Attaining the Zenith

Since I proved to be too dumb for grad school, most of my education now comes through one of four channels: the internet, looking at shit around town, and watching stupid movies. Though the first two certainly have their merits, the last one has, of late, proved to be the most edifying. There was of course the much-ballyhooed Supersize Me, about the dude who ate nothing but McDonalds for a month and got super sick and really fat and all that. But that wasn’t shit compared with Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter a whimsical little Korean flick about a Buddhist master and his apprentice. Nothing much really happens in the movie: some dudes hang out, dude some gangster zen shit, the boy becomes a lad and meets a girl who corrupts him (of course), only to return many years later to take his place as the next master. But the overall all moral tale of the story—that the world of man is a perpetual trap of frustration and agony, and that the true path to happiness lie in transcending worldly pleasures can one be free of suffering—somehow struck a chord within my fragile psyche. I thought about all my foolish boastfulness; my hunger for money and power; my extreme narcissism and I felt sickened by my shallowness. I realized that I was a fly, caught in the spider’s web of desire for affection; that my futile attempts at “liberation” were actually just further enveloping me in the sticky confines of coolness. I need a symbolic severing, a physical stimulation to the mostly mental process of transcending my fruitless search for adoration. So I shaved my head. And now I look a) like I’m going bald, b) like I should be serving you dinner at Tres Hombres and c) just overall like a really boring version of my old self. But that’s exactly what I need. Now if I could just stop buying shoes and ironic thrift store t-shirts, and stop trying to stack cred and stop checking my email to see if I have any new comments on Myspace or Friendster, then I’d be set. But, as the old saying goes: even the longest journey begins with but a single step.

Marked for Success

So you know its gonna be a great week when first thing Monday morning you go to take a shit and piss on the back of your shorts. Whoever designed the way toilet seats are situated needs to recognize. Maybe that fucker just had a long ass dick. Or maybe I just have some shortness going on. But if I don't keep mindful of that shit I piss right out that gap. But maybe its part of why people have been listening to the shit I've been saying today, more than usual. Maybe the faint odor of piss is like a subconscious sign of dominance, a marking of the territory. It's like how if you're hanging out with some girl, and you smell all girled out after awhile, people treat you more like a gangster. The lingering pherenomes mark you as being the true savage, the silverback. Maybe thats why they made that shit with the gap. So dudes with TRUE INTELLECT would mark themselves for success.

EMOTIONAL ROCK MUSIC

The Rocket Summer, Plain White T’s, Number One Fan & Kevin Devine
12 Galaxies, San Francisco
Monday, June 21st




It was only fitting that the official first day of Summer 2004 was marked not only by an escape from the oppressive valley heat into the loving, temperate arms of San Francisco, but also a yay-rock extravaganza featuring the name soon to be on the hearts and lips of sappy music fans everywhere: The Rocket Summer. Though the venue was in a seemingly dicey part of town, and was itself something of a dive-ish whiskey joint, a small but vocal contingent of cheerful youths, sundry scenesters and curious onlookers assembled to mark the occasion and celebrate life in general.
After opener Kevin Devine provided the distant soundtrack to navigating the confusing streets of San Francisco, my assistant and I arrived in time to catch the night’s other attraction, upcoming Wisconson emos Number One Fan. Sticking to cuts off their forthcoming national debut, Compromises, the band’s anthemic and thoroughly melodic sound was more or less what one would expect. Frontman Nicolas Ziemann seemed to have a bit of trouble covering the vocal parts so finely rendered on Compromises, but overall the band provided a somewhat rousing opening set.
Chicago’s Plain White T’s were next upon the stage. A five-piece, Plain White-T’s certainly had the energy and the technical chops to make a decent racket, but their style was mired in a weird sort of netherworld between gooey new-school punk rock, the anthemic melodicism of their predecessors Number One Fan, and an altogether cornball active rock sound. Though similar to other contemporary Chicago outfits like Fallout Boy and Spitalfield, Plain White T’s didn’t really seem to offer much except a dude in a jean jacket sweating his ass off onstage.
But even the respectable amount of stage presence exhibited by Plain White T’s would soon pale in comparison to the one-man whirlwind that is Bryce Avary, aka The Rocket Summer. Like others before him — Pedro the Lion, Nine Inch Nails, etc. — Avary is a type of rock music wünderkind, playing all the instruments on The Rocket Summer’s debut record Calendar Days, as well as handling all the vocals and songwriting duties. The current tour is Avary’s first with a full backup band, but from the get-go it was more than clear who the star was. Kicking things off on keyboards, Avary would also play guitar, and even drums (with a headset microphone) over the course of the evening, often ditching instruments altogether to focus on his aerobics instructor-esque verve for crowd participation. But as corny as it may sound, or even was, something about Avary’s personality — and, more importantly, songwriting — makes it irresistibly charming. From the opening “This is Me,” to the peppy “Cross My Heart,” — both from Calendar Days — and even on covers (The Cure’s “Mint Car”), Avary’s honest enthusiasm and obviously God-given talent counteracted any derision his demeanor and boyish excitement might have incurred. Closing the night on solo acoustic guitar, Avary — by then preaching to the choir, especially the adoring throngs of teenage girls in the audience — only made it obvious what was already clear: he’s happy and he knows it and he’s not afraid to show it.



