try again to put a link up . . . .

yes, we can

Maybe gonna start working on this again. For now, check this out:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=1yq0tMYPDJQ

why business casuals herald the downfall of western civilization, or vice versa

I simply could not choose between these two images. Feel free to debate on which one best represents the nebulous concept of "Business Casual."

Sometime during the 1990's, IBM relaxed its legendary dress code. Out with the dark pinstripe suit and white shirt, in with the khaki and button-down look.

That, my friends, was the beginning of the end. Symbolic, yes, but isn't the beginning of the end always so? And don't the people who are living in the period usually miss it, bigtime?

Well, I didn't. Took me a few years, but I'm pretty sure I've found the exact point of the downfall of the human race as we know it. IBM, and business casuals. I will now use a diverse series of analogies ranging from fat kids to Frank Purdue chicken to illustrate my point. It all comes together, I promise.

The Japanese have a concept/expression pronounced "dara dara." Loosely translated, dara dara means or symbolizes a few ideas:

--not taking care of one's personal appearance.

--not putting one's best foot forward.

--having a generally slovenly, slacker-y attitude.

Let me offer an image of an extreme example of dara dara:

An overweight high school kid with a hat on backwards, baggy sweatshirt and jeans hanging off him, big headphones blasting in his ears, dragging his untied Nike hightops along the sidewalk as he eats a candy bar and lets the wrapper drop in his wake. That is dara dara. Got it?

So. Onto Frank Purdue.

I remember growing up there was a Frank Purdue chicken commercial that had a song which began with the line, "It's the pride of this great country, that makes it the best it can be." (I can't recall how they went from there to chicken breasts, but I suppose it doesn't matter.) Anyway, I was a young kid watching TV with two sisters from England, friends of the family who had come over to visit. I remember one of them saying something like, "you would never hear something like that in a commercial in England." The images in the ad were of a wholesome, spotless farm somewhere in the midwest. Whitebread family, sunset over the paddock.

So, to segue, in a conversation I had recently, Buddy Evan said that the most common first impression of America from the international students he used to teach was that they couldn't believe how dirty this country was. The streets of New York. They'd grown up watching films and television shows featuring a clean America. Even the gritty, street-level gang flicks didn't really give a sense of the rubbish at your feet. They were shocked at the lack of care. Granted, many of them had come from places like Korea and Japan, where cleanliness is a national pastime, but even the Europeans were taken aback.

(As a little homework assignment, next time you're walking down a city street or even through someplace like a mall parking lot, mentally calculate the number of standard-sized trash bags you could fill up with the garbage on the pavement and along the curbs of any football field-ish sized area.)

There is a LOT of talk about the pride of this great country these days, and not just in Purdue chicken commercials. It's blowing from the politician's mouths straight on down to Average Joe at the watercooler dutifully supporting the troops. Everybody's a patriot. Right?

Well, if we care so much about our country, why can't we even keep it clean? I'm not talking Singapore Immaculate here, either. I'm talking, you know, tidy. Isn't it the least we can do?

There are a lot of major problems with our country and our government our world. They are so big and so pervasive that I have a hard time even identifying them (which is why I write on this blog; it helps me to organize my thoughts). In attempting to diagnose these problems, I try to look at obvious symptoms.

Trash on the streets is an obvious symptom.

Trash on the streets tells me that there are certain things about which we no longer care. And not just appearance things. This is not a campaign to recycle. It goes much, much deeper than that.

We have plundered the earth. Plundered the damn thing. Raped and pillaged. But this is not an indictment of oil companies and mining companies and big business. It is much more personal than that.

I think I can understand why the streets are not clean. People do think about oil companies pillaging the earth on some level. And they think, "if we're destroying the planet anyway, what is one more candy wrapper going to hurt?"

Maybe they don't think about big business on a conscious level when they're eating their Snickers, but I'm certain that it plays a part.

And you know what? Who can blame them? When I envision myself telling that kid not to throw his candy wrapper on the ground, you know what answer I envision getting back?

"Why should I give a shit?"

Hmm. Why should he give a shit? Any thoughts?

Another answer I envision:

"It's not my responsibility."

Hmm. Another good point. Whose responsibility is it?

I don't like pointing fingers, but I'm going to point some fingers.

