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commiserating


This weekend, I read an article about the baby from the cover of Nirvana’s classic grunge-flashpoint, Nevermind – he’s sixteen now. Nothing can make a dude feel old like the infant on an album he loved when he was fifteen turning sixteen. Man, that’s a bummer.

Also in the bummer department, the birds in my garden have me really exasperated lately. I’ve done a good job keeping them out of the strawberries, for the most part. Well, actually, the protective cage I built over my berries caught another winged devil today – but that’s not what I’m here to write about. It seems that, having been denied my berries, the birds have developed a taste for my tomatoes.

Over the past months, I’ve been attentively watching my larger tomatoes grow fat and plump, and have been particularly happy over the past few days (before leaving for Oregon) as they started to get some color. I knew, upon returning home, I’d likely have several large ripe ones for the picking.

However, the birds once again robbed me this glory. I don’t know how they know, but it seems like they’re tuned into my brain. It’s like the day I tell myself, “Tomorrow, I’ll pick that one, it needs just one more day on the vine,” they attack. I’ve yet to be able to pick a full-size tomato before it being ravaged by beaks. Seems I can only get the cherries off before they get to them. They’ve gone through five tomatoes so far, completely gutting them on the plant. I can’t describe how frustrating it is to tend a tomato for weeks in anticipation of literally tasting the fruits of your labors – only to have the dang thing ruined right under your watchful eyes. It may seem trivial, but I want to taste one of my own tomatoes so bad.

Writing that last sentence, I couldn’t help but feel a little empathy. For whom?, you ask. Well, I’ll tell. Imagine you work hard on something, like, growing tomatoes from seeds, for instance. You sweat and work and toil over the infantile fruits as they take shape from the dirt. You watch and tend them, pulling weeds and giving them water, making sure they have enough sunshine to thrive, etc. Then, right as you’re about to pick the ends of all your work, something comes along and steals it away.

Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Those “farmers” whose “tomatoes” are albums. Albums grown from chord progressions and words thought up randomly, worked and reworked and polished, finally perfected and fit for public consumption. And know who I am? That bird that I loathe so much. That bird that swoops in just as the tomato/album is ripe and ready to enjoy, and glibly consumes it – with nary a thanks nor a dime. All their work and effort, pecked into bits by a punk thief with no regard for the work that went into the things he consumes.

Sorry, musicians. Maybe one day I’ll learn. Or, maybe you’ll end up shooting me with a BB gun the way I plan to take care of the birds who are “torrenting” my fruit. Seriously though, check out some pictures for the heck of it.

“Knee-high by 4th of July?” I got that and then some. From seeds too!

Just look at that thing, inside my strawberry cage.

Three of the fallen, two more were too brutalized for photos.

I read online about this thin tight-woven netting stuff that you can supposedly “drape” over your plants to protect them. To me, though, draping something over tomatoes just means all the bird has to do is peck through the netting. I think, in true over-engineered fashion, I’m going to use some sort of netting to build a huge cage around my entire planter box. OK, maybe that’s extreme… but I’m open to suggestions. And, I’ll stop talking about birds and tomatoes now.

Let’s do the wrap-up paragraph now.

Got some vacation coming up next week, and I couldn’t be more ready for it. It’ll be nearly two weeks, although not taken consecutively. Vacations are always iffy for writing, sometimes they’re good for it, sometimes they’re bad for it. No promises (other than to have a rockin’ good time not-working, that is). And yes, folks, I know, lots of you have been bugging me for new pictures of Keaton. I wanted to wait until we were back from our Oregon visit before posting them, so I expect to have them up this week. Trust me though, she’s only getting cuter.

Before I go, in music news. Check out this exclusive feature on the Arcade Fire’s upcoming follow-up to Neon Bible. Also, the new Interpol has been floating around in sketchy quality, and from my first listens it sounds better than some of the other recent leaks. Oh, and, the six leaked tracks from the new Animal Collective have really grown on me. Still under evaluation: the new Thrills, the new Super Furry Animals, the new Editors, and the new Vanderslice. Oh, and, Ben got it right on his blog, the Los Campesinos EP is downright fun.

