Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Dude In Guitar Center That Should Have Been In My Last Post

Yeah, well he really is inside AN ACTUAL guitar center, this noodling nerd. What a champion! I mean, what's the fucking point.? I'll bet there is a row of skate rats butchering "Over the Hills and Far Away" in acoustic off key unison, right behind him.

You wont make it past the two minute mark. But let's do a checklist for fun!

Real tight Dream Theater ponytail? Check.

Glossy black guitar with more sharp points than a Mensa convention? Check.

Mathmatical, robotic playing with no emotion whatsoever? Check.

All practice, practice, practice, practice,practice... no playing? Check.

Big burly guy that looks like Peter Jackson with a rat tail, as an audience of one cheering him on? (can't see him, but I know he's there) His Tolkien wingman? Check.

Doesn't this dude watch Metalocalypse? Has it taught him NOTHING?

I wonder if he bought a new hard drive or rack system with the winnings?

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Guitar Center: Six String Wal-Mart

It had come to my attention while digging at a fungus on my heel, that I had not actively done anything musical in over a year. Live, in a studio...nada. After 25 years of being in original bands as a lead singer, songwriter and sometimes drummer, and cover bands as a singer, you would think it was in my blood. You would think after writing/cowriting a mother fuckload of songs, doing a handful of tours regional and one national, not really making it but certainly taking it and generally loving to death this thing called music, Umm, You would think the massive attack of art and creation and sound and finding a voice within woodshed and craft busting trial and error would be something that would freeze my blood and wither and hack my breaths to dust if I happened to just

Wrong Em Boyo.

I'm a single dad. I'm strung out punch drunk on a never ending..not even begun domestic split that takes every cognitive thought and cold cocks and cuckolds it into the stratosphere...nothing mattersphere. Yeah, meaculpa , motherfucker, whatever.

I've got drums molding in the basement in the house in which I once did reside. Yeah, fucking mold on em. Even when I lived in Brooklyn in the early aughts and kept that pathetic kit in a rat riddled basement of a former Hasidic school and played in a hipster Americana band that did 4 gigs total, they never had mold on them. rat turds, yea, but no fungus amungus.  Saw it two days ago. Its like the fucking Swamp Thing's been practicing his paradiddles on em.

The guitar I used to strum on every other Tuesday every 4th month of every year was a nice acoustic...I was actually breaking bad past that pesky barre chord barrier that I failed to purge my digits thru, a fuck of a  million times over....when the house of cards went up like a shit brickhouse. Poof. Poop.  Yeah, and said axe happens to be my ex wife's.  She claims to have been in a band for a half minute in NYC in the late 90s as a singer. I can vouch for her having a decent set of pipes, but I never once saw her pick that thing up and strum me some femme empowerment rock.  So it sits there in that house. All covered in bitterness and cat hair. It's not even furniture. Its an accessory. Goes well with those nice hardwoods. Spider webs swinging from the neck and all.

I had another acoustic guitar in that moldy chasm of a basement, and I included it in my exit strategy. It was an Alvarez, late 80s, missing a tuning peg, needed an intunation fix, new strings and some TLC. I broke it out soon after I moved into my new place in Mar/Apr and figured I'd take it to....well, shit I'm in the Guitar Center in Plymouth Meeting...a suburb of Philadelphia.

Then life bitchslapped me around in a mad dash for a vehicle, furniture, insurance, lawyer fees, toddler clothing, utilities,summer camp, foodstuffs, and work related travel. I forgot about the guitar. But hadn't received a call from Guitar Center. But in late June, I did receive a letter thrust at me by invisible lawyers and letterhead telling me in legalese that if there was no response within a month, it would result in the "forfeiture of your property".  I was contacted again by the guy who I presumed fixed my guitar during the first week of August. I rehashed the letter and he claimed by "talking to him" I could be assured that it wouldn't be put out on the floor.

Let's cut to the chase. I went in to this local Six String Wal Mart last week to pick up my guitar. This ...cavernous box store for suburban musicians....that never has had more than ten people total inside of it, including personnel...just a smattering of classicrockasauruses and kids practicing Shinedown riffs in front of a stack of transistor shit.

A semi nice bloke with a good case of the male pattern baldness an equipped with a British accent...IN suburban box store PHILLY??? took my inquiry, referred to the the computer and went off to "check the back".  He  came out and relayed the bad news. Not only was my guitar "out of the back" it had been put on that ever- vacant floor less than a week before and actually had been sold.