The aging segment of the population grew up on a planet that, as far as they knew, was not yet decaying. Those under, say, 20, grew up in a world that was decaying no matter what we did about it.

But there's that middle ground there. The first Earth Day celebration in 1970 put the health and appearance of the planet into the national consciousness, made it a necessary plank in the platform of every politician worth a salt.

For all practical purposes, middle-aged America should be the most environmentally conscious group of people on the planet. And, to a large extent, we are. Clap clap clap.

But this brings us to business casuals and the downfall of western civilization.

Here's what probably happened there, with IBM:

Some HR guy somewhere analyzed some statistics and figured out that people would be more productive if they didn't have to wear a three-piece suit every day. Productivity increased, but the price was appearance.

For me this begs the question of how the guys who built IBM managed to be so darn productive despite their uncomfortable pinstripe suits. Are we that weak-minded that we actually think and work better in cotton rather than wool? How much more comfortable do we need to be? How soft are you, corporate America? Shall we go to work in our pj's? How high do our workplace environment standards need to be? Is this what our Unions are defending, the right to wear business casuals? Don't give me child labor laws. Don't give me big business abuse of the common worker. Those days are long gone. At the moment, it seems like a lot of people nitpicking because we live in a country where everyone is entitled to absolutely everything, including the right to wear Dockers and Old Navy in the office. What about the guys standing in the wind and rain on top of the skeleton framework of a new IBM office building in Dubuque. How much workplace comfort do you think they have? And we're bitching about wingtips?

Now, one could argue that those guys in the pinstripe suits had a lot to do with the plundering of the earth that I talked about above. They looked good, but they made the earth ugly in the name of making a profit. Fair enough.

But this is a post Earth Day world. We know how to make business and keep things relatively clean.

To me, the decision by IBM to soften the dress code is not the cause of the downfall of western civilization, it is merely a sign of it. A big sign. A sign that says that it's ok to be dara dara. It's ok not to be 100% all the time. It's ok not to look 100% all the time. It's ok to carry yourself with a little less panache.

I'm not going to try to figure out where it started, whether it started with the people on the street throwing their garbage on the ground or with big business sinking their wells into the earth. Whether it's trickle up or trickle down is irrelevant. What matters is that it has reached the middle class, the middle aged, the masses. You're always going to have diversity on the fringes. Fascists, communists, tree-huggers, moonshiners. But when any movement reaches the meat of a society, it has truly taken hold.

Dara dara has taken hold in middle America.

Let's get back to our fat kid dribbling his candy wrapper onto the street.

Me: "Why did you let your candy wrapper fall onto the street, young man?"

Kid: "Everybody else is doing it."

people who love bruce springsteen

hello, friends,

good pal and theater maker david bradley published this piece in the philadelphia daily news and it certainly bears a reprint here.

i was at the october 6th concert in philly (my 34th!) and will be attending the show on november 11th in DC. bradley's words resonate deeply...enjoy.

michele

Bruce Springsteen Sounds the Alarm

By David Bradley

The 2008 presidential campaign made a two-night stop at the Wachovia Center last weekend. Instead of a bevy of candidates there was a band of musicians. Instead of a smiling front-runner there was a strutting front-man. And instead of massaged messages, there was open talk of lies and lost liberties.

It wasn't Hillary or Barack or Rudy or Fred onstage. It was Bruce. Springsteen, that is, along with his comrades from the E Street Band. It was rock 'n roll not politics, but only someone who wasn't listening closely could say it was only rock 'n roll. And I liked it even more because it wasn't.

Springsteen mentioned no candidate, and, unlike the "Vote for Change" tour that backed John Kerry, offered no endorsements. Instead he used the metaphors and imagery of art to sound an alarm, singing in a new song, "Woke up Election Day, skies gunpowder and shades of gray." The song is called "Livin' in the Future," and you can tell Springsteen hopes this ominous forecast doesn't come true.

That number has a bright bounce to go with a sunny refrain: "Don't worry darlin'…none of this has happened yet." But it's a false shine, and that's the point. This song's about denial, about how we proclaim success in the face of defeat and impugn as doomsayers those who disagree.