Team Campesinos trick or treating on your driveway in the middle of August; one of us dressed like a zombie, one of us dressed like a pirate, one of us dressed like a ninja and four of us dressed like schoolgirls.

Goodnight.

Posted on

monday in oregon


Sunday in Oregon, and I don’t know if I’ll get past this singular sentence and be able to actually write something worth posting (I’ve tried now three times throughout the day without success, so I don’t have high hopes for inspiration). Came up Friday night to hang with my parents and brother this weekend, and do the working-stiff gig on Monday and Tuesday. As usual, I’m not at all looking forward to working tomorrow… but I do rather enjoy the public transit ride in – makes me feel “green” and “metropolitan.” Plus, I always like a chance to listen to music on the iPod and people-watch – and the train is an excellent place for both of those. Anyway, I’ll put in my two days, work as hard as travel-me does, and we’ll be off back to Northern California.

The weather here was nice yesterday, warm and mostly sunny, only clouding over at night and raining just enough to release that earthy rain-on-concrete smell before the sun went down. We took Keaton down to the little playground that’s part of my parents little neighborhood in the late afternoon. She went on the slides. Today it rained for real, so we kicked it indoors – opting to sit around and read and surf the internet and seamlessly drift from nap to waking. It was a good weekend, for sure. Then, we capped off the evening with a nice family dinner out at a local eatery… twas quite nice. Oh, I also got some time do some blog maintenance I’ve been wanting to do for a while – going back and adding titles to my ooold blogs. I’m almost done, if you care.

Ten o’clock now and I just don’t have the heart to write anymore. Goodnight.

Posted on

good, but needs red wine and cannabis


A long blog today, about nothing but music. Well, to be fair, also kinda about my insecurities and fancies and fears of growing older. But, on the surface – today’s all about music.

The online chatter over the almost-all-the-way-leaked new Animal Collective album, Strawberry Jam, is reaching a fever pitch on the blogs ‘n’ boards. Six of the nine tracks have now leaked, and, to use a stereogumism, the “premature evaluation” is in full-swing. Most of the indie-kids seem to be likening it to the Second Coming, or some other such event of holy import. I’ve heard all six tracks (interested?), and I’m still undecided…

In fact, being honest about it – I have never been able to really “get” Animal Collective.

I was telling Ben the other day that, in the midst of all this Strawberry Jam hype, I was spurred to re-download the Collective’s 2005 effort, which was nearly universally lauded in the indie-rock world when it came out. I downloaded it then, and dismissed it as a little too “out there” for my tastes. I could live with the decision, it’s not like my tastes have to run with the crowd.

Then, Animal Collective member Panda Bear released a solo album, also the recipient of a coordinated mass-jizzing-upon by the critics. Of course, I downloaded that Panda Bear album, and tried… and I mean tried, to get into it. But, despite my best efforts, it was, again, just too far out for me. This was a tad worrisome, as I began to think I was somehow missing the boat… what was happening to me?

I don’t know if you have to be on acid to “get” these records or what, but I just can’t seem to connect with them on the level that the “other kids” do. Sometimes I feel like this means I’m getting old. Secretly, I have this huge fear that there’ll come a day when I just can’t understand “the kids’ music” anymore. I, in fact, live in unspoken (until now) terror of that day – when I realize that the “cool new stuff” that I think I’m still hip for being into is really just a bunch of trite recycling of the music I grew up on – and the real cutting edge is the junk I dismiss as artsy-freak-rock. The day when music moves on, and I’m stuck on a sound that’s decades old.

So, here I am again, once again listening to the old Animal Collective album, and the Panda Bear album, trying as I might to find their merits.

