Words from Oh My Rockness

Oh My Rockness E-Mail Introductions

2011-07-07T07:43:00.000-07:00

Little Known Facts by Oh My Rockness

The left molar is the biggest muscle in the body.

Like the USA, Canada is also a free nation, but only on Tuesdays and Fridays; all other days it is ruled by Sir Alan Thicke with an iron fist.

Babe Ruth hit more home runs than anyone expected a candy bar to hit.

Franklin and Bash most likely won't last long because it's "too good for TV."

If we don't list your show, we're most likely poseurs.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame was kinda weird looking, even by Indiana's standards.

Most of "Shakespeare's" later works were actually penned by a young Jeff Mangum.

It only costs 3 severed sheep heads seeped in the blood of a virgin ninja to procure
your own My Rockness account.

The body of Walt Disney is cryogenically frozen in a Southern California Mister Softee truck.

If you play the first song in our Radio Player backwards, we swear you can hear someone unmistakably say, "Yoinks! Looks like you're playing this song backwards! That's so weird! I mean, how does a mistake like that even happen?! Oh well! We're all human, I guess! But that sure is a first! A song being played backwards! Oh golly, just when you think you've seen everything!" It's creepy stuff.

If all of the upcoming shows we have listed on the site were a piece of paper that you folded 14 times and then you attached a really long piece of string to it, that string on the folded paper would circle the earth... and back... twice.

Our Twitter feed sometimes features guest tweets by Steve Guttenberg who, as you know, invented the printing press which is what makes press releases about a band you've never heard of getting remixed by a band you've never heard of possible.

We will only write a band profile if at least one of the band's members looks really "distracted" in their promo photo.

And oh yeah, free summer shows last forever. So no sense of urgency there.

Oh My Rockness E-Mail Introductions

2011-07-06T12:06:00.000-07:00

You opened it. You must now forward this email or you will be killed... with kindness, of course! What did you think we meant?

We want more new people to subscribe to these weekly emails so the needle on our self-esteem meter can move away from "EVEN THE MIRROR CRACKS ITS MOCKING SMILE AT US!" and more towards "Tomorrow probably will be better if we sleep through most of it."

So can you please forward this on to your friends who like going to shows? If you can't, no big deal; you will just die... with disappointment at having depressed us, of course! What did you think?

You can even forward this to people who hate shows. At least then we'll know what it feels like to be in a new inbox, if only for a second or two. Again, if you don't forward, it's cool; we're just going hang up your dead corpse in your bedroom cupboard... before resuscitating you with kisses of forgiveness, obviously!

So show us some love and do as we ask. But if you still don't want to comply, we understand. But let us quickly tell you some stories about some of the sad, sad people who lost their lives because they didn't want to comply. Take Helen. She got a similar email. She deleted it. And now Helen's dead (sending to 0 people = you will die).

How about the curious case of Kevin? Kevin only sent the email to 5 people. Big mistake. Kevin's eyeballs were pulled out with a fork while he was watching that one scene in "Three Men and a Baby" where you can see the dead kid in the background. (1-5 people = you're going to either get hurt OR get the biggest fright of your life - Kevin's scenario encompassed BOTH).

Be like Cindy. Cindy sent this email to 15 people (sending this to 15+ people = you won't die). Cindy is very much alive, people. Very, very much alive. SO THX 4 DA LUV :) !!!

(To reiterate, if you can't forward it's not a problem. Dead people don't have any problems.) JK! JK! JK! JK! (just kill! just kill! just kill!)

Oh My Rockness E-Mail Introductions

2011-06-27T07:57:00.001-07:00

We've been told that we have trust issues. And that's just not true. We just never trust a band that yells at the crowd to dance, move up, or go talk in the back. We never trust a crowd that arrives early and pays for the right not to listen. Never trust those who dance like a slow swan when an Abba song comes on. Never trust the one who is defiant when defending a band.

Never trust the words spoken to fill the silences. Never trust armchair experts on bank fees, collateral or commodities. Never trust those whose opinions are louder than their beliefs. Never trust hipster jokes. Never trust the website that references free summer shows just to link to something relevant.

Never trust the stranger who tells the stranger, "You should smile." Never trust the dates the elevator was last checked or the port-o-potty last cleaned. Never trust people who dislike holidays. Never trust the person that reads a novel while exercising. Never trust that the band's set-up takes as long as all that. Never trust those who insist the sequel was better than the original.

Never trust the person who addresses a group of people on email as "Folks." Never trust conference room commands to take a real life conversation "offline." Never trust online outrage.

Never trust anyone who refers to anything controversial as "Something-Gate." Never trust the one who starts a bar tab for casual acquaintances. Never trust the casual film fan that refers to Robert DeNiro as "Bobby D." Never trust people who claim they're only happy when it rains.

Never trust alliteration.
Never trust form.
Never trust the arts.
Never trust independence.
Never trust mantras written using Microsoft Word.
Never trust.