He might not admit it, but Springsteen's framed the debate of the next year for us. It's all about telling the truth, counting the cost and living up to ideals. "Is there anybody alive out there?" screams his new song "Radio Nowhere," a tone-setter for his current tour. Saturday night, I heard it as a wake-up call to see the shadows surrounding us and hold our leaders, and ourselves, accountable.

Springsteen's music came of age alongside the betrayal of Watergate and the admission of American malaise from perhaps the last real truth-teller in the White House. But his characters didn't need a president to tell them things weren't working. They saw it in the factory and felt it behind the wheel as they raced towards a promised land fading from reach. Somehow, though, they still believed they'd get there.

If the music grew up in the dark night of the seventies, it flexed its muscle in the gleam of the eighties, against the glossy façade of Ronald Reagan's morning in America . Reagan tried to co-opt the grit of the Boss's "Born in the U.S.A. " in his 1984 campaign, blithely ignoring the cutting irony of the lyrics and embracing only the patriotic-sounding title. Springsteen's been on guard ever since, his songs less anthems of faith and more cautionary tales of surviving falsehood.

So there he was Saturday night, giving a shout-out to the Constitution in its hometown, pointing his telecaster and taking aim at the truth-twisting of those in power. But with his legendary knack for fusing rock 'n roll revival with a tent meeting for serious business, he enlarged the conversation past party or personality, which he never discussed.

Instead, he sang of a fallen soldier mourned by his buddies, a huckster illusionist ready to saw us in half and the "long walk home" between the choices we've made and the values we profess. He closed the show with " American Land ," a Seeger-esque tribute to "the hands that built the country" that are "still dyin' now." There was no mistaking the gap he sees between where we stand as a nation and where we could be.

A long time ago, the young rebels in Springsteen's songs had faith in spirits in the night, whose magic held forth the possibility of change, the idea of transformation. Saturday night, introducing the title song of his new album Magic by criticizing politicians who would turn truth into lie and lie into truth, Springsteen exposed the underside of the enchantment. "This ain't about magic," he stated, "it's about tricks."

Be warned, he seems to be saying. We're in the shadows of a precarious night, and it's an open question as to whether we can really change. Are we up for a fight or content with a show? In what will we put our faith--real transformation or hollow tricks?

Is there anybody alive out there?

David Bradley is a writer, theater artist and educator who lives in West Mount Airy

bulletproof glass

Michele just sent me an email about this blog which read:

update it.you have some things to say.say them.

Umm. Ok.

It's 1:00 AM Monday night. I just got back from an open mic at a bar called Fergie's, on 12th and Sansom in Philly. I played three songs accompanied by the drummer of the house band. We had never played together before, he had never heard the songs. But it went ok. Better than last week, my first performance since being back Stateside, which was less than stellar.

But the details of my music career are quite inconsequential.

Well, sort of.

I ride my bicycle through the streets a lot. I generally enjoy it. If I have my iPod in, I'm rocking out. If I don't, I'm usually either running through some of my songs, or thinking about riffs and lyrics and melodies for new ones.

So I've got an idea for a new song. It is called Bulletproof Glass. I conceived it waiting on line at the post office. A thought along the lines of "why the fuck is there fucking bulletproof fucking glass across the fucking counter at the fucking post office? Who the fuck is robbing the fucking post office?"

It was probably hot, I'd probably spent a frustrating day pounding the pavement looking for a job (speaking of, if anyone reading this would like to employ me in any capacity whatsoever, I am open) and running errands and trying to put a life together here in America. Easier said than done, and it's not even easy to say. Just looking at that sentence makes me cringe, makes me think about the DMV and other such sucky places.

So let's get back to the bike. I ride my bike.

In Sapporo, I also rode a bike. A heavy silver metal one with a basket like all the old Japanese ladies ride. I'd go blasting through the downtown area with the iPod on at all hours of day or night, in all states of consciousness, and never once worried about anything or anyone, ever. Period.

The other night I was riding along on my way to go eat Mexican food with my friends down in South Philly. I was heading into what was obviously a "rough" neighborhood. My bicycle is old, and creaky. When I've got the iPod in, I forget how much noise I'm cranking out as I barrel on and off the sidewalks. So anyway, I come up behind this black kid, probably a teenager. And I've got the earphones on but I must be making one hell of a racket, the old rusty frame straining against the tires, the pedals going round and round defying ten years beneath my parents' back deck.

