A Note From the Management

Okay. So, it’s officially a pattern now. I’m posting daily. Sometimes twice, or more.

I think having six years of writer’s block suddenly falling away is opening a torrent for me. I’ve culled my social life almost completely right now and I just write, like a fiend. Carpal tunnel hell, my friends.

And I fucking love it.

So, yeah. I could leave posts up and wait for two or three days and milk the comments, but fuck it. Life is short and inspiration is fleeting. Comments rock, but I’m not gonna pause the process so I can whore up more support.

Besides, I’d like a real career writing, and I’m thinking it’s good to purge all this self-involved bullshit before it gets underway. I like a clear head. (Except for the pot thing, natch.)

So what am I saying? That I see no change looming. I’ll continue posting daily for as long as my fragile little psyche can handle this.

Eventually I’ll get bored of the self-imposed isolation and this mad frenzy will settle down, but more importantly, I’ll decide I’ve had enough of self-indulgence and will pursue MONEY, my special little friend. And even better than being a special friend: It fits in my pocket and can go everywhere with me and can buy me all the things I secretly covet but am not smart enough to steal without repercussions, ergo I pussy out and pay for shit. This conscience thing is a real bitch.

So, check back daily. You know you want to.

And another thing? Comments make me a better writer. Seriously, scientifically proven. They’re like go-juice. Butter me up and watch me roll, baby.

A Dysfunctional Concert Review

Caught the Decemberists at Vancouver’s legendary Commodore Ballroom last night. Definitely an enthusiastic thumbs up, but some things bothered me.

One, the whole fucking band was wearing raincoats. Give-me-the-microfilm type tan trenchcoats. The band didn’t fucking loosen up until they took the coats off an hour later.

There are looks and then there are gimmicks. If you’re a band as good as the Decemberists, it’s a fucking gimmick and it weakens what you’re about. Coats gone? I love them. They’re loose and different and engaging. The coats on? Stilted and awkward, like a dork in a frat party.

And then there was the hat. Grey, pointy with a brim, and a large star at the front. In communist red. But this thing was fucking Mao Tse-Tsung meets Dr. Seuss. Picture it, the Chinese Cultural Revolution goes to Whoville. Our protagonist will be Cindy-Moo Mao. She plays the organ. (And she’s funny-looking and short, coincidently.)

So, great show. Most of the music is fun to listen to and really original but is also a glaring example of why white folks can’t dance. There are concerts you go to where the bump’n’grind and dirty bass leaves you licking your lips, almost certain no one’s going home alone tonight. Last night? Not one of those. There’s no fucking way you can move in a sexual, sensual way to that music. Nope. Oh, so white.

At one time I was thinking that what I hate about the lead singer’s voice (sometimes I love it, too, tho) is how “Faggy Celtic” it sounds. Yeah. How’s that for stereotypes? Tells you everything you need to know. The pink spotlight was right on the fucking money.

But I always love a concert with an upright bass. I love a good upright. And the crowd dug the fiddle. I don’t know what it is, but we Canadians always love a good fiddle. (Ahem.)