, like a puppy who’s been kicked a lot.

Around the time college was coming to an end, I was itchin’ to move on, but I hated to leave the place. John, however, had been battling with Conrad for years over pay and other matters, so he was just about to leave as well. Which really sucked, because John was as much a staple in Oswego Cinema as the freakin’ balcony was. Anyway, at some point, John took a job at another theater down in Tioga county (the Tioga theater, I think), and Conrad brought in this woman named Wendy.

Wendy is the reason I automatically have negative feelings whenever I hear of someone named Wendy. She wore tight pants and ’80s hair in the late ’90s. She came in, and changed everything. She tried to make the place into something it wasn’t. And she took all personality out of the place. We (the employees) tried to “teach” her about the details that “couldn’t change.” Things like Joltin’ Jim. The first time he came in and didn’t pay for a ticket, came to the soda fountain and grabbed a courtesy cup for a drink…man, the look on her face was one of shock and awe. I had to appraise her of the situation. But as time went on, and she didn’t see the great benefit to Jim shoveling the sidewalk…I’m pretty sure the arrangement changed.

You ever get the impression that people care less and less about the things that really matter?

Are you smarter than a fifth grader? And if you aren’t, how do you feel about yourself?

I’ve been avoiding this show since it began, because I really didn’t want more reminders of how retarded the world has gotten. Tonight, I flipped on the TV, and it was on. Pity me, for I did not change the channel.

After the first dude lost the million dollar question (big surprise), they brought out a nicely-tanned hottie whose eyes were too close together. After answering that the word “bookkeeper” apparently had only two sets of double letters in her mind, her “classmate’s” answer was revealed as correct…thereby saving her ass (for at least one more question).

At this point, Jeff Foxworthy asked her how she felt. She said she felt great.

That is all. I changed the channel. Scrubs makes me laugh.

Question: what do Melissa Etheridge, Ani DeFranco, Tori Amos, Melissa Ferrick and Erin McKeown concerts have in common?

Saw Erin McKeown and Melissa Ferrick in San Francisco last night…rockin’ good time. And more lesbians than you can shake a stick at.

I used to work at a place, in a town, where the word “nigger” was thrown about all day, every day. The guy I worked for, some of the guys I worked with…

Most of them were really good guys, happened to be good friends with black people (didn’t just say they were), and generally didn’t show prejudice. Hell, half the time the N-word was used, it was aimed at a useless white dude. But it still bothered me, because it always sounded as if the useless white dude were “like a nigger.” I dunno, I just don’t think it was cool.

When I gave my quitting notice, I told the boss I’d continue to work for the next two months before leaving, so I could help them prepare for this huge event (without me, they would have been screwed for manpower, etc). The boss’s response: “thanks for staying so long, that’s real white of you.”

The phrase “that’s real white of you” has been bouncing around in my head within the last day or two. It kinda bugs me. The dude was a good guy, and not even someone I would consider a “racist.” But man oh man, did growing up in the South ever have its effect on his language. Hard to get away from the impact your deeply-entrenched thoughts and words can have.