Pocketbook Full of Confidence

Candace. Where are you? What have you been up to?

I found myself thinking about you today for the first time in a long time. I was telling my friend a few tales of our silly adventures. You always popped up out of the ether whenever I needed you most, when I was full of self-doubt and sinking into a pit of depression. You were there, ready to prop me back up again, feeding me self-confidence like candy from your purse.

Remember the first time we met? We were at some stupid New Year's Eve party in NoVA where neither of us knew anyone except the person we came with, so we ended up hanging out together on the porch, passing joints and talking strictly in British accents.

Remember our first "date" when I took you to the redneck bar for pool and we danced to "Freebird" and hung out for hours talking about machine guns and radios with a man who couldn't get his wedding ring off? He tried to kiss you in the parking lot and you said, "Get off me, you gross old man. I'm with him." He still paid for our cab. Later that night, you pricked our fingers with your chef's knife and we wrote our first initials on the backs of each other's hands. Then, you burnt off your left eyelash while attempting to light the candles and I got a blister on my lip from your bowl. You made fun of me for looking like a crackhead and I gave you a yellow magic marker to color in a new eyebrow, which you did, and we both laughed and laughed. Later that night I made you stand in front of the mirror so you could see how your eyes lit up when I called you "Kitty Kat."

Remember our next date when we lay in the field underneath the power lines, remaining totally silent while the planes flew overhead? You saw a flashing blue light in the distance and we ventured through the woods to investigate, only to get lost for 2 hours while never going further than 100 yards from your apartment.

Remember the "MRG's Mix Tape" scam? Remember the time we almost got to meet Stevie Wonder but then lost the guy's phone number? How many times did we listen to side 2 of "Talking Book" while you berated me for my fascination with David Bowie? I'd guess at least a hundred.

Remember your first night in your new apartment in Alexandria? Laura came over and we dared ourselves to stay up all night. You fell asleep with your knee in my back like always and then I passed out, only to wake up at 5AM with Laura calling us "sleep pussies." I had to ride the metro all the way back to New Carrollton at 6AM with melting hair-spikes from you girls and your mousse, wearing nothing but a coffee-stained white tshirt and your ex-boyfriend's exercise pants while businessmen stared at me over their copies of the "Wall Street Journal." I was late to work that day.

Remember the time that guy accused us of being pool hustlers and tried to fight me? I threatened to cut him with a steak knife in the parking lot and you told him that he'd seen "The Color of Money" too many times. Later that night, he paid our entire tab after we beat him and his partner in 7 straight games. Then, as we walked around the corner on the way to the hotel, you grabbed me and threw me up against the stone wall and told me you loved me. I told you I loved you back. I still don't drive down that street.

Remember our last phone conversation? You were scared I was going to fall asleep at the wheel while driving the ten hours home from my sister's wedding and die, so you called every 30 minutes to make sure I was ok, right up until I pulled into my driveway.

But that's all in the past. I wonder why you ran away like you did. Just up and disappearing, gone without even a phone call. I know about your troubles with the state of California but you never exactly explained the charges, did you? Still, I sometimes dream about you, out there somewhere, robbing banks or working the kitchen on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico.

I still carry these memories around like spare change in my fifth pocket. I even developed a heart-wrenching crush on this girl last year just because she reminded me of you in only the smallest, most artificial ways. You always were "the real deal." Anyways, I almost lost my job because of that plus I missed out on at least two real relationships, one of which could've lasted a lifetime, only I screwed it up by thinking too much. You remember how I do that sometimes, right?

Later, Gator.


PS.
I'm getting a root canal tomorrow. Ouch.

5:42AM Oddities

I went to bed early last night, hoping a good night's sleep would finally break the headlock that Mr. Fatigue currently has locked around my neck. My roommate and I had once again spent an entire evening firmly entrenched in Disc 5 of "Lost: Season 1" (aka crack cocaine) so I drifted off to sleep, expecting weird dreams.

Unfortunately, I was awoken at 5:42AM by stirrings around the apartment. Getting up to head towards the bathroom, the loud scramble of feet heading into my roommate's bedroom made me laugh. He'd probably stayed up drinking a second bottle of wine by himself and was walking around the apartment naked or up to another of his usual drunken tricks. Shocker.