Words and photos by Daniel Taylor
Review Courtesy of www.synthesis.net

The City

The thing about the city that makes you feel like shit is that its like all the guys from every small town that were the coolest motherfucker; the one guy from your high school that was on some fashion/spock/music tang wrecker shit. My friend Jeff first advanced this theory about LA. But LA is where all the stupid bitches and theater fags go. All the true gangsters go to frisco and work at some shoes store or Amoeba. And the thing thats funniest about it is that they counteract each other's coolness to the point that they forget that they're even cool anymore. Like its these super fashion model guys hanging out with some merle waitress, when if they would just move to Yuba City or somewhere they could wreck any girl they saw fit.

Kinski

Mission of Burma, Kinski and Whysall Lane
The Fillmore, San Francisco
Wednesday, June 9th



The air of nostalgia was most certainly in the air this night, as seminal Boston post-punkers Mission of Burma 20 years removed from their heyday brought their triumphant comeback tour into the welcoming confines of San Francisco’s majestic yet comfortable Fillmore. But unlike most nostalgia acts, Mission of Burma have not only a new record, OnOffOn, but a new record that actually makes a contribution and is starkly relevant in the contemporary rock scene. Thus, the audience on hand for the evening’s festivities was a mixture of late-thirties old schoolers, bright-eyed youthful spocks and every convention in between.
A refreshing opening set by SF locals Whysall Lane got the evening under way. Fitting in the nights nostalgic theme, Whysall Lane featured ex-Jawbreaker drummer Adam Pfahler behind the kit, playing more or less the same meat-and-potatoes style that marked his days with the pre-emo legends. Similarly the band—also featuring Richard Baluyut of Versus on noisy guitar and vocals, as well as a ravishingly nerdy bassist—had a distinctly mid-nineties college rock vibe. There were also guitar solos.
However, Baluyut’s guitar noodlings seemed like “Chopsticks” compared to the evening’s next act, Seattle zombie rockers Kinski, whose music falls somewhere between cinematic and epic. An instrumental four piece, consisting of the tradition bass, drums, two guitar format, the members of Kinski nevertheless succeed at wrangling haunting, often jarring sonic artistry out of their equipment without the use of much more than ingenuity, experience and creativity (with a bit of processed flute now and then for good measure). Playing a mix of new-ish, yet untitled tracks and older stuff from their last formal full length, Airs Above Your Station, Kinski sounded and appeared to be firing on all cylinders, a notion that was seconded by Kinski drummer Barrett Wilke afterwards. Especially evident on their defacto theme song, “Semaphore,” off both the aforementioned Airs as well as an earlier EP, was Kinski’s firm grasp of the balance between melodicism and aural experimentation. Doubtlessly many in the crowd were convinced—with others being previously aware—that Kinski is the finest instrumental indie rock outfit this side of Glasgow.
Be it because of youth or prestanding bias, but Mission of Burma were initially a painful anticlimax to what had proved to be thus far an invigorating night of rock music. Looking their age, but definitely not acting it, Mission of Burma—guitarist Roger Miller, bassist Clint Conley and drummer Roger Prescott, with the added accompaniment of behind-the-scenes sound manipulator/sound engineer/cred piece Bob Weston—all seemed genuinely excited by being on stage again. But the music seemed tepid, especially to those in the crowd not lip-syncingly familiar with the Mission of Burma catalog. It was also interesting to note the special consideration necessitated by Miller’s noted tinnitus, the ear ringing malady that probably contributed to the band’s early demise so long ago: Prescott’s drums were kenneled behind sound deadening baffles, Miller’s amps were situated at the very front of the stage, with him standing behind them with rifleman’s earmuffs on. As the band took an intermission about 45 minutes into what would be a nearly two-hour set, many seemed antsy. But the band returned to the stage with a renewed vigor and seemed to convert even the staunchest doubters. By the time they played “That’s When I Reach for My Revolver,” both crowd and band had reached a fevered pitch. The encore featured Penelope Houston of LA punks of yore The Avengers singing “The American in Me,” a song that fit in rather neatly with Mission of Burma’s poltical bent (though the band’s “No New McCarthy Era” banner on stage seemed a bit trite). A second encore later and the band was spent, as was the majority of the crowd. All said, an edifying evening of rock featuring three equally meritorious, equally relevant if not totally different facets of the ever-burgeoning independent rock world.