No. We don't think we have trust issues. Do you?

December

2010-12-02T07:34:00.001-08:00

'Tis the season where we can all get away with spelling "it is" in that outdated and vaguely pretentious fashion. But alas ("alas" is fair game too), the holidays grant us all sorts of pardons and reprieves from things the other three seasons say flat out suck.

For a few weeks every year, wool sweaters adorned with snowflakes and trees and perhaps pictures of piping cups of steaming hot cocoa are deemed almost fashionably passable.

A droopy drink with a glob of egg in it somehow seasonally morphs into an enchanting cocktail miracle if you add just a dash of cinnamon.

Inexhaustible radio replays of precious songs featuring wind chimes (it sounds just like gently falling snow!) and perfectly placed piano plucks (skittish reindeer feet!) that are sung by sleepy crooners (who would probably rather be at the racetrack) are considered indispensible musical tradition.

And wrapped presents are given to and fro ("fro" = #3 for all those playing at home) with big billowy bows on them. The bow's purpose is that it has no purpose.

Yes, things are all mixed up, left and right, up and down around this temporary sugar cookie town. But lo (#4), we always have our rock shows to fall back on when the winter gets weird.

Ah, December. It's a strange time, isn't it? 'Tis.

8 minutes

2010-11-04T07:42:00.001-07:00

So being the new guy, they say I only can have 8-minutes of your time. Which is slightly depressing. But then again, if I was a rodeo rider and I rode that bull for 8-minutes I would be the SHIT…So I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

Speaking of cowboys, how crazy are cars? Think about it. Just think about it….(mental note: work on your set-up and transitions and oh-god-I-wish-I-had-some-blow-right-now-so-I-could-have-the-energy-to-spend-hours-drinking-myself-stupid-tonight-to-forget-this-tranwreck-of-a-bit-you-slowly-but-surely-self-destructing-piece-of-shit)….Because that’s what they say, don’t you know, that stand-up comedians are fucked up. But then again, they also say that men walked on the moon, so I don’t know what to believe…..Hey, I’ve tilted my high-power telescope from my neighbor’s bedroom window to the skies….you show me that American flag on the moon. You show me that flag….Ha-ha….patriotism. It’s funny because it’s true….

Actually, mostly at home I just mess around with the personal computer. And what I do on it is none of your business…..Ok, I do a little tweeting and twittering. Anyone here on Twitter? Cool. You should follow me…because I have a great ass…..My Twitter U-R-L is hhhh-tuuuhhh ppppppppp one dot above another dot, crooked line, another crooked line, w-w-w-, another dot, T-W-I-T-T-E-R dot c-o-m, crooked line whogivesafuckaboutsocialnetworking…..Seriously, what’s so social about sitting in the dark in your Strawberry Shortcake jammies refreshing your screen every 30-seconds to see if someone has commented yet on the pic of your new puppy….or your totally crazy Hawaiian shirt with an interesting backstory involving alcohol…or your anal polyps…..And you know, no one ever comments. No one ever comments…..

Any-who, I just run my first marathon a few months ago. It’s true. And hey, you know what’s funny about listening to someone else’s personal achievements? Nothing…..My kids were proud of me though. Anyone else have kids out there? (mental note: better with the transitions...when you fall, Patrick, you get up again!) Oh, you heard that? Get out of my head! Get out of my head, you bastards!.....Well, now you know that on the inside I’m no different than you. Like you, I get all of my soulful inspirations from the band Chumbawumba…

Anyway, I was talking about my kids. They are so cute and say the darndest things. And the older one had the cutest poop the other day….Seriously, fuck off, parents. No one cares about your kids…..Other parents say to me, “oh, do you have a playgroup you go to?” actually they say, “you are not welcome back in this playgroup ever, ever, again.”….All because I always brought pop-tarts…which are a “sometimes” food, not a “help me stave off depression” food…

Who the hell wants to be in a playgroup with a bunch of people you don’t know, just because they have kids and you have kids. Screw that. We’re not part of some club. We’re not teammates. I’m not accepting the outlet pass from you while you make a break for the basket and I impossibly, through two defenders, thread the needle with my pinpoint pass, arcing the ball with a perfect trajectory, and you’re just able to reel it in right as your jumping above the rim, then throwing it down through the hoop with thunderous power!

And then after the game, they’ll interview me first and the reporters will ask, “You made a pretty pass to end the game, tell me about that. And I would say, “Well, I made the pass with the ball and thankfully that pass made it work out for us today.” And the stunned nation would have revelatory orgasms at my eloquence and passion.

And then the reporters would interview you and say, “Tell me about that fantastic finishing dunk” and you would say, “How the fuck did I get on a basketball court? I came here tonight to get drunk and listen to comedy. What the hell is going on?”…

And then you would proceed to have a total mind-fuck about the journey you have just taken in only 8-minutes.