So as I pass the kid, he turns, and swings. Closed fist. That is his instant, and natural, reaction. He does not hit me. He stops himself when he sees my face, when he sees that I am not . . . . I don't know who or what he thought I was. A threat, obviously. I mutter (or scream, probably, in order to hear the apology over Tupac, who I think was playing on shuffle at the time) an apology, pedal hard, and do not look back.

Moments later, I make a decision to get out of that neighborhood and onto Washington Avenue, a well-lit main drag.

Buddy Evan Young, a magazine editor and comic book writer and almost novelist, provides a startlingly accurate description of the smell of Philadelphia somewhere in the pages of his unfinished novel. I won't even attempt to reproduce it here.

The point, though, is that I would like to somehow figure out a way to describe how the streets of Philadelphia feel.

There are a great number of wonderful things about this city. Say what you want about the sports fans, but they are among the most knowledgeable in the country. The musicians at Fergie's pub on Monday nights, to a man (or woman), are kind, open, funny, welcoming. The art museum rocks, the traffic doesn't seem to bad, the skyline is well on its way.

But when I ride my bike through the city, day or night, I am afraid of almost everyone I encounter.

Perhaps I am a big pussy. Or perhaps my sense of what is safe is skewed. Perhaps I am misinterpreting multiculturalism for racism. Perhaps I have been living in Japan too long.

Let me ask a question. There is a lot of talk about rights these days. What we should be allowed to do as citizens, what our government should be allowed to do as a body. But in the year 2007, at the pinnacle of civilization and culture and technology and awareness of diversity, shouldn't everyone on the planet, and not just those in Japan and a few other countries around the world, have the basic right to walk outside of their home and go somewhere without having to worry about "rough" neighborhoods?

Travelers to foreign lands, historically, have always had to worry about safety. From the first hunter-gatherers all the way up. Fear of an unknown person or entity is a natural human reaction.

But there are very few unknowns anymore. At least not in America. We're all very well aware of whites and blacks and hispanics and Asians and other. We have a pretty good understanding of what each race is about, what they eat and how they interact with each other and how they get married. It's all right there in front of us everyday.

So why am I afraid riding my bicycle through the streets? Where does that energy come from?

Please don't tell me I've been away too long, that I don't know what "reality" is. And please don't tell me that it is only my perception of things because I've been out of the country for so many years. People who live and work in the city and have been here for a long time have told me which neighborhoods are safe and which ones are not. They've told me to watch my back, to be careful, to avoid talking to strangers. Somebody offered to buy me a can of mace, and somebody else told me that I should not be so "aggressively friendly".

I don't want to expand this into a broad comment about fear and anger and race in America, because not all the facts are in, and because I am not yet informed enough about these topics. I am simply talking about how I feel a lot of the time. And why there is bulletproof glass at Taco Bell, and at filling stations, and, as I said, at the post office. It has become, I suppose, necessary.

One final point. Living in a safe world is a basic human right. But often rights must come with responsibility.

In a word, the safety of our world is all of our responsibility. So, like, what are we going to do about it?

with no power, nothing to do

I have absolutely nothing in mind as I begin this post. No agenda, no theme. But I suppose I must start somewhere.

Michele hijacked back and posted a couple weeks ago to talk about the Senate debate on the war and to answer some of the questions I posed. I just read through that post and, once again, the part about Americans being a "cowering, inarticulate" people afraid to express any opinions for fear of pissing someone off struck me, as did the bit about America being another "failed political experiment."

Sobering thoughts indeed.

Has anyone read anything serious about the fall of the Roman Empire recently? Or the fall of any empire, really. I haven't, but I'm guessing that there are checkpoints along the way to the downfall of any political, economic, and cultural juggernaut, and I'm wondering how many of those America has passed. Perhaps someone could do some reading and enlighten us. Or maybe I'll do some myself.

As far as people being cowering and inarticulate goes, hmm. Obviously, I am not an expert on the current state of America (which is why I pose so many questions in this blog), but, at least from the things that I read and from the people who respond here, I don't think people are necessarily inarticulate. I think people genuinely don't know what to believe anymore. Let me explain.

