I got headshots done by Andrew Miller the day before vacation (one of a number of ill-planned get-it-done projects). I’ve narrowed them down to a handful. I get three shots retouched (thankfully) which I’ll need to split between me and Billy Bob. If you like looking at headshots, check them out and let me know. Snarky comments accepted.
And, naturally, if you’re looking for headshots (or any photography) give Andrew a call.
Think about this – you’ve got an hour and a half to wait for your plane. You’re bored. Possibly you feel a tad anxious. What to do? How about a nice beer or bourbon to take the edge off? That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? A nice sit-down, maybe watch some TV, a little conversation.
How about you walk a half mile BACK through the airport and outside because the foul stench of your alcohlic breath offends people. You have to drink outside. Gone are your cozy little sports bars and random STD-carrying sexual encounters with stewardesses and/or pilots in the bathroom. Gone are the blackouts that that divert your flight back to your airport of origin because you jokingly talked about “dropping a bomb” in the bathroom when you meant a particulary nasty bowel movement.
The only airport in the US that sections off a small parcel of real estate for smokers to fulfil their own addiction is Vegas.
I don’t think so.
I’m stretched out on sofa with a cherry wood frame and lush green cushions the color of defiant, antique moss. My glasses sit on a glass top side table made of the same wood, possibly the same tree. Comfortable indirect lighting shines softly down on me from discreet recessed fixtures, pleasantly updated art deco burnished aluminum wall lamps and the occasional non-gaudy chandelier. If you don’t listen terribly closely to the music you can almost pretend it’s one of the Brian Eno ambient series floating with its unassuming pretentiousness in the background.
All in all, the lobby of the Westin Hotel in downtown Seattle is not half bad.
It’s 11pm (2am Boston time) and I’d rather be in bed, but I’ve been around people for four days straight and though our room on the 47th floor is stunning, I need solitude even if it’s alone-in-a-crowd solitude. Four days with no break and no break down come close to a personal best. Why push it?
I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening 47 floors above me. It’s a little scenario called “Children Eat Ice Cream Right Before Bed Time or Medea Had Her Reasons”. I’ve played the principal role in this one before. Let the understudy take over.
I haven’t recovered from not sleeping on the plane. I’m still on Boston time. 11pm and I’m yawning like it’s…2am
Friday we woke up and took a cab into Seattle. (I want to write “the city” but my East Coast pride won’t let me. Sorry, Seattle.) The plan involved staying with a friend on Bainbridge Island for a few days, seeing the sites there and coming back to Seattle this afternoon for my wife’s conference. The kids and I will hang for most of Monday. My wife has a little to do on Tuesday but finishes late morning and it’s off to the Space Needle and points beyond. We finish at the airport around 11pm for a red-eye back to Boston where I’ll have a client waiting for me in the morning and my first 15-20 minute gig that evening. I’m saving my Adderall.
Starbucks began in Seattle so you expect to see a couple of them here, but the current tally is fourteen. This includes the two sitting half a block away from each other and it is wrong, wrong, wrong. I’ll give them this, though, they have whored up the flagship store on the waterfront at Pike’s Place Market. It’s looks a crappy and rundown (aka – funky) as it probably did before they took over the world. It’s as if The Ring never changed Golem; he was always envious and covetous and he’s not spending money on clothes to pretend that he’s not. Yes, the a capella gospel group outside sounded and looked bored until they’re last song but even that extends the metaphor. To take it one step further, the old-timey group made up of uber-hip twenties somethings that played a few doors down kicked the gospel group’s ass and made probably half the money. I vaguely thought of getting my wife to take a picture of me flipping the bird at the flagship store and dismissed it quickly as hack. This was backed up as I watched three separate people of varying backgrounds having their picture taken flipping the bird at the flagship store.
(We (aka my family and I) are in Seattle for a couple of days on the always economical my-wife-has-a-conference-here vacation.)
As I type this, I’m flying at an altitude of 10363 meters (convert it yourself, motherfucker) and have been for 27 minutes. They project our plane to land in one hour and 12 minutes. Oneida Lake lies 73km ahead of us with Albany 48km of chem trail behind. Every hour we traverse 721km of 100% American soil and that’s with a head wind of 111km coming in from a direction of 277degrees. Is -47c cold? Beats the hell out of me, I’m American. We don’t do that metric shit. Jimmy Carter can go fuck himself.
Why do I know all of this? It’s Delta Airlines hip new hit reality TV show called Here’s A Bunch Of Stats That Some Geek Figured Out How To Output To The TV Screens On Our Planes. HABOSTSGFOHTOTTTSOOP gives you REAL TIME statistics relating to almost every aspect of your journey through the Heavens to, if not Valhalla, then at least Cincinnati.
Not a stats geek? No BFD!
HABOSTSGFOHTOTTTSOOP also gives the precise location of your plane projected onto a topographical map of, if not Atlantis, then at least Cincinnati. And if that’s not enough, with HABOSTSGFOHTOTTTSOOP you get to see it from SEVERAL DIFFERENT SCALES!
How did the man put it? Oh, yeah – HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW MOTHERFUCKER!!?? I’M FLYYYYYYING!
I’m hoping to sell this copy as a brochure to Delta. I think I’ve got a shot.
I don’t understand why we need TVs on planes (or in cars, or supermarkets, for that matter). Isn’t everyone watching what they want to watch on their laptop, cell phone or iPod? Hm – Einsenstadt, Sturges, Coen Brothers or Ravenous Rug Munchers Vol. 78? Answer – None of the above! I’d rather watch some a rerun of Friends that aired in 1992 or some fake news report about how people almost never die of blood clots on planes anymore. (Just kidding – Ravenous Rug Munchers it is – and tell that nun to stop “falling asleep” on my shoulder.)
Listening to pirate radio (real pirate radio not some DJ trying to sound “cutting edge”) takes patience, at least with my antenna. The audio quality usually sucks and then there’s the making sure you’re in the right place at the right time. Of course, finding a resource to clue you in helps. Even with the sucky audio you get a bit of a thrill listening to a show that you will never, ever hear on our sanitized airwaves. I don’t just mean the gratuitous profanity – excuse me – the gatuitous fucking profanity, but the actual shows themselves. For starters, Commander Bunny, leader of the Rodent Revolution, would never dream of working for knuckle-dragging monkeys boys. You can hear it in his steely military cadences. And while wingnuts certainly wage personal attacks, they fall far short of the merciless attacks on Mike Gaukin conducted by…some people.
Gaukin, it’s said, started threatening to jam pirate shows because…well…some people might say it’s because he’s a “gay faggot”. Whatever the case, this gave rise to the thoughtful creation of The Voice Of Mike Gaukin which dedicates itself to teasing out the endless hilarious permutations of (and, yes, it’s all very junior high school) “gay faggot”. It’s one of those cases where writing about simply can’t do the final product justice. And even then some folks will hate it. I, however, howl when I listen to it.
Which brings us to another wonderful by-product of the internet – mp3s of the unmuddied source copy! Yay! Now you can actually hear what’s said without all the static. After listening to the VMG shows, which consist, yes, of “gay faggotry” but also audio clips and songs (“Homo Rainbow” by Weezer, “Touch My Cum” by a band I’ve yet to indentify) I felt the need to contribute. Teddy and Darrel lept to mind so I sent an email suggesting it. But then, I remembered a song by Holtzclaw called The Faggots Want Wine. Haunting and gay, I knew it was the perfect song. And it was. And I feel honored for its inclusion into the record of VMG.