Speaking of which, those minutes are up! Thanks a lot! You guys have been ok-ish!

Oh My Rockness E-Mail Introductions

2010-10-20T07:08:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of playoff October, we’ve decided that from now on when anyone asks us a question, we’re going to respond like an exasperated professional athlete.

"Oh My Rockness, which shows are you most excited for this week?"

"Shows? No. No. That’s for you media guys. Shows. You media guys with your geocites and your hotfiles and your 2nd life, 3rd life, 4th life, 8th life, you media guys use your webs and you go all up on your blobs and want to make a nothing story a something story. Shows? Why do you come asking me about shows? So you can go on your FaceSpaces and your Tweeters and write whatever it is you write about an issue that we will solve behind closed doors? That’s for our own house. Don’t sniff on your neighbor’s lawn! I’m a grown man. This is a clubhouse of grown men. And what had happened in this clubhouse, whatever it is that had happened if it even did happen, is between grown men. Not you media guys. No. No. You media guys get up all on your comment posts and climb up on your lampposts and soap dishes and box cars and you go to your beauty parlors and your bowling alleys and you make up a little story about shows so you all can get paid. Come in here talking about shows? This is a team. Do you see an S-H-O or W in team? Do you see it? No. So stop sniffin’ in your neighbor’s dog’s outhouse! Stay inside your own yard and tend to your own crops! Manage your own carrots and your own beets and worry about your own weeds! Shows. You come in here and talk to a grown man about shows… fine, you want a story? Those See Them Jay shows look good. We’d go to those. There. There’s your story about nothin’ outta somethin’ that’s somethin’ having to do with nothin'"

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2010-09-02T10:25:00.001-07:00

When we're not listing the last free shows of the summer, or telling you about just announced shows, or our recommended shows this week like Built to Spill, Sonic Youth, Boys Noize, Shellac, Les Savy Fav, and Active Child, or entering songs into our Radio Player, or doing our sweet Tweet Thang, we find we have quite a bit of time on our hands (and LOTS of Cheetos dust on our fingers). And during these times, we often think about the absurdity of shoelaces.

Have you thought about the absurdity of shoelaces in awhile? No? Look down at your shoes. Look at those long laces that are threaded through all of those tiny little holes; these laces and holes that looked the same in 1885. Look how you have to tie this glorified string into these weird loops just so that your shoes stay on. Like it’s 1885. (Oh... and btw, yes we do double loop our laces. That means we’re nerds, right? Because we tie our shoelaces twice? Whatever. Don’t judge us. "We’re here! We do the double bunny ear!")

But come on now, shoelaces. It’s 2010 and we’re doing this antiquated ritual just to put our stupid sneaks on? In this day and age, you should just be able to look down at your shoes and say, "ZAP IT!" and boom, shoes tied.

Actually, saying "ZAP IT!" should work for a lot of things. Band taking too long to soundcheck? "ZAP IT!" and voila, set starts. Big fluffy, poofy hair guy/girl directly in front of you at a show? "ZAP IT" and shazam, fluffy gets buzzed (remember: using "ZAP IT!" comes with great power and responsibility). Intro for an Oh My Rockness email going on too long? Say "ZAP IT!" and-----------------

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2010-07-14T12:56:00.000-07:00

We just added some more free summer shows to our free summer shows list. And that got us to thinking about free, and how much free rules. But that thinking went and unblocked an unpleasant memory we pleasantly repressed. You see, we then started thinking about this book we checked out from the library one time as kids that was called “Free Stuff for Kids.” The title pretty much tells you the book’s story; kind of one trick pony, without any free ponies for kids. In that book, we found out some company was giving away real, authentic pinhole cameras just for kids. Wow! So we did not hesitate. We filled out all the necessary paperwork (never understood why they needed our SSN# and mother’s maiden name for a free pinhole camera, but whatever) and fired off the form straight away to the address provided.

And then we leaned forward on our tippy-toes near the mailbox and we waited. We waited like we’ve never waited before for that free pinhole camera just for kids. We waited for days….for weeks….for months….and wouldn’t you know it…that free pinhole camera just for kids…never came. It never came. And we still aren’t quite over it. Sometimes at a show we’ll suddenly just start crying; and it’s not because we’re moved by the music, or sad another band has yelled at us for not dancing or not moving up or whatever it is we’re not doing that they want us to do. No, we cry for the camera.

Of course, it was only much later, when we were able to face it again, that we looked inside the front cover of that “Free Stuff for Kids” book and saw that it was published in…1964. So that made more sense. But what’s the point of all this? The point of all this is this: #1) our free shows list is up-to-date and #2) we never learned how to take a decent concert picture because of that damn pinhole camera that never came. Red eyed people and thumbs in the corner. That about sums up the pics we take at shows. Red eyes and thumbs. So in closing, screw you, “Free Stuff for Kids.” Thanks for ruining our life.