Every once in a while, when I gain a flash of interest in politics, I do this little thing where I try to put myself in a vacuum, a vacuum free of all other thoughts and influences and prejudices. And then I think of issues. War. Abortion. Health care. Social services. Etc. Whatever's on my mind, whatever issues I think need to be addressed in any functioning society.

So I go into my little vacuum. Actually, wait. Just as I'm about to go into my little vacuum, I think about what will be my guiding light once inside, because that shit gets fucking dark. So my guiding lights are love and compassion, usually. Something along those lines. So I go into my vacuum and say to myself, "Right. So what's your stance on the war?"

Then I answer myself. "Love and compassion, love and compassion. Well, love and compassion would dictate that we supply all of our troops currently in Iraq with food, clothing, medical supplies, and building supplies. We send them out into the country and have them rebuild destroyed structures along the way. We then re-write the budget so that a chunk of the funds that have gone toward the war effort will now be distributed to those who have lost loved ones. In the meantime, George Bush and his entire staff, along with every member of Congress and every participant in the coalition of the willing, go to Iraq to publically apologize for the unexplained invasion. Once every building has been rebuilt and finances have been distributed evenly to all parties (which could take several years and several billion dollars, but then again, so will the ongoing war), we begin working on changing the hearts and minds of the people who have been hurt or wronged. We establish goodwill running both ways, perhaps we even form a communication system for the parents of dead American soldiers and the relatives of dead Iraqis. Anything to bridge the gaps of fear and hatred and distrust."

So. How does all that sound? Reasonable? No?

Why not? It's more than just love and compassion. It offers practical solutions to the problems. It has a financial component. We're spending all this money on the war anyway, why not redirect it to a more positive solution? It addresses the issues of health care and infrastructure in Iraq. And it will likely reduce terror. Everybody wins.

I like my vacuum.

But then reality sets in, and I start telling myself, "this is impossible. Nobody would go for it." Even you readers of this blog, you who are critical of the war and of the administration, you who are compassionate and free-thinking and "liberal", are no doubt thinking something like 'this guy is fucking nuts.' Or if you're not thinking that, you're thinking that it is impossible, that it will never work.

This, I think, is the problem. On some level, we all agree that my plan is crazy. But that is because we do not, at the moment, believe that something like that is possible. This, I think, is part of the reason why, like I said above, we don't know what we believe. Every ideal we have gets muddled and squashed down by world politics and Red States and Blue States and bureaucracy. Rather than thinking in our vacuums, we are thinking about everything in relation to everything else. Or, worse, we are thinking in terms of everything that runs against what we believe and hope in our hearts.

That, my friends, is fucking bullshit.

I am a believer in the politically-incorrect but aptly-named Great Man Theory. That people come along every so often, people with conviction who are willing to stick to their ideals at all cost, and dramatically change the course of human history. Sometimes they're good guys and gals, sometimes they're bad guys and gals. But they stick to what they see in their hearts in their own little vacuum, and they make it happen in reality.

Now, I realize that even the good guys and gals probably had casualties along the way. And I also realize that if there are 6 million idealists running around the planet bumping into each other, there will be as much conflict around the globe as there is right now.

However, you gotta start somewhere. Think about this question: what is your guiding light? What guides you when you are inside your vacuum thinking about issues that matter? Forget about reality for a second. Decide who you are and what you believe, regardless of whether it is practical or not. That's all for today, class dismissed.

an insight into your humble narrator, as expressed by hunter s. thompson

"At first I was tempted to laugh it off, to give him as hard a time as I could and let him do his worst. But I didn't, because I was not quite ready to pack up and move on again. I was getting a little too old to make powerful enemies when I held no cards at all, and had lost some of my old zeal that had led me, in the past, to do what I damn well felt like doing, with the certain knowledge that I could always flee the consequences. I was tired of fleeing, and tired of having no cards. It occurred to me one evening, as I sat by myself in Al's patio, that a man can live on his wits and his balls for only so long. I'd been doing it for ten years and I had a feeling that my reserve was running low."--The Rum Diary

Sorry to be so sporadic. More to come soon.

dead rock stars/condoleeza's rice

Well folks, utterly EPIC weekend. And I don’t throw that word around lightly. One for the ages, one reminiscent of the Bangkok days. Let’s get right into it.