Don’t think I don’t realize that this, in and of itself, as a technique, runs a close second to the sin of losing touch with what’s cool. Desperately sprinting after the bandwagon is something I’m not really used to… but the motivating fear that I’m losing touch with what’s good is enough to make me think twice, and somehow wonder that maybe these albums are kinda like beer to a thirteen year-old (if you don’t know what I mean, I’ve tired to explain it before: 3rd paragraph here). So, I’ve done two thorough listens over the past couple days.

Sometimes, I even think I’ve got it figured out – like I can finally hear what the fuss is all about. I mean – lately I’ve been thinking that I actually dig the Panda Bear’s Person Pitch. At times I even thing I hear snatches of brilliance and beauty, like I could really fall in love with it if I had some red wine and cannabis.

But then, I second-guess my newfound affection and worry that I’m just kidding myself. Even now, I don’t know what would happen if I really did start liking it, I’m not sure I’d even be able to trust my own judgment. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past me to lie to myself so I’d feel cooler.

Guess I’m hopelessly old. Please excuse me while I put on the old familiar friend that is the Eagles’ Greatest Hits and make myself a bloody mary… shit.

But on the reals, before I move on, do me a favor and go download that Panda Bear album and give it a spin – see if you can validate me or not. It kinda kicks ass, right? It’s kinda gorgeous, right? Transfixing and hypnotic and intriguing, right? But, then, it’s kinda way-out obtuse and confusing, right? A little dense and repetitive, right? If you’re the red wine and cannabis type, try it like that too – and let me know if it “opens any doors,” OK? Thanks, I’ll be anxiously awaiting your findings.

Seriouslyforrealtho, I really do think the missing “ingredient” in this album is drugs… not kidding. Who wants to be my sitter while I try and find out?

OK, enough of that. More music…

It’s hard to believe that something as disjointed and relatively incomprehensible as this could make me any more anxious for Radiohead’s 7th LP – but it totally has. On the internet’s best source of pirate tunes, “LP7” tops the request list, the most asked-for and anticipated album of the close-knit community of music-loving thieves. I know you can’t really tell much from the audio on that video clip, but I like to think I can hear proof of yet another masterpiece.

To close this out, I’ll mention that I’m hard at work on my second annual half-year best-of list. Yeah, get in line now.

Goodnight.

Posted on

hey! what’s up wednesday?!


Hey! What’s up Wednesday?! Haven’t seen you around here in, like… a week or something. Where ya been?

I ran out of deodorant yesterday, and forgot to pick some up when I was at the local box store. So, this morning I borrowed some of Sharaun’s. It comes in a white stick, with little powder blue and pink flora delicately intertwined around it’s intricately scripted branding. I uncapped it, brought it close to take a sniff, and, subconsciously nodding in approval, gave my pits a couple swipes and was off. Throughout the day, however, every time I lifted my arms above my head I’d smell an emasculating mixture French lavender and vanilla chai. So, I decided to walk around with my arms held tight to my flabby sides, lest others be drawn to my lilting feminine scent. I do, however, kinda want to make out with my own armpits.

Friday evening, Sharaun and I leave for Oregon again (you can actually see it if you look hard enough at 4pm Friday on my calendar). We’re spending the weekend through Tuesday with my folks, and I’ll work from the local chapter of the ol’ sawmill while I’m there. I know my mom is excited to see Keaton, and I’m glad that my particular sawmill has a convenient location there which affords us the opportunity to do these tag-teamed work/play visits.

Today was a busy day… in fact, this week is a busy week. Seriously for real, I mean, check out this blurry, shrunk-up screencap of my Outlook calendar. Each of those little boxes is a meeting.

Now, you may ask, “But Dave, when do you actually have time to do work?”

Yes, you may ask.

On a semi-random note, Sharaun and I have become somewhat obsessed with Maygsters’ new photoblog. In fact, Sharaun has been plotting a way to get Maygsters to take some pictures of Keaton for her. She’s, of course, unsatisfied that the $300 point-‘n’-shoot digital we have doesn’t take “as good of” pictures as she seems to get (as good as?). Yeah, really? I try to tell her that the reason some cameras are $10,000 versus the ones that are $300 is that there’s a difference in the quality of images they can make. Well, kinda like how I feel about boats – I’m of the mind that it’s actually better to have friends with expensive cameras than it is to buy and learn to use them yourself. Maygsters, you work for food?