– Words and Photos by Daniel Taylor
Review Courtesy of www.synthesis.net

Born Asleep

Googling yourself is quite possibly the most edifying waste of time ever.

Today I found a web site for Daniel Taylor, a stillborn baby, complete with photos of said baby.

http://members.tripod.com/preciousboys/daniel.html

There is also a link to Daniel's brother Aaron, who died at 7 days. With pictures.

There is something uniquely disturbing about reality.

People Don't Know Shit

People are always talking about how travel is this golden tool of knowledge gleaning; beyond all others, travel is the way to "expand your horizons." They're always talking like "I just want to see different people and different points of views; different ways of looking at things," like somewhere out there is the secret to happiness. At some point in this conversation it usually comes to pass that I say something to the effect of, "I don't much like travel, nor do I plan on doing it much," which usually garners responses ranging from flat out disgust, pity of my "ignorance," travel agent-like salesmanship or just plain old "thats stupid." Oh I'm sorry FOR HAVING A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW; A DIFFERENT WAY OF SEEING THINGS. I guess if they traveled across the world and found me sitting in a mountain, then what I had to say would be edifying and culturally significant, but since I'm right there then I MUST HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK IM TALKING ABOUT. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with travel, but I'm just not agreeing that there's anything inherently right about it either. Somehow people have the idea that travel has a divine importance to it. "How will you ever know about the world if you don't go see it for yourself. How will you know that you don't like it" Well, I've never had anal sex with a man, but I'm pretty sure I'm not gay. Plus I have traveled. I've done the whole "Hey I'm flying over the ocean," "Hey these people are speaking a different language," thing many times. And guess what. Didn't do anything for me. People are equally stupid everywhere in my opinion. Travel is like a socially acceptable form of drug abuse, it allows people to esacpe from the pitfalls of their ordinary life for a while. But like drugs, the escape only furthers those things that are being esacped from. LIFE SUCKS NO MATTER WHAT. LEARN TO DEAL WITH IT.

If people really wanted to expand their horizons they'd just start doing a lot of psychedelic drugs. What more explorable region is their than one's own mind. But people are too fucking chicken shit for that kind of travel. They just want their feeling of vindication and temporary escapism. or maybe they just all understand something that I don't. Maybe I'm just the stupid fucker; the straightedge of the travel world, the square in the world of rounds. Fuck it I don't give a fucking shit. San Francisco, LA, NYC and Europe can all lick my fucking balls. I don't give a shit about fucking Japan, China, South America, Cuba or any of that other bullshit. There all justa bunch of motherfuckers equally as lost and stupid as everyone here, they just have that "new kid in school appeal." It's like back in school, whenever some new kid would move to town, if he or she was even marginally attractive everyone would always be like "damn she's/he's so hot!" for like the first 3 weeks until they eventually figured out that he/she was the equally as fucking pathetic as everyone else.

FUCK OFF

I Used to Eat Spam

So maybe its because I grew up on shit like Spam and Spagetti-Os, but whenever I try to eat something healthy my insides seriously have a muntiny. I can sit and house a whole pizza or eat 9 chicken tenders with Tapatio and its all gravy, but if I eat a handful of trail mix or a bowl of granola, it feels like I just partied with Richard Gere and a couple of gerbils.