Wow.  OK.    So , yeah, I told him. I did get a letter, I did speak to some low rent guitar tech, but did they really need to PUT MY FAIRLY WORTHLESS ALVAREZ on the FLOOR?  You mean to tell me they were running out of ROOM......IN THE BACK? Was this a pressing issue?  Or some hack employees following strict policy from the higher ups at the Six String Wal-Mart. I remained as calm as I could with a heady mix of embarrassment and anger.

So then I went in to barter mode. I had my son with me. I had told him that we were gonna pick up Dad's "other" guitar because I got it fixed so I could start playing it at the apartment. I wanted to leave there with a guitar. Mine was gonzo. In the hands of who knows who.   I presented a scenario to the bloody ' burban bloke that he offer me a deal. The value of what the guitar sold for, minus the repairs I sanctioned....towards a new...USED guitar.  The daft knobjockey offered me 10 percent off of any USED guitar. Final Offer.


We left in a huff.
Sans anything.

I'm still angry. Ashamed of myself. 10 less iced coffees and a grip on a short attention span in that time period would have laid that Alvarez somewhere in this room tonight.

But I'm still befuddled by the practice of business. I doubt the inventory...IN THE BACK was ever effected by my guitar taking up space as much as the result of Guitar Center's stupid policy putting another dent in my creative ego done got me good.

I could be practicing those barre chords again. Going somewhere muse-ically and musically. Filling in the escape minutes that I spoke of in my last post with rugged finesse, or just going acoustic tri-tone crazy as I strum along aggressive to Sabbath's debut .  Possibilities= endless.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Kicking Television.

I've been coasting horizontally on a long drawn out fix of the devouring of  hours of TV via my laptop. With nobody left to run with and barely any social activity to my name, other than the occasional playdate/smalltalk combo, and being crippled half assingly by a writers block brought on by or combatted with the hollow wail of liquid courage, I've been taking the easy route to escape. A horse/lap top shortcut through the breezy, pixilated Leone canyons,while digital indians crouch topside, waiting with arrows raised. Arrows named Fringe, Californication, Sons of Anarchy, Nurse Jackie, Weeds, Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Big C and No Reservations.  I camp out at a coffee shop, nursing an iced coffee until the ice cubes get crushed in my teeth and download whole seasons of these shows that I've been privy to hearing about around the cyber cooler. Sneaking home in shame, is my middle name, while hoarding a bundle of tired torrents like they were vintage Kirby Comics.   

I plank out on a bruised mattress night after night after the kid is asleep, headphones grafted...and drift off through 4-5 episode druggy chips of TEEEVEEE. WHHEEEEEEE. ZZZZZZZZZZZZ.  Then , for all you legal freaks, I delete them.

Hooked like a savant. Counting plot twists and characters like dropped toothpicks. Forgetting everything by the next episode. Repeat. Nightly.

The half action of filling space void of comfort, contact and conversation is a sickness. And TV is such a pill. An extra strength, fast action gel- cap of a pill.   I'm all "caught up" with these shows. And ready for more. I've got to get all Nance Reagan and just say no.

Gotta get back to the books. Reading is a challenge, a commitment..1 percent physical, 96 percent mental, 3 percent spiritual.

Reading takes time, more time than a child- rearing, breed focused, ladder- calling life will allow. 

But what a world made of words are books. Different for everyone in interpretation, critical for a steady feast of education.

I'd like to share back and forth what we want to/will/are reading right now.  How big is your pile? How strong is your urge? Drag us to your recommendations AND condemnations and please allow you to introduce yourself.

I'm finally getting back to:   I Am Ozzy-By Ozzy
                                          Mr. Peanut-By Adam Ross
                                         Chronic City-By Jonathan Lethem
                                         The Wisdom of the Heart-By Henry Miller

all purchased/borrowed over six months ago.

I want to read :                   Life-By Keith Richards
                                          Moby Dick-By Melville
                                         On Writing-By Stephen King
                                         Open Up and Bleed(Iggy Pop bio) -By Paul Trynka

laying around on a shelf or in a small pile wherever a flat surface commands space in my apt.

 I will peruse:                     The Pleasures of the Damned-Poems 1951-1993 By Charles Bukowski.

Just bought it.

And You?