Back in bed, I contemplated getting up early and going for a run despite having another hour worth of sleep before the 6:45AM alarm. Turning on the television, I watched a few minutes of an infomercial for Oranglo and then woke up at 7:15, alarm blaring with Bill O'Reilly talking about his children's book on the Today show.

But something happened while I asleep. I had a dream, a really, truly weird dream in three acts.

Act I

The dream opened in my old church in Danville, Mt. Vernon Methodist. I was at church with my sister, dressed as a complete stereotypical rock n roller. For some reason, this really dorky kid, who I grew up with but never really hung out with b/c his dorkiness included wearing Star Trek uniforms to school assemblies and playing with light sabers after the age of 12, kept harassing me the whole time, all the while ensconced under the protective arm of his father. (*Note* In this dream I'm like 16.) Finally, my sis and I had enough of his antics so she casually said over her shoulder, "Leave my brother alone." He said something to her and she got mad. I was infuriated so I leaned over and said, with quiet intensity, "If you don't shut up, I'm going to punch you in the p*ssy." (What does that even mean? Even I don't talk like that but it was just so vulgar that I had to include it here since I remember that part so vividly.) Then I had this really strange conversation with my piano teacher about the numbers from Lost matching up to algorithms produced when playing Mozart's fantasias.

Act II

I was actually a member of a KISS cover band but we just wore the makeup, not the whole outfit b/c that just wouldn't be cool. I remember saying, "That'd be like Boy Scouts who wear the uniform AND the socks." (I've actually said that very phrase in real life.) I was rocking the bass while, oddly enough, Claire, the pregnant woman from Lost (sans pregnancy however,) played all of the Ace Frehley parts of "Detroit Rock City" with ultimate precision.

Act III

Flash forward (?) to the practice space where I was hanging out with Claire and talking about music and how we were really going to "rock out" to this one song in our next show. We even choreographed a little bass and guitar "rockstar move" as a signal to know it was time to let fly the musical fury. Just as Claire started to put on her Ace Frehley makeup, Paul Stanley, or at least a Paul Stanley look-alike, bursts into the room and declares it Rumble Time. It turned out this guy was in a KISS cover band with his other three identical quadruplet brothers, called Paul and the Stanleys, which dedicated themselves to Paul's solo work and only the songs he wrote with KISS. Then I woke up just as Paul #1 was about to throw the first punch.

What a weird dream.

Thanks

Thanks to everybody who showed up last night for the show. It went wonderfully!
I was seriously beaming all night, from the first hit of Laura Burhenn's Wurlitzer to the end when the soundguy called me the "golden boy." I think the last official count was well over 100 people, to the tune of 120-140, but at that point, it was 1:30AM and I could barely remain standing.

So, thanks for everything! Please be on the lookout for my next show, hopefully coming at you again from DC9 on Thursday, Nov. 10th. Now, who wants to be on the bill?

FAZED - Video Viewer

Wow.

FAZED Video Winner

I only have four things to say about this before I die of laughter:
1. Those kids at the beginning are doing the right thing. They must be clairvoyant like the stereotypical blonde children in horror movies who know when the monster's about to strike.
2. I love how when the keyboardist comes in late, the lead singer looks over at him like, "Dude, don't fuck this up." Or at least that's the look I imagine he has on his face.
3. Watch for the really weird looking bigfoot/REO Speedwagon fan/hobo who appears after the first chorus. Is he turning down their amps? No respect.
4. My favorite part comes right before the mid-point of the song. As the singer launches into the last bit of the chorus before the solo break, the sun glints of the bass head followed by apparently my father walking by the camera, looking directly into it and laughing.

This really just proves my theory that Europe's "Final Countdown" always (ALWAYS) equals high comedy, however intended or, in this case, not. For more proof on this theory, please see this:
http://www.stanford.edu/~scodary/tkam.htm

Happenings

I'll probably edit this and write some more later today, especially about the travesty that was Sunday night's show.

But for now, I want to let everybody know that I'm promoting a show on Thursday, Sept. 22nd, at DC9. I'd love for people to come out as my entire reputation is sort of hanging on this show. Here's the flyer:



Hope to see everybody there!

Finally, a NEW Update!

