bird is the word

Several weeks ago, all around good guy, writer, editor, musician and Renaissance man, Jeff Johnson stopped by with his colleague Jessica to record me yakkin’ about my job. It was, if I were to believe them, a project for “the radio group” a club or organization they belong to that had vague parameters and kinda mumbled descriptions. But ask not for credentials, I always say, and you will rarely be disappointed.

Many good things came of this session. For one, after it was all edited and fixed, they made me sound somewhat coherent, never an easy task (I'll try to post the finished product sometime).

Two, they put this great music behind me, Brightblack Morning Light, which haunting and beautiful, I went through about three weeks of listening to nothing else but. (side note: BB Morning Light does what many feel is impossible, or maybe improbable this far into the rock idiom: create their own, signature sound. It always amazes me, that using the same instruments and structures as everybody else, in this case mostly a Fender Rhodes electric piano done up with echo, etc., and a crash cymbal also done up nicely, and of course guitar bass drums; slowing things down, harmonizing, every song sounds exactly like… them.)

And a third, perhaps more revelatory thing for me, was an epiphany of sorts after I’d been asked about getting to and from my job. (People seem to think my job is “interesting,” and I guess it is in a morbid kind of way.  Really it’s only interesting on its skin, or the fact that I do it, once I begin to explain it, all conversations and interest tend to stop…dead.) So I’d just explained to Jeff and Jessica how I commute by driving from Oakland to the Ferry, crossing the Bay, and walking the 20 minutes down Mission or Market St to death notice central.  I find this commute very useful when I’m returning, because by the time I’ve walked back through town, had a 20 minute ferry ride and driven another 20 minutes to my house, I’ve managed to slough off most of the residue of sadness and tension that gather around me during the day.

Jeff’s comment about all this was, “you have a very mythological commute.”

“Huh?” I said.

“You know, Charon, the ferryman from Hades, ferries newly dead souls across the river Acheron to Hades.  And then there’s Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, where souls drink before being reincarnated.”

“Wow,” said I.

How did this happen, a mythological commute?  The way the best things seem to happen, unintentionally and because they are needed. I think about Charon and Lethe often now when I’m being ferried from the inferno of San Francisco, and the transformation that hopes to occur along the way... so that I may forget.

Tequila also helps in this.
Which I think is avail. on the ferry. I know they have beer and wine and Jack Daniels.

By the way, my interviewer, Jessica plays drums, or did until last month anyway, in a band called the Pillows. It seems they’ve gone dark now.
Also speaking of defunct bands, seems Myspace unceremoniously took down my Frank Lloyd Wrong site (no email, no phone call, no condolence card). I think its because another band is already using that name. They've had it longer, so no hard feeling from me. I'll figure something out, not that anybody went there and listened to Franks sound collage anyway so whathehell...

Sometimes we must sacrifice forgetfulness for speed, as was the case last Sunday when Bart was the preferred form of ferrying cross the Bay (under it really, but we def. do not want to think about that!) for the kiddo and I to catch one of our favorite bands ever, the Heartless Bastards, play for free in Golden Gate Park. F was busy, as she always is, and was heart SICK to miss them. And us her!  This was part of the manic, unwieldy named “Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.” Now there were dozens of worthy non bluegrass bands and legends and icons playing there, but we were only interested in our Heartless Bs’. So it was Bart (with our long lost friends, the Goblets, remember them? as escorts); then a classic SF Muni (I call it Mutiny. Aren't I hilarious?) bus ride on a packed, smelly, late, lurching, poorly driven 5 Fulton all the way down to the stage. We rolled off that thing gasping for air and clutching our kishkies.

It was to be the kid’s first real rock show too. How about that? Not bad for a 10 year old.