Goodnight.

Posted on

bloggin’ on the move


Happy Tuesday folks, I’m just gonna get right into it.

Blogging from among the masses in the general admission section on the lawn at the Gwen Stefani show (from my phone, no less).

The youth is in full “social gathering” regalia, young men with their baseball caps twisted sideways and half-cocked over tightly freshened-up crew-cuts, young ladies squeezed into skin-tight bits of cloth they’re trying to pass as clothes. Oh, it’s on (it’s not really “on,” I actually feel pretty old, to tell the truth).

I’m pretty much transfixed watching the chaperoning moms, the way they nonchalantly watch their pre-teen daughters “wind and grind.” I can’t tell if they’re really good at pretending not to care, all the while squirming on the inside, or if they truly don’t mind the statutory-inviting junior-stripper antics. Tell you what though, some of these girls are dancing like they have body parts that they haven’t even grown yet. Were we this bad when we were kids?

I’m actually petty amazed I’m able to blog from my phone right now; believe it or not, it’s the first time I’ve ever done it. This new BlackBerry predictive text keyboard is pretty functional, as should be evidenced by the fact that I totally wasted time typing about typing. Anyway, moving on.

Y’know, being here, seeing these kids, and, more importantly seeing these adults doing their best to look like kids, I’m actually happy to be all ‘grow’d up.” I’d hate to be “that guy:” Forty-something years old, all tatted up wearing a 13lbs silver herring-bone chain with spiked bleached-blonde hair ala “I’m thirteen and I just discovered Sid Vicious.” Hey, if I’m ever that guy, sit me down and lay it on me, OK? (The truth that is, lay the truth on me, OK?)

Well, the it’s nigh on midnight and we’re on our way home. The battery on this thing is almost gone, and I’m fresh out of things to say anyway. I know I’m totally gonna be disappointed with the length of this post when I see it on a real screen, but it looks huge squanched up on this tiny thing, so I’m calling it good.

‘Night.

Posted on

teenage freerange


I had planned on doing absolutely nothing Sunday in celebration of Father’s Day, but I ended up going on a do-nothing bender and wasting the whole weekend on the couch. The iPod stayed on shuffle, and I napped when Keaton napped – it was pure bliss. Saturday night we pondered renting a movie, and ended up downloading a pirated cam-copy of the new “Knocked Up,” kinda like a parent’s night out – but in. Y’know, we’d’ve paid $10 to watch it on-demand, I think – if the cable and movie industry teamed up to do first-run in the home. Could be a viable business model for young parents, older folks, and the generally shut-in or social-phobic. Duh.

But anyway, Sunday morning I woke to Sharaun carrying Keaton into the room with a card in her hand. “Can you give the card to daddy?,” she asked, and Keaton dutifully handed it over. Then, I was asked what I’d like for breakfast (I requested banana-walnut pancakes, since I was asked), and it was whipped up for me while I got ready. Sounds nice, right? ‘Twas. So, let’s keep going.

Really enjoyed reading this short article online the other day, reminded me of all the roaming I used to do as a kid. Sometimes, when I recall to Sharaun some of the journeys my pre-teen friends and I underwent, she’s amazed that our parents let us be as freerange as we were. As pre-driving kids – we were borderline feral. We’d range across the town on foot and by bike, at all hours – sometimes with parental blessing, sometimes without. I don’t think the level of paranoia was there like it is today, and that was only eighteen or so years ago. I can remember being in 7th grade, which would make me about thirteen years old, riding our bikes from our sleepy little riverside burg over the the causeway onto “the island” – a long ride even by my adult brain’s standards today. Once there, we were far enough removed from our own stomping grounds to feel independent and important. Plus, there was a fireworks store there that not only flaunted Florida law by selling the good stuff (firecrackers, bottlerockets, etc.) out of small room in back, but that also had no qualms selling to kids, as long as the money was green. We’d ride the eight or so miles in the moist-furnace of Florida heat, stop at Wendys for a Frosty, pick up a bundle of ladyfingers from the secret stash in back (all you had to do was ask), and take them over to the mall across the street to light a run of ’em and toss ’em in the womens’ bathroom.