Dale Murphy Uses the Autopen

2010-04-14T13:04:00.000-07:00

Dale Murphy Uses the Autopen

Dale Murphy had a lifetime batting average of .265 over 18 seasons.
8 of these seasons were remarkable
6 were slightly above average
4 were inconclusive
And 2 were poor.
Dale Murphy was a Brave
When the Braves played on TBS
Most often during the day
When no one was home to watch the terrible Braves.
During those eight remarkable seasons
Dale Murphy was the only reason
the channel wasn’t changed to---
“No whammys! No whammys!”
But Dale Murphy wasn’t a baseball player one wrote to.
Everyone knew that.
Because everyone knew
Dale Murphy used the Autopen.
The Autopen replicates real signatures
On glossy things, and cardboard things
And wood things and leather things.
Harry S. Truman was the first U.S. President to use the Autopen
Dale Murphy was no Harry Truman
Not in 1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
And not even in 1987
When Dale Murphy hit 44 homeruns.
Dale Murphy retired in 1993
Playing 26 games as a Colorado Rockie
Hitting zero home runs
And driving in 7.
Where’s your Autopen now
Dale Murphy?

Scene from my screenplay "Lefty Loosey Righty Tighty"

2010-03-31T07:55:00.000-07:00

INT. APARTMENT - LATER

A bunch of undergrads drink out of red plastic cups. The air is thick with smoke, the legal and illegal kind. On the kitchen island table, there are bags of cheap chips and a few boxes of assorted Entemann's products.

Franklin, older than everyone by about thirteen years, has cornered a college kid.

FRANKLIN
(sipping his drink)
It's a tough call, you know?
It's a truly tough call. I think
I'm happy. I think I am! I mean, I
like the position. I like the
vibrancy. And, I have to say, the
benefits are solid. Super, super
solid. My 401K is fully vested after
only 4 years. Can you believe that?
And I'm able to get a great dental
plan rate. Of course, you're aware
that dental plans have virtually
gone way of the dinosaur in corporate
America these days.

The college kid shifts uncomfortably.

FRANKLIN (CONT'D)
But seriously. What would you do if
you were me? If you were me, what
would you do?

COLLEGE KID
Um...I don't know Professor Miller.

FRANKLIN
No. No. No. None of this Professor
stuff. Man-to-man, drinking buddy
to drinking buddy, you say, "Franklin!
Buckle down! Look straight ahead!
Pursue! Act! Don't react!"

COLLEGE KID
Yeah. Professor Miller, I sort of
have to go---to the bathroom.

Franklin gives him a hearty slap on the back.

FRANKLIN
Never pin a good man down. That's
what I say.

Franklin is alone in his corner of the room. He spots Mary.
She gives him a smile as she walks down a hallway. Franklin,
with liquid courage, decides to follow.

Franklin approaches the door to Mary's bedroom and gives a
soft knock. Stacks of jackets and messenger bags are on top
of Mary's bed.

FRANKLIN (CONT'D)
Hello.

Mary smiles.

MARY
Hey. Having a good time?

FRANKLIN
I am.

MARY
Cool.

Franklin walks to Mary.

FRANKLIN
Could it be any better?

He leans in to Mary, ready for the inevitable and long awaited make out session to finally begin. But at the last moment before contact, he sees a look of surprised horror flash across Mary's face.

Calling a bold audible, Franklin adjusts his lunge in midair,
trying to act as if he was actually just reaching for a jacket on the
bed.

The act doesn't work. It leads to an awkward stumble onto
the bed.

MARY
Are you ok?

Franklin, sitting a pile of endless jackets and bags, looks
up at Mary with tender eyes.

FRANKLIN
You're not into me, are you?

MARY
What? Oh. No! What?

FRANKLIN
Not at all. You're not into me at
all.

MARY
Franklin, you're my teacher. I never
even thought about that.

FRANKLIN
But you cupped my hand.

MARY
What? I did what to your hand?

FRANKLIN
You cupped it. You cupped my hand in class!

MARY
Franklin, I don't know what that
even means, and I'm sorry if I gave
you any weird impressions or whatever.
But no, I'm not into you. Like that.
I think you're a cool teacher and a
cool guy. But, well---

Franklin leans on her every word.

MARY (CONT'D)
You're old.

Franklin, utterly rejected and dejected, bows out. He grabs
the first jacket on the bed he can snag and puts it on.
It's comically small, colorful, and clearly belongs to an undergraduate woman.

FRANKLIN
Well, I bid you adieu.

MARY
I just didn't---

FRANKLIN
Ah, I've said too much. I've said
too much.

Franklin stumbles out of the room and walks to the front
door. He opens it just a girl opens it from the outside.
Franklin recognizes the face and quickly makes a half attempt
to avert his gaze and head straight past her for the stairs.

GIRL
Professor Miller?