A band called the Sadies played first and many, many people were on their feet for that one.  When the HBs finally took the stage, most people, ignorant philistines that they are, left. But that gave us room to move right on up to the stage (kid’s idea). And there they were, the most unassuming power trio from Ohio in history. Wow! What a treat we thought. They started playing and it wasn’t all smooth sailing for them unfortunately, due to some guitar cord problem. Usually this kind of thing is easily remedied by one of the half dozen or so DUDES standing around wearing dark glasses, headphones and Stage Crew passes around their constantly lit cigarettes. Go up, swap out the cord. But no, this was not in the cards. Another song, more problems, no guitar, which is a problem when there is only one guitar and it pretty much holds down the giant fort which is their sound.  Erika, who up close resembles a younger, shorter Lucinda Williams, became quite upset and understandably so, since nobody would lift a finger to help her.  I was ready to jump on the stage myself and jiggle the damn cord, as I had years of experience doing similar jiggling as soundman extraordinaire for several civic institutions and punk bands.  I didn’t think she would recover, that’s how bad it was, but no, she is ERIKA from the Heartless Bastards, plus she is from OHIO and has seen 1000 times worse things in her life. She pulled it together and did something to fix things, and destroyed the rest of the set, which by the end had bluegrassers and punkers and even 10 year olds and 45 year old dads bopping around like idiots. That’s what I mean by rock and roll.

Let’s see. I saw Ultraviolet about six more times and feel it is really being overlooked as a major piece of American (/Chinese) modern art. Plus Milla Jovovich is killing me in this, especially when she does not speak. Although she does have one, and only one good talking part on the roof of the Blood Chinois controlled tower, just before she lets two dozen Chinese gangsters kill each other. But I belabor the point.

Other major excitement has been a visit from nationally known famous science fiction writer, Jon Armstrong, author of Grey, who was in town, family and entourage in tow. To better show off the City we love to hate by the Bay, we arranged a special tour with Sarcasm West, a one-man outfit that showed family Armstrong (including ultra cute little one) the sights and smells of San Francisco while also managing to effectively disparage everything at the same time. Niiiice…

One rule that Sarcasm West insists on is during your visit in the big, mostly hostile city, when you are crossed by various civilians, as you will doubtlessly be, whether on the roads or on the sidewalks, that instead of flipping them off, or returning their birds, as is traditional, esp. if you hail from Queens, that you instead, flip them the peace sign.  At first it is a difficult concept to grasp, corny sounding and wrong, but with some practice (and a touch of irony) can be a ton of fun.  The peace sign cannot be wielded in anger either, like a bird with two fingers. You must show peace and mean it.  It helps to say something like “peace out man,” or “peace, baby.” You’d be surprised at how quickly this diffuses various road rages and shopping mall rages. Not that it turns your aggressor into a tree hugging peacenik, on the contrary, they will still probably respond to your peace sign with an even bigger and giant F-YOU and jam their middle finger around crazily with much invective and slobbering. But for you, you can only laugh at the sight of it, you realize how ridiculous it all is, and you are taken out of the aggression loop.

So intriguing is this, that I’ve been experimenting with the peace sign myself and to excellent results. You can peace sign people who cut you off, who don’t let you merge, who knock you out of the way so’s they can get somewhere AHEAD OF YOU! Right? Isn’t that the game. Not to reach some destination, but to pass people, to get there first.  Flash these folks the peace.  Some are just baffled by it and speed off in a huff of aggression and confusion. Some are challenged by it and foam at the mouth, but look stupider and stupider the angrier they get when all you’re doing is saying “peace, man.” Plus bystanders will laugh at both of you, making the Type-A (holes) feel even stupider. And some people *gasp* even smile at you.  But be prepared.  The kid and I happened to be driving behind two church going ladies last Sunday, dressed up in their Sunday best, looking for a space in front of the Church, who suddenly decided to jam their car in reverse and drive backwards, regardless of the fact that we were there.  They let us have it too, not believing we'd be in their way, when they were TRYING TO GET TO CHURCH goddamn it all to hell and back again! And they held forth with some very ugly and un-Christian language and facial expressions, which, under severe strain and holding back were countered with a big ol’ peace sign from me, which nearly caused them to explode in satanic, vein popping rage. But us? We were laughed our asses off as we calmly went around them (and immediately found an excellent parking spot...)

The kid suggested another tactic: carry around a hand mirror, and every time somebody flips you off, hold the mirror up. Not only will they then be flipping themselves off, but will see how lovely they look doing it.   Is my kid not brilliant? Takes after his mom no doubt.

 

Comments

[Geener]

I sometimes use the "blow a kiss" tactic. But it's funny you write about peace signs since I've been substituting it lately for waving when I see acquaintances on the street. Also, Goblet 'C' "completely ruined" the family portrait in 1976 by flashing the peace sign.