Sometimes when we’re home visiting Sharaun’s family and we drive over that causeway, I’ll look to the skinny little strip of paint-cordoned concrete on our right where we used to ride and wonder at not getting killed. Not only did we ride, we walked. I can remember, one day, having walked up to the store for kicks. While there, we’d sneakily swithed the stick-on pircetag (before UPC) from a cheap piece of beef jerky to cover the pricier tag of a “10ft beefstick,” effectively stealing it for pennies on the dollar. As we walked home, we split into groups of two on either side of the narrow lane, each holding (and occasionally gnawing on) one end of the massive meat-rope as we stretched it across the road. Seeing a car approaching in the distance, we waited until the last minute to yank our snack-slash-toy out of harm’s way. Turned out that, in that car was my dad. Here we were, four thirteen year old boys, miles from home and on foot, trying to clothesline automobiles with a few yards of spun beef – and my dad didn’t bat an eye. He slowed, said hello, and was on his way, allowing us to find whatever trouble we could as we trudged the remaining miles homeward. The independence that we felt was liberating, and allowed us to get mixed up in all sorts of shady goings-on – and I consider that independence as a key part of my youth.

Today, though, my initial tendency is to keep my kid close. I’m going to do my best, though, to afford her the freedom she’ll need to get the same kind of independent growth that my friends and I did (minus the beer, pyromania, and weed, of course).

Goodnight.

Posted on

reeking of oaksmoke

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Wednesday night – I ran away from work today. Well, only in the physical sense, I suppose… as I actually did work-type activity, but from the comforts of my home rather than the cubicle. It was good, and I feel like, despite my Bush-when-he-was-in-the-Texas-National-Guard questionable work-ethic of late, I deserved and needed it. Now I sit here with the windows open, when they likely shouldn’t be – because the residual heat of the 100°+ day we had today here in brown Northern California hasn’t quite subsided yet – but I like them open, it makes me feel in tune with nature, or some such escapist notion. Yesterday I was at a conference in the city, and made the best of the hobknobbing time afforded me. I went to meet and greet, and both met and greeted to my satisfaction. I arrived home around midnight, and just didn’t feel like trudging into those oppressive aisles today.

Today I had planned on breaking in the new barbecue in a practice run, cooking a traditional meal for Sharaun and I the way I remember my grandpa doing it. My main goal was to figure out how to properly cook over the new grill, this being my first true woodfire barbecuing experience. But, the best laid plans… Anyway, we ended up supping with a good portion of our close friend base, and what had started as a “test meal” ended up more like my first official cook over the new contraption. Happily, things worked out fine. The meat was tasty, if just a tad more done than I’d like, and I could certainly taste the oak. I even cooked some pinquito beans to round out the authentic Santa Maria-ness of the whole thing. Overall, I was happy with the grill’s performance and the outcome – plus, it was totally fun tending the fire for hours prior to cooking (burned seven cuts of oak, more than I expected, but had a nice bed of cooking coals). In the end then: bravo.

I’m glad for the abbreviated week. Monday wasn’t busy at all, Tuesday was the conference, and Wednesday was today (you just read about it). Thursday is a regular day, and Friday we have a work-related getaway to the wine country for some good ol’ winesoaked camaraderie. Then, it’s Father’s Day and next weekend we’re off to Oregon to visit my folks again. After that, vacation while Sharaun’s parents visit one week, and again the next week as her sister and brother-in-law come calling. It’s all downhill until Labor Day folks, which is, you’ll soon find out, the much-anticipated beginning of my two-month paid “sabbatical” at work. Yes, the idea is autopilot from here on out.

Goodnight.