Before he knows what he's saying, he's already saying it.

FRANKLIN
Um, no. Sorry.

The girl gives him a puzzled look.

He hurries out of the building, ashamed of himself, ashamed
of humanity, and ashamed of the world in which he lives.

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2009-10-15T13:51:00.000-07:00

And finally, eat one thing every day that scares you. Just --- one --- thing. Don't spend your short life fearing cellulose gum! Try it, risk it, believe in it! And only then will you be able to bathe in the knowledge that it tastes just like a Twinkie's cream center filling. In closing, may the Rocky Road rise up to meet you, may the Cool Whip be forever at your back, and may the Capri Sun shine on your warm face forever. Thank you and good---oh... um... hey there, Rockness reader. We didn't, errr, we didn't see you standing there. We were just in the middle of drafting our keynote address for the big Websites Against Healthy Lunches banquet this weekend. Guess we lost track of time, huh?

You were good to interrupt us, as your presence means that it must be Friday yet again. My, oh my, how time does fly. Where does it go? For years we kept telling ourselves that if we could just get this one thing done, we would finally be in a position to start our life. It was only recently that we realized those one things are life. Those one things ARE life.

Any-who, lots of good shows this week! Ever hear of a little band called, oh we don't know, Passion Pit? How about ever hearing about a band they kinda like to call, oh what are those words, Yo La Tengo? Have you ever heard of a band with a name that sort of sounds like the sweet two words that are, oh what are those words, Junior Boys? And hey, here's a band name that happens to teeter on the territory that is the tip of our tongue. Perhaps our tongue is totally thinking this band just might be, let's see, Sunny Day Real Estate!? Go see those bands this week.

And finally, if you've forgotten everything we've told you today, remember this. We were put here on this earth for a reason, and that reason is to eat calzones and lollipops when the sun flies high in the sky. So spread your wings and soar, grape Charms Blow Pop. Soar.

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2009-08-20T13:24:00.000-07:00

AN OPEN LETTER TO ALL BOOK PUBLISHERS: Hiya, Pubbys! So, our mind has been a cranial crock pot lately, stewing about this Oh My Rockness book idea. And we think it's high time you knew about it. No, no, it's not one of those pretentious book ideas you must hear all day like, "My big, thick hardcover book is about spanning generations of some same family with flashbacks and flash forwards and lots of other flashing things---" SNORE ME LATER! No, we're thinking our little book would be more like the kind of book that feels most at home lying on your bathroom floor next to your toilet. We're not totally sure of the title yet, but so far "How 2 Act Kewl at Kewl Showz" has a slight edge over "Show Tips: It's Not a City in China."

It'll be one of those little books with only, like, three sentences per page. Surrounding those sentences (which will be show tips, in case that wasn't clear earlier) there would be lots of white space. We want this to look super clean and super sterile because that's what's kewl. When the reader holds our book, we want them to feel like they're in a hospital room. Pubbys, we truly believe there's a market for this Rockness show tips book.

We can't tell you all the times people cross to the street just to approach us and say, "I don't like the way you look." And some other times, people will come up to us and say, "Hey Rockness, can you give me any show tips when I go see The Antlers, Boy 8 Bit, Ducktails, Mew, Cymbals Eat Guitars and Max Tundra this week? Like, how do I know how to act kewl and have all the really radical moves when I'm at these shows?" And we always tell them, "Just act natural and be yourself. For us, that means singing the score to Show Boat between band sets." And that's just the start!

There could be so many more show tips! Just give us a chance. Publish our show tips book and you'll be laughing all the way to the bank, and everyone likes a car commute full of the giggles, right? Just reply to this email to set up some show tips book meetings. Oh wait, just got a response! A Pubby writes, "Here's a tip, don't hold your breath." Wow! We'll use it! Now we've got two show tips!

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2009-08-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

Guess what happened to us last night? We finally met someone who reads these weekly e-mails! Wow! The fateful encounter happened right after riding the tea cups on our brisk walk over to the ducky boats. This person noticed the Rockness shirt we always wear everywhere and they said, "I read that e-mail sometimes." Wow!

Of course, we tried to play it cool with this person and not let this reader's reverence get to our head (we prefer our beanie size to stay at 7 and 5/8ths, thank you very much). Yet we thought it was important, VITAL even, to give this fan the thrill of a lifetime. So we casually leaned an elbow on the side of the inflatable Krazy Kastle and slyly said, "Since you're such a fan, here's what we will do for you --- we're going to let you tell us what to write about in the next --- here it comes now --- in the next Rockness e-mail introduction! How about that! Huh? How about that!"

We then prepared to wait for their initial wave of euphoria to pass, as surely they'd be too stunned to reply with remarkable adulation right away. Surprisingly, their euphoria passed rather quickly. The reader immediately replied, "Oh, I don't read those intros. I just skip straight down and skim the 'Just Announced' section and maybe that 'Free Shows' thing." Devastating...