Thursday, August 11, 2011

A Jim DeRogatis Album Review: Jay-Z and Kanye West, ‘Watch the Throne’ (Def Jam)

Album Review: Jay-Z and Kanye West, ‘Watch the Throne’ (Def Jam)

This is why everyone should read Jim DeRogatis. The man tells it like it is. The only thing I thought was MOST ANTICIPATORY about this bloated beast of an album, was Jim's impending eviscerating review. Jay- Z and Kanye. In all of their back slappin" Gucci glory vomited out in elegant ebonic plagues. All they do is brag about shit. So 1990, already. Wordsmiths that never gave a fuck about nuthin', if it wasn't serving them well. I bet their wee wees are 1/1000th the size of their egos.

Monday, August 08, 2011

Calling Out Anonymous

If you happened to notice the comments section from my last whiny post, Mr. or Mrs. "Anonymous" left a great one basically calling my musings here basically pointless, pretentious and self indulgent.   Well, here's the quote, actually.. 

"Whenever I'm feeling like my writing has hit bottom in terms of pointless, pretentious self-indulgence, I visit CoF and feel better knowing that no matter how trite I feel my stuff has become, there is always a lot further down to go."

And he or she remains anonymous.

Hey, brainiac. If you think I'm taking myself that seriously, you're more lost than I am.

This is not music journalism here at Circle of Fits, but I have plenty of actual reviews published elsewhere that could fall into that category. Horn tooting aside, many moons ago I stated the reasons for starting this blog. I can assure you it was certainly not for accolades dealt from behind the messy desks of cajone-free cretins like yourself. But I'm so glad I can occasionally provide that proverbial yardstick to your probable over polished turds.

Free form, opinionated and personal to the point of nauseating self deprecation is Circle Of Fits.

Fair and balanced reviews, trickle down music news  and yawn spasm- inducing pop and rock minutiae can be found just about everywhere else.  So have at it.

It's a blog, stupid.  I even put freaking poetry on here.

I like talking to people. Including you.
I like making fun of people. Including you.   But give me something to go on.

PLEASE, Mr. or Mrs. Anonymous, let me into your world......let all of us here or not here know what your blog is.  Let's start the conversation.


Thursday, August 04, 2011

Inevitable Plateau then Chasm


disclaimer: not for the weak, gossamer winged busy consumers ingesting everything and processing nothing.

not an attack, merely an observation.

And not a cry for fucking help either.

I'd like to thank you Glenn for your submission to be a writer on Circle of Fits. You have been the only one.
I'd like to thank you Sean for responding to Glenn's essay. You were the only one.

I'd like to thank Derek, Sean C., Barb, Dan and Isorski. All bloggers. All with something to say. For three years, I feel I've been writing to you and only you.

Ehh, its not enough.

I'd like to think conversations of substance can happen on line. Be it about rock, pop culture, the bizarre, non political, sarcastic side of life. It can't. At least it hasn't here. Most bloggers are either lonely pundits or expressive wallflowers hiding behind the comfort of anonymity.  I'm a little of both, but for the life of me, I can't get a conversation started here. Life can be whittled down to teaching, learning and either embracing fear or being completely controlled by it. Life for most is avoiding the bare truth of who we are and what we really want. Yes, the truth is out there. Not here.

I enjoy writing. I enjoy music. My life is in such soul sucked disarray, that I can't pursue either. I pursue distractions, to survive. Just like every single one of you. This blog is a distraction too.

People have jobs. To put food on the table, to put clothes on bodies, to keep large homes filled with furniture nobody sits in, (thanks Joni) and places for their stuff (Thanks George). But mostly, its fear, that keeps the busy people busy. Keeps the money trains, war machines and big box stores dependent on the drones that supply their demand.

Most people follow because it is what they know. It is the outline for everything. The leaders lead. The followers follow. Information hidden but presented in a calculated pace to prevent chaos. Rules, regulations and consequences.   It's that damn parenting. Its the value system passed down that forces one to have a well manicured lawn like the next guy. What's gonna happen if you don't mow that thing? Will your neighbors drag you out of your air conditioned home and burn you at  a stake set up in the cul de sac?  Its the fear of God and the evening news that keep society so busy and power hungry and exhausted from the process. I bet most of you can't wait for that one hour after the kids are in bed to do something for yourself. You know, that 15 minutes into some bad netflix rom com until you pass out with the remote in your hand.  Yeah, you.  Get up and do it again the next day.

Fill every minute. With distractions and fear.  Sounds like a fucking party.

Hey, truth...Here I come.

I am going to be me.Quest for fucking fire.

I'm going to teach, learn, and die fearless. But this blog is not enough for me.

So I'll see you now and again. But the lack of conversation and truthiness is merely a distraction.

You've got enough of those.  And so do I.

cheers and beers, Seano