I took a little break so here's a post that's pretty boring. Suffice it to say, it's Thursday and I'm still recovering from last weekend. It was a good weekend though. Friday night, I went to a Katrina benefit concert with my friend (and hopefully bandmate) Richard and his friends at American University. The funniest part was before the music even started, Richard and I were outside on a smoking expedition when we were first accosted by the holier-than-thou hipster scene which seems to follow Laura Burhenn around like the plague. It was pretty great though as it's spurred several inside jokes which are tons of fun. I also made the discovery that all of Cartel's music is the exact same tempo. I tap my foot to the beat when listening to bands and after 3 songs I noticed that my foot tapping had not changed. Even their fast songs were played at that same tempo, only double-timed. Ridiculous. Maybe that's why it makes me want to sleep? I ended the night listening to the White Album and drinking a beer. I've really missed The Beatles.

Saturday was a banner day. While doing laundry, somebody's mom complimented me not once, but twice on my clothes-folding ability. Somewhere, hopefully my mother smiled. On my way out the laundromat door, I received a surprise call from the old area code "434." Patrick and the legendary innocent John Martin were making a surprise trip to DC, in order to see the Redskins season opener. Of course, they were staying with me. What happened once they arrived is still somewhat blurry, but I do remember being at my bar, Bourbon, then trying to extricate them from a house of ill repute for several hours, pulling the front of my pants down just enough to prove to some girl that I'm truly a redhead, doing a shot with my neighbors and jumping on a coffee table, and falling asleep while playing poker. The last time I remember a clock, it read 6AM. One note though, I've never really understood the allure of strip clubs. It's like paying for the milk but never getting to drink it. (And by the way, if this keeps up, I'm going to have to apologize to my mother after every column.)

On the Seventh Day, I rested. I guess the lack of sleep catches up with all us old-timers eventually. Watching the Guins and NYC band Bravo Silva (who are really good but a little too into fashion) at Galaxy Hut late Sunday night, I thought I was going to pass out before I even got to my car.

Looking forward to this weekend, I've really got to get the word out for the DC9 Sunday night show. The Makers, Greenland, and Thomas Lunch and the Drugs, @ DC9, $10, doors at 9. I know it sounds expensive, but The Makers are really worth it. Ever since the illustrious Shannon Jackson introduced me to them a few months ago, I've been dying to see them live. This show was put together by my friend and mentor Nan and it's really going to be a doozy. Here's the poster:



Finally, just so everyone knows, I'm planning my next visit to Danville on the weekend of Oct. 7th since the North Theater's showing "Gimme Shelter" on the big screen. Too bad I won't be able to stick around until Sunday for the midnight showing, but still, I'm excited. However, I won't be sticking around for their showing of "Eden's Curve" as that might be the worst movie I've ever seen. I'd planned to go home next weekend but there's just no money for it, plus I'm finally starting to get the shaggy mane back and there's no reason to get it cut just yet. It feels so good on my neck...

PS. You should check out my friend Richard's band Panda Sanchez. Hopefully he'll start playing out soon, even more hopefully with me on a multitude of instruments as I'm dying to start playing out again. His stuff is really atmospheric yet intricate, reminding me of some of Radiohead's slower songs from Kid A and Amnesiac. I'm personally thinking about starting a proto-punk band, ala The Stooges, called Bourgeois-Jihad.

To thumb or not to thumb?

Here's a question that spawned endless debate among my friends all weekend. When gigging, flipping the bird, shooting the ultimate gun, giving the old one finger salute, whatever you want to call it, is it proper to stick the thumb out or keep it folded in?

Personally, I prefer to throw out my thumb and flex only the outermost two knuckles of my index and ring finger. I feel that this gives the flattest surface on the back of my hand from which the intended insult may radiate outward. When I curl in all fingers save my favorite, I feel that my hand becomes too twisted and fist-like for the insult to be properly received and translated. Plus, the "extra flex" also requires a twist and tilt of the wrist that really just takes too much time. When I'm speeding around whatever offending Maryland driver gets in my way or posing for a red-light camera shoot, I really only have a matter of seconds to make the offensive party aware of my true feelings. The power of my flat, back-handed delivery is quick but unmistakable. However, I will concede that occasionally my hand is already balled into a fist when stuck doing 25 mph in a 55 mph zone so it is easier just to extend the middle finger rather than get caught up in proper form.

