My attempt at consistency

I heard an interview on NPR last week with a man who had recorded a sixty second piece of music everyday for one year straight. I was very impressed by his achievement, if not for the quality of the music, but for his dedication. So I decided to try my own hand at this idea: sixty sixty second songs in sixty days.

These compositions, along with others by Melissa Meyer and Chris Stamm may be found here.

Sick-ass ARTE.

Look at this amazing flier Melissa made for us. It's just the best, bro. Well, Booty Bassment San Diego is tonight at The Whistle Stop, so come. And peep the Melissa Miserable blog. She is keewl and stuff.

From The Archives #1

In the next few weeks I will be posting old blogs I wrote on the myspaces, for your viewing pleasure. This one is for Melissa Miserable and it was written in April of 2004...

So, my job is pretty mellow. I work for this "car service" in La Jolla. Basically, I drive rich assholes around in a Mercedes Benz so they can get sauced up or whatever. Yesterday, I'm hanging at the Pannikin, reading a book. It's a beautiful, sunny Easter day. I get a call from the dispatcher telling me to go to the La Valencia Hotel to pick this guy Fishbau up and take him to his home on Torrey Pines. Alright, no problem.

I've driven this man before. I think he has M.S. or something. He has immense trouble walking and he speaks irregularly. Whatever, no biggie. So, I pull up to the front of the hotel and i get out of the car. I see Mr. Fishbau scooting his way over to the car, so I open the door for him. Like I said, it's Easter Sunday in La Jolla, so lots of people are out walking the streets. Mr. Fishbau has like, mud all over him. Big dirt spots all over his pants and mud chunks on his boots. I thought, "Huh. That's weird that he would go to Easter brunch at the La Valencia Hotel in such dirty clothes. I hope he doesn't get any of that mud on the seats."

So I let him in the back seat and tossed his walker in the trunk. I hop in the car and off we go. All of a sudden it hits me. The stench emanating from his pants hits me like a big brown tidal wave. The "mud" he had been playing in was actually crap! Fucking shit all over the place! Oh my god! I am thoroughly disgusted. We are not suppossed to roll the windows down, but I rolled that shit down as quickly as possible. I turn on the a.c. full blast (with the charcoal filter) and stick my head out the window like Ace Ventura. I don't think you can know what it smelled like in that car. Pure, unadulterated doodoo. The kind of stench you can taste. I was driving like a bat out of hell, swerving like a drunken maniac. I did not give a fuck about anything except for getting Count Chocula the fuck out my car. Of course we get stopped at every light. I am praying at this point..."God, please get me out of this one. i'll do anything..." The doody smell is making my eyes water. I can feel my teeth turning brown. Just when I think I am going to die of fecal inhalation, we make it to his house. He asks me how much, "Ten," I said as tersely as possible, getting out of the car. He hands me a twenty, "Give me five back." Yeah right. "I don't have a five. I'll have to give you ten." The guilt factor for making me smell his shit. "Just keep it." Yeah, that's fucking right just keep it.

God damnit! That is not my job! I know, I mean, I feel bad for him and everything but that sucked! I'm not mad at him, it isn't his fault, but there should be some kind of car service for people like that. The doodoo patrol or something. All I know is that I am scarred from that experience. I think I can still smell it.