But rather than give in to the pain and allow the leak forming in our eyes to become a steady stream, we got defensive. We said, "But the intros are filled with so many really radical words! Words we right-click on to find the synonyms Microsoft Word finds most appropriate! And not only that, our intros tell you about all the good bands playing this week like Anamanaguchi, Free Energy, Casiokids, Boys Noize, Cold Cave, Forest Fire, and Blind Man's Coulour and---"

Before we could finish, the fan had sauntered off to the Wacky Shack, leaving us to our leaking eyes which quickly became the river that turned into the flood. And there wasn't a dam anywhere in this site's sight. C'est la vie. (Microsoft Word says that foreign phrase is more appropriate than WAHHHHHH!!!!!!).

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2009-07-16T06:37:00.000-07:00

Way back, when for us going to a “show” meant the “Ice Capades,” the street in our town held our first-and-only late-night block party. And it was a RAGER! Barricaded off from the evil forces of all the Fieros and Firebirds, we reveled in the sensation of knowing we could do an asphalt snow angel right in the middle of the road if we wanted to.

We remember lots of ranch dip, some sensible “black snack” fireworks, and a licensed city official carefully tapping the fire-hydrant --- crazy! The party was accompanied by one big and boisterous boom box that cranked out all the party hits.

Not long after this “best day ever” turned to twilight though, we were sent inside to bed. We were so mad at the early exit we threw our E.T. bank across our bedroom, pulverizing his friendly head of plaster ---- we loved that goddamn bank. As we lay there, silently stewing in defiant non-slumber, we heard from the raucous street the beginning notes of a very familiar rhythm, and then that sick guitar lick came in, and then we heard our neighbors ROAR. The block party had just busted out “Beat It!” which was then tied with “Eat It!” for our very favorite song! No!

But rather than cry out from our prison of pillows, we stood up proudly, brushed off our Garfield jams, and used the opportunity to once again attempt to master the Moonwalk. Now maybe it was because it was dark, and our jams had slick glow-in-the-dark footies, and the floor was particularly waxy, and no one else was there to say otherwise, but we swear we got a few good glides in. We swear.

Of course, this long, boring story has nothing to do with Screaming Females, Blank Dogs, Sonic Youth, Handsome Furs, and The Drums all playing this week. It’s just, you know, a remembrance.

"The Lottery Winner" (excerpt #2)

2009-06-26T09:45:00.000-07:00

Michael sat down to his desk approximately ninety-seven minutes late. A post-it note was attached to his monitor. “M- Please see me. T-” T stood for Tom which stood for boss. He crumpled up the note, took a final sip of his coffee, and made his way down the hall. He didn’t have to knock, for Tom’s door was always open. He knew this not only from passing the door every morning, but because Tom made a point of telling his employees on a weekly basis that his “door was always open.” Michael suspected he meant it more literally than figuratively.

“Hey, Tom.”
Tom, on the phone, motioned with one hand for Michael to come in and sit.

As Tom talked to (by all accounts) a prospective client about a particular project that apparently could be done “without reinventing the wheel,” Michael became increasingly concerned that he was just sitting there doing nothing. Should he stare out the window? Should he adjust his posture every few seconds? Should he pretend he was in on the telephone conversation and nod accordingly? Should he shut his eyes? No, he definitely should not shut his eyes.
“Thanks, Bill.”

Tom hung up the phone, and shut the screen on his laptop.
“Michael.” He folded his hands in front of him. “How is everything?”

Michael wasn’t sure if this was a work question or a personal question. Should he quickly list the status of the projects he’s supposedly working on, or should he talk about his hangover, loneliness, lack of ambition and general ambivalence etc…?

“Things are good.”
“Well after last night, you’re probably the only one at the office who feels good.”
“Yeah, things got pretty…crazy.”
Tom stood up. “Hang on.”
He walked over to the door and shut it closed. “Let’s chat.”

It was then that Michael knew that this would be the last conversation they would ever have.

Michael was acutely self-aware that he was putting his personal effects into a cardboard box. He thought they only did that in the movies. Yet even the most tired clichés are still based somewhat on truth, and the truth was that a box was the very best way to quickly and gracefully make an exit from a job he was sorry to lose but wasn’t quite sure why. All he needed to complete the stereotype was a potted plant and a framed picture. But really, in the box he just had lots of pens.

“Budget cuts,” Bossman had told him. He said a lot more, but Michael wasn’t really listening. He knew ultimately it was a personality issue, or lack thereof. He didn’t leave his firing in a huff. He left his firing in a “huh.” And that reaction reaffirmed Tom’s reason decision for Michael’s termination. Bossman Tom sprinted around the office hopped up on professional stress. Employeeman Michael sauntered around the office slowly on sighs. He refused to feel guilty for leaving work at 6pm (the end of the work day, mind you), and Tom could never understand that. He could never understand why Michael didn’t care about “important” clients that make cheap body spray or why he wasn’t thrilled to work on getting kids to eat more of an “important” client’s latest fruit drink. To Tom, a client was a client was a client, no matter what. To Michael, most of them were simply tragic figures.