The delivery of the middle finger is almost as unique as the print on its tip. I think it also has to do with the way we point. Watch your friends whenever they point at something. Some extend their index finger with the rest of the hand curled up in a loose fist. Classic. Others use their middle finger to point. Some like to use their whole hand, pointing out the specific information with a tapping finger. A few sad souls points with the devil horns of the metal fist. Personally, I prefer to shoot the gun when giving directions on a map, catching the eye of some lady, recommending my favorite dish at a local restaurant, or pointing out my favorite Bible verses. (...) Anyways, other odd "finger prints" include men's imitation of a machine gun, people's arm movements while running, and smiles.

Here's some more information on Middle Finger Symbology:

Straight Dope on the Middle Finger's Origins
The Legal History of the Middle Finger
A Little Evolutionary History

Sorry Mom!

God bless Mayor Nagin

Please listen to this interview with Mayor Nagin. He's the only one making any sense. Here it is:

Air America Interview with Mayor Nagin

God bless him. If only all of our politicians thought like this...

Meanwhile, Bush is in Alabama taking photos...

Trying Not to Say "I Told You So"

http://www.hurricane.lsu.edu/_in_the_news/houston.htm

First, realize that the picture above was taken on Tuesday, August 30th, 2005. The same day that a gigantic hurricane made landfall, obliterating one of the nation's largest cities. Meanwhile, Pres. Bush was fooling around with a guitar. He was also on the tail-end of his five week vacation.

Second, look at the date on the article linked above. December 1, 2001. Now, check out that third and fourth sentence. What the fuck? You mean, our "President" had received warning about the two biggest disasters of his presidency months before one and years before the other yet refused to do anything about it? In a normal world, I'd say this is shocking and appalling, but, you know, I'm really not all that surprised. In today's bizarro world, I warn my friends living in San Fran to buy flashlights and crackers. How did the Republican Congress and our esteemed President deal with this warning? They cut the Army Corps of Engineers budget for New Orleans by $71.2 million in the fiscal year 2005, followed by more proposed cuts in 2006. Where'd that money go? To fund the Iraq War. I know it's pretty hard to blame one person for a natural disaster, but it's a little easier than normal in this case. The man did absolutely nothing to prevent this disaster. He, like Nero, literally spent his time fiddling. (Well, almost literally, but they're both stringed instruments so the metaphor sticks.)

Gas was $2.89/gallon this morning and is supposedly going up at least 20 cents by noon. People like this continue to spread their hate, insanity, and fear. August had one of the highest casualty counts so far in the Iraq War, not to mention failed constitutional talks and a stampede, which killed or injured over 1,000 Iraqis, caused by the mere rumor of suicide bombers. Fox 5 continues to report on the danger of everyday appliances, especially hot tubs. We went from the most prosperous boom times in American history to the lowest depths imaginable in little more than five years of the Bush Administration.

I was talking to my Mom this morning and we had a really interesting conversation about hypocrisy and evil in the world. I feel so guilty for turning her into a liberal. Now, she's stuck in a town with no respite from the loud mouth arguments of Christian fundamentalists and crazy Conservative would-be militants. However, in a way only my mother could, she perseveres through their hate with a grace all her own. "Max," she said, "all of the people complaining the most are the ones who voted for Bush. It's really hard not to say, 'I told you so.' But, in the end, it's just not worth it since they've got to realize it for themselves for any meaningful change to occur." I'm trying to follow that advice. Hopefully, people will finally begin to see the corruption, short-sightedness and incompetence of the Bush Administration and his Republican cronies. Hopefully, we'll get some real change for the better in America. However, there's a reason I named this blog "Jaded Lens."

Here's where you can help:

http://www.redcross.org

* (added later) * I just went outside to sit in the sun for a bit since it's below freezing in my office. While out there, I overheard a group of salespeople talking about the pending removal of Louisiana's star from our flag, seeing as how it's now no longer a real state and not worth saving since they have nothing to give us. They followed this with further comments about stupid people who live in Tornado Alley, etc. Um, Maryland ain't weatherproof either, dumbshits. The whole thing made me sick. Some people have no class. Others have little or no hope.