Started off Thursday, actually. Me and Cowboy Rob Pinckney took our guitars up to local ex-pat watering hole TK6 for a short-notice set. The place was packed, people weren’t listening too much, but we steamrolled through some of my originals, some of his Johnny, Willie, and CCR covers, we did Brown Eyed Girl, and ended up with a half-assed version of Hotel California. I actually suggested we play Tequila Sunrise, but he was well into the intro before I got around to telling him it was the wrong song, and by then it was too late.

So I told myself that after the set, I’d have two beers, and then head home, as Saturday was the monthly Dead Rock Stars event (http://www.myspace.com/deadrockstarssapporo), an evening of five local bands organized by the gentleman spies. Jon and Andy of the spies asked me to do a couple solo acoustic sets between bands. It’s kind of a big thing in town, so I didn’t want to get too messed up Thursday night and lose my voice.

Movie cut: me banging along on the bartop at 3:30 AM as American Andrew blasts his iPod through the TK6 sound system rocking everything from Ray Charles to Zep to GN’f-in’R. Awesome night. Salsa dancing with this American girl who claimed to be a lesbian but I have my doubts. I ran screaming before I did anything remotely unfaithful to my special lady friend. Just throwing that out there. I am many things, but adulterous is not one of them.

At any rate. Slept in Friday, regrouped, hydrated, had an early one, home before 2:00.

A couple of the boys from my former place of employment, Hokkaido Outdoor Adventures (aka HOA) (http://www.rafting-hoa.co.jp/) were coming into town for the Dead Rock Stars and for the international party at a club called Mole later on. We started off with a few afternoon lukewarm ones at the beer garden in the park in the middle of town (more on that later, as well) before heading over to club 810 for the music.

First band was ok, my first set was ok. Video footage pending, perhaps.

The next act was an all girl band. Right away you could tell they were something special. HOA boy Jesse fell instantly in love with the drummer, HOA boy Jarad chose the guitar player. The singer was a chubby little thing in quasi Gothic Lolita attire, couldn’t have been more than four foot ten, but man did she hold the stage. Then on the last song, the guitar player, a hot little thing with perfectly straight, soft, smooth black hair flying everywhere, was rolling around on the floor Hendrix style, wailing, soloing, and doing a damn good job of it musically. I turned to Montana Jon, who was smoking a cigarette watching with a smile on his face waiting patiently to take the stage next, and said to him, “You have many things in your band, but what you do not have is hot Japanese girls rolling around on the floor playing lead guitar.”

The spies were good. Jon and Andy are both up around 6’5”, and their music is as towering as their stature. They went through a slick set of what Jarad referred to as “dirty rock”, closing with the ever-rousing “Conoleeza’s Rice”. Jon’s vocals are a little muffled on their myspace page, but check out the lyrics on all four songs (http://www.myspace.com/thegentlemanspies). There’s some good writin’ in there.

For my second set, spies drummer Makoto pulled up a tom-tom and played along with me. As the next band set up and I was tuning up behind the screen, I ran through the chords and changes and rhythms of the three songs I would play. Makoto and I had only met once before, and had never jammed. But man did he rock it. He was right there with me, picking up steam as we went. I was a little drunker, the crowd was a little drunker, when I got to the second half of my politically-charged “Miss America”, the sweat was pouring off of me and I was in the zone. People responded. Closed with “She’s So Lovely”, a song that is becoming so popular that it is asked for by name almost every time I pick up a guitar. My special lady friend, who put the “lovely” in “She’s So Lovely”, was almost as much in the spotlight as me. Great fun, great set.

The next band up was fronted by a heavyset Japanese dude with sweaty, straggly hair and big fuck-off pork chop sideburns. They were good, but, in retrospect, they were just a prelude to the final act.

I don’t know if I could quite describe these guys without accompanying video footage. When they opened, their lead singer, a five foot two, 110 pound Japanese guy in skintight red pants and a skintight red top with a butterfly collar, came out on stage and stood there smoking a cigarette, just staring at everybody. It was exciting. Cool, funny. Girl drummer, guys on bass and guitar.