Michael could really be an asshole.

"The Lottery Winner" (excerpt #1)

2009-06-26T09:41:00.000-07:00

In order to tell this story, we should probably start with the superficial. Squinting quickly at his physical stats, Michael Green is a man who may quickly be categorized as one entirely average person. He is of the “official” standard American male height at 5’ 8,” yet if any of you have male friends of the 5’ 8” variety, you’re well aware that these men spend their whole adult lives battling perceptions that they are indeed short. Michael’s thirty-year-old frame could efficiently be cataloged and filed away as neither solid nor soft, but somewhere in that strange grey area in-between. From afar, perhaps eying him from across a rather wide street for instance, you might be tempted to classify Michael as somewhat scrawny. However, a closer view of Michael’s mid-frame would reveal two rather healthy love handles which would rule out any type of slenderness.

Nature gave Michael dark features at birth, but not in the tall-dark-handsome-Cary-Grant-Clooney sort of way. His brown eyes, bold eyebrows and deep black locks simply serve to clash mightily with the pallor of his pasty skin. As for fashion, Michael prefers dark-colored workman-like pants (a.k.a “Dickies”) and the kind of short-sleeved “cowboy” shirts that refuse to wrinkle no matter how carelessly they are crumpled on a floor. (For a multitude of reasons mostly having to do with impatience, Michael never could master folding, hanging or ironing.) Michael always wears sneakers and black socks.

It should also be mentioned that the way Michael tends to relax his face makes it appear to the outsider that he is deeply annoyed at something or somebody, perhaps even them. This often leads to miscommunication and unwanted judgments upon his character. Mostly, it just means he’s tired.

Michael is pretty decent at many things – typing, reading while walking, Frisbee, being one of the first to finish any type of timed test - but he’s not particularly great at anything. If he were a university instead of a person, he’d be a nice-enough liberal arts college nestled somewhere between Indiana and Iowa, the kind that would throw in a no-nonsense name-brand PC for free upon admission. Michael has never truly mastered any skill and has no area of superior expertise. The closest he came to the top was one week in 1989 where he was widely considered to be the best bell boy in the ‘Handbellers for Him’ church choir.

So, superficially speaking of course, you could safely say Michael Green is just another average human being in the expansive sea of genetic mediocrity.

But unlike 99.998% of most men, Michael Gregory Green is a lottery winner. A big time lottery winner. Five years ago this May, Michael won the single largest lottery pay-out in New York state’s history; $248 million dollars.

What follows is the story of one remarkable event that happened to one pretty unremarkable guy. It’s a tale about what happened to a lottery winner after the press conferences and the novelty check presentations and the rounds of the local news networks ended. Oh, and just as a warning, Michael doesn’t drink, snort, shoot, or gamble all of his money away. That’s another kind of story. (Sorry for the disappointment, as those stories tend to be pretty exciting.)

For those of you still remaining for this story, let’s go ahead and take it back to two days before Michael became very, very rich.

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2009-06-26T09:39:00.000-07:00

We FADE UP on a young woman and man "rocking out" at a show. They appear to have done this many times before. We're not sure what band they are "rocking out" to, but it must be the likes of Dan Deacon, Wavves or Apes & Androids because they're dancing as if their Brooklyn butts depended on it. We can safely say it's definitely not a Loney, Dear show.

CUT TO: a shot of the same impossibly cool couple sleeping peacefully. The morning sun's rays peer gently through the cracks of their vinyl blinds. All is well in slumber land. CUT TO: close-up on an ominous brown closet door (no, make it a red door, red like blood) CUT TO: The rock couple blissfully sleeps on; his perfectly messed follicles subtly staining the pillowcase with Murray's hair pommade, her purple bandana serving as the perfect impromptu eye mask.

CUT TO: a dormant vacuum nestled in a forgotten corner of the closet buried beneath an old neon Night Ranger nightlight that was "just too kitschy to pass up." CUT TO: extreme close-up of the vacuum... suddenly its unnaturally bright light blazes on and an evil (but dusty) smile forms on the face of its canary yellow canister (FYI: it was the only color they had in stock). We suspect this vacuum is up to no good! CUT TO: exterior of the closet door as it gradually opens... the crazy vacuum emerges and about-faces directly in front of the sleeping rock couple's bedroom door.

CUT TO: close-up of six silver knives as they extend with a flash from the vacuum's grey plastic hose (normally the space reserved for under-the-couch-cushions cleaning attachments!) CUT TO: interior of bedroom as the crazy, demonic and demented vacuum slowly opens the door and rolls itself in, still sporting that sick suction grin. The vacuum leisurely twists a knob on its canister (using, um, its wheel!) to the "maximum cleaning" setting, flooding the room with overpowering, deafening white noise.