Its makes you wonder what early man was like. I mean they just ate meat and roots and whatnot all the time. Judging from my experiences with vegans and atkins bros, both of which have fucking stinky ass farts and shit like mice, early humans probably shit frequently and with astonishing potency. Those fuckers probably ran around with shit dripping out of their asses like slurpee machines. It also makes you wonder who was the first dude to wipe his ass. Like if it was a group effort or if at some point some dude just got sick of it. Maybe they know, they being the scientific community as a whole. That would make a good thesis, The Evolution of Ass Wiping, or Ritual Anal Cleaning Through the Ages.

Meh is the New LOL and other stupid bullshit

So yeah, in case you were wondering saying "meh" during a chat or even worse, during an actual conversation, is HELL OF FUCKING STUPID.

Also:

using numbers instead of words is also fucking stupid. "2 my house" is only one less keystroke than "to my house." Bite the fucking bullet. You might lose 2 seconds of precious time but the world will be a slightly better place.

Moreover:

If you have an "X" or three in your screenname or email address that need not be there, and you aren't actually straightedge, you deserve to get your fucking genitals meat hooked. Of course those same kids who are doing that shit are the ones stuffing all sorts of metal into every entrance and exit in their body anyways, so maybe thats not even that much of a punishment. I had a neighbor once who had her clit pierced. She said she could make herself cum walking to school. Is that supposed to be a good thing? Personally I'd rather not cum walking to school. Especially not just because there's some metal rob rubbing my fucking dick. I mean cumming 57 times a day might take a bit of the thrill out of things. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just old fashioned.

I Used To Kill Shit

When I was little I used to kill all sorts of things. I used to shoot rabbits, birds, lizards, frogs, anything that fucking moved. I even burned baby birds to death once. But I eventually changed my ways; I guess I never really ever liked doing it but being from where I'm from you just kind of learned that as long as it wasn't talking it deserved death. So its weird now that something as stupid as putting a bird to sleep because its legs dont work is gut wrenching. I mean a thousand birds met their death courtesy of my firearmed youth and though sometimes I felt a little remorse, it really didn't amount to much. So why should I give a fuck about this bird? Its not like it would care if I died, as long as someone else gave it food and let it out to fly around and opened the shades in the morning. And what do birds know about the passage of time anyway? Wouldn't a 2 year life be more or less the same to a bird as a 10 year life? What kind of perspective does a non-mammal brain have the capability to obtain? Just because they can learn how to talk doesn't mean they give a shit about things in general. Maybe its the fact that there;s this whole bureaucracy involved; calling the vet and making the decision and being there for the injection and paying the bill. Its like how paying for things makes people feel like they're better. How a $20,000 car is "better" than a $19,000 car. I guess all the free death I used to dispense didn't really make a difference because it was here and gone in a flash and there was nothing to it, no paper work on stupid fuckers telling you its the "right thing to do." Here's to death for sale. Making you feel like a piece of shit for just doing your job.

I Got A Bird With Legs That Don't Work Anymore

Birds are kind of gangster to have as pets because you get no warning when they are sick; sometimes they just kind of die or come very close to it without even letting you know. One minute they're chirpring and flying the next they're lying on the bottom of the cage like a fetus. This was the case yesterday when I walked home and found the patriarch of my Lovebird family, lying in a heap on the bottom of the cage squirming like a crushed mouse feet tightly clenched in silent agony. He couldn't even move his head, his wings mechanically expanding and retracting. I figured he was pretty much done for; when a bird's foot get curled up in a ball like that you know that shit is going downhill fast. There really is nothing sadder then the grim indifference in a bird's eye. Even in the moment of death the steely gaze of a birdeye doesn't break, it just looks. That fucker looked at me and I figured I owed it to him to at least take him out and give it a go. So I boxed him up and took a war hellride to the Animal Clinic. They took him in and had him there overnight, and lo and behold I guess maybe he's not gonna die. But they say his legs will probably never work again. They say he shows signs of a neurological injury. I could find out if I let them take X Rays, but I don't have that kind of money, so now I guess I just get to have a bird with no legs, or at least one's that don't work. I wonder if that fucker even really cares. I guess now I know what it feels like to be those people in crazy ass countries whose kids die of stupid shit just because they're too poor to do anything about it. That would suck.