Maybe we should skip to the last song. Red dude in the corner behind the amps screaming unintelligibly into the mic. Drummer holding steady. Bass player CROWD SURFING on the shoulders of two of the probably less than 50 people in the place. Guitar player has his axe laid across the metal bars in front of the stage, strings down, feedback screaming, and, in a very realistic fashion, making humping motions using the instrument as an extended phallus.

The place was electrified. All the way through, musically, they were absolutely tight, but loose and creative and jamming all at the same time. They did all originals, I think, but their sound ranged from power punk to modern rock to 60’s pop and everything in between. People in the crowd were screaming, jumping up and down, hugging each other. Cowboy Rob was just as into it as the little goth chick in the corner. The bass player was in a white suit with a floral button-down shirt. He would occasionally come to the front of the stage, stare directly into the lights with a murderously serious expression on his face, hold the beat with one hand, and open the jacket to reveal a mismatched floral pattern on the inside lining. He did it three or four times, and every time he did it, the place, inexplicably, erupted. The singer at one point went flat as a board and fell straight back, knocking over the guitar player and banging both of their heads into the PA. I swear people were comparing them to The Doors.

So they finally all threw down their instruments, and the three guys did this little quasi a capella thing at the end while the drummer kept a beat, and then they threw the microphones down and let feedback ring for a full minute or two before the sound guys cut the power.

Host Jon, ever gracious and humble, hopped up on stage, picked the mic off the floor, and delivered the only line that could have come after such a performance.

“People wonder why we don’t headline our own shows.”

You know, I was going to continue on with a recount of the events of the rave party we went to afterwards, and then of drinking at Rad Brother’s, Sapporo’s resident dirty foreigner bar, until 7:00 AM, and then getting up at 11:00 and going directly to the beer gardens for another 10 hour drinking session, but most of you have probably if not participated in such debauchery, heard stories about it. You didn’t even have to live in Bangkok.

I was also going to make some point about music being one of the two international languages that everyone can understand, but it’s Tuesday morning 9:30 AM, and I’m still sort of too hungover to think properly. But there is a point in there. I could understand very little of what little red dude in that closing band was saying, but it was just as powerful and moving as any set I’ve ever seen. Conversely, quite a few Japanese people were dancing along to my upbeat acoustic numbers and to the gentleman spies’ set, and both my music and theirs is very lyric-oriented and therefore would be almost unintelligible to even the sharpest of Japanese English speakers.

But, like I said, I’m just too hungover. I guess that’s what being 32 is all about. Two-day hangovers.

The other most effective international language, in my personal experience, and since you asked, is sports. Maybe more on that next time.

Speaking of next time, while I appreciate Michele's thoughts on the re-hijack, like I said, I'm in no condition to address them at the moment. But the dialogue is open, let's keep it up.

Rock out with the cock out, people! You might get hit by a bus today.

mess o' potamia, more

hello, friends,

i am hijacking back tonight because i've spent the last two hours watching the senate debate on the iraq war and needed to chime in on a couple of brother rob's questions and thoughts.

okay, how many of you knew that the senate was pulling an all nighter? as steven colbert pointed out, they are preempting things like the infomercial for the "magic bullet," a "very special episode of BLOSSOM" and coverage of the NHL rookie training camp.

what a great time to debate this war, between the hours of 11PM and 4AM. usually, i am listening to coast to coast AM with george noorie.

i guess, to answer rob's question about the difference between democrats and republicans is that there is none. i am squarely behind barack obama, but i also am frustrated by the fact that NO ONE is asserting themselves fully to say "stop the nonsense."

i'm currently listening to washington state senator maria cantwell, who is asking for a pull-out. she is asking for a public presentation of what a senator's opinion might be, and i agree whole-heartedly. stand up and reflect the opinion of what the people elected you to express. are we really being spun that much that there is actually a question. everyone i know wants out -- am i really in the minority?

what is the fear of just calling a vote and putting the question to the mat?

there is such a sense of apprehension, an overwhelming sense of fear here, rob, that no one is able to a) articulate their opinion b)hold fast to that opinion and c)accept being wrong or pissing people off that we are a complacent, cowering and inarticulate people.

what was once the great "american experiment" has turned into yet another example of the tyranny of power. we are no better than any other of the failed political experiments.

whew.

i dare you all to keep watching this debate and challenging your elected officials to reflect your opinion.

gotohellifyouhatefreedom,
volansky