It's SO LOUD! But the couple won't wake up! Why, oh why, won't they wake up?! They could leap out the window or something before it's too late and they're cut like a paper snowflake! Are they dead?! No, they're not dead. They are perfectly healthy. They snooze, a foot away from an advancing sick and twisted vacuum armed with crazy cutlery because... because they didn't wear earplugs when they went to that rock show last night. And they weren't going to wear them when they checked out Beirut, Passion Pit, The Thermals and The Pains of Being Pure at Heart later this week. They don't hear the danger! If only they wore earplugs. If only they wore earplugs!

We FADE TO BLACK as the vacuum wheels itself menacingly towards the still sleeping rock couple. And we are left to chillingly ponder their poor fate. Will they be thoroughly cut up by this Samurai Samsung? Or will they just be thoroughly cleaned? For the average concert kit, both would be equally horrific. So don't let this happen to you. Wear earplugs at shows.

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2009-06-26T09:36:00.001-07:00

It's so not easy being in the buzziest buzz band since King Kazoo and the Blender Bees. But we, the members of Crystal Quick Bear Heart (our hugely hyped side project), are managing our fame just fine. Thanks for all your fawning fan mail since we were named the "Band of the Weak" (weird typo there, but whatever) on trashingbands.becausewearemad.blogspot.com.

Reading those messages from the four of you really makes the post-art-punk we're making worth it, you know? Because being in a buzz band is harrrrd, man! And in answer to Aunt Jenny in Altoona and a little someone by the name of... the wife of the president of NIGERIA (Wow!), we can't send money right now but we do promise to play in your city soon enough, provided you can honor our tour rider (two words: Ding Dongs).

Right now we write this from our glockenspielists' home studio where we're working out some killer songs on his sick racecar bed. There's this really cool low five-to-high-five chord progression our hand-clappist is kicking around that's going to rock your world, too. I can't tell you his name because we're one of those "mysterious" bands. At our next sure-to-be-sold-out show at an arena and date TBA, we just might wear sunglasses over bear masks so we can up our ante to "enigmatic." And you'll love it.

Oh, a message for our blogger buds, if you must take incessant pictures of us at our show, 1) recognize the 'staches and 2) make us look like we're RULING. Sure, being in the buzziest band in the land has some backlash, but we just laugh at the haters who say our 15 minutes of fame started 16 minutes before we formed. Whatever! We've got like 1,500 minutes of fame! Others say "Why the hell would we see your dumb band when Cat Power, Beirut, Final Fantasy, WAVVES and The Pains of Being Pure at Heart are all playing this week?" Hmmm. Perhaps a touché. But I don't recall any of those bands getting fan mail from the former president of Nigeria's wife, do you? Bust. Crystal Quick Bear Heart's rein of ruling continues!

Oh My Rockness Email Introductions

2009-06-26T09:35:00.000-07:00

Did you know that right now a bunch of people in pleated power pants (the khaki kind that come with a free cell phone attached to the belt) are sitting around thinking a whole lot about you? Yes, they are. They're sitting in their stainless steel hermetically-sealed "think tanks" tossing a Koosh ball and trying to figure out what the "young tastemakers" who go out to "the rock concerts" to listen to "the groups with the beards and such" are into so that they can better market their soup, shoes and shampoo (made from 100% purified cobra lube!) to you. So, in the spirit of St. Russell Stover, we thought we'd make their jobs a whole lot easier and tell them straight out everything we all love. You know, just the obvious stuff.

Brand Loyalty Cultivation: The Interaction, Integration and Infiltration of the Concert Kids Infrastructure: A Granular and Scalable List: Part One:

Rain Sticks. Fruit Roll-ups© as fashion accessories. Occasionally replacing "Ss" with "Zs" to achieve "young-speak." Picklez. Any and all things Brian Dennehy. Calling concerts "shimmysham-shindigs." Tuning in to cross-platform punctuation shows like "Save my Bath!" and "Who Dat?!" Frogz. Carbon footprint-less footwear such as invisible stonewashed socks. Carpri Sun + Taurine + Sanka + (your alcohol) mixed beverages we call "shimmy-synergy drinks." Referring to our closest friends as "T-Birds." Foreign films featuring dolphin themes. Dolphins on denim. Just dolphins in general. Using emotionless emoticons like the colon : Visiting anti-social networking sites such as italktowalls.com and stuccoabovemybed.com. And, of course, desktop calendars of kitties dressed as superheroes.

Follow the above love list, and all you marketers can sit back, relax, and enjoy the monetization and incentivization of your B2C infrastructure. And if you see us at School of Seven Bells, Titus Andronicus, Chairlift, or M. Ward/Vivian Girls this week, make sure to holla at your T-Bird. Happy Valentinez Day!