A new book to read - How Music Works

Finally getting around to reading David Byrne's book, "How Music Works".  It was recommended by a dear friend, and it's been sitting in my book queue for months.  

And quite frankly, it feels real nice to have a book queue. You should start one today.  Books are practically the only things I collect, aside from vintage musical gear and a couple old film cameras. But, space is getting more and more limited and AU's + VST's are getting so good, that soon, I won't be needing that Roland AP-7's  (the one that works 40% of the time) or the TB-3's, or the Juno's or even the Nordleads anymore. Well, the Nord is not quite that old.

Irregardless, start reading again.  Throw away the futurist opinion that my "too smart for his own good" computer scientist friend "C" has; that books are obsolete tech. We will all benefit collectively from your curiosity.  

And as far as the book, David's insights thus far have been mind opening.  It's really the first theoretical music book I've picked up, even though he might be reluctant to classify it as such. And even though I've recorded and released records over the last few years, I never thought about the form as conceptually as say, filmmaking.  It always seemed more instinctual.  But, I welcome this new openness.  And what better way to start then Byrne, while I track down Eno's, "Year with Swollen Appendices".

what if you love how it was done before?

The arts are places where obsessions form identities.  And new forms build incrementally, from the past.  A snails pace, where the market generally reflects changes very slowly.  That's often why the avant-garde, or the creationist class never make the big bucks like those who refine the new concepts into familiar forms, or, when so happens that the market and the audience catches on.  This usually occurred a long time afterwards.  This is in reverse order from tech, which handsomely rewards the futurist and early adopters, of which are many.  But, like Sam Cooke sings beautifully, "A change is gonna come".   And it has, without any knock on the proverbial door, giving artist very little choice but to fight or flight.

The fast changing landscapes creates three classes of artist.  Artist whom, "made it" in the classical sense before the grand digital divide, those who exist, still in relative obscurity after this grand divide, and one's who came after this grand chasm. For argument sake, I place this grand chasm around the mid 2000's.  This theory on dates demands more than I'm willing to write this morning, and I'm sure many arguments can be made for placing the divide at different times.  In fact, from an empirically personal standpoint, the real disruption has occurred most forceable in the last couple years. 

If you came on the scene as a child of the internet, you understand the rules of the game better then Jean Renoir.  If you came before and already "made it" in the classical sense, most of this has no immediate consequences for you at the time being, as long as you are working. However, those in the middle of the two, the one's who were still toiling with arts and crafts and still hadn't made a name for themselves, those are the ones with the hardest times.  Not quite sure where their affinity lays. 

The changes in the landscape demand and dictate a change in identity. Why?  Well, all of your prior heroes did it the old school way.  They did it in a way that was familiar and easy to point to. Even though gatekeepers, creation and distribution and all the old shit was even more impossible then it is today, it was safer.  You could toil in obscurity till you make it, or, even in obscurity there was a certain badge of honor in pursuing something against all odds.  There even existed an UNDERGROUND that accepted your invisibility.  And in the case of something like filmmaking, you could always point to the lack of financial support, but we are not talking about the non-doers here.

Now, that luxury of obscurity as honor badge doesn't quite exist.  You cannot hide.  You must get out in front and do like the new school, and leave your heroes behind.  And if they don't adjust, well, after the last of their pre digital clout dies, they will be left like you.  Starting from scratch.  So, adjust now, try new things, let go of old and dying ideas and jump in.  Play.  Look foolish.  It doesn't matter anyways, because the stream might never forget, but it does forgive.   

An Experiment into Transparency regarding Lunch

I have a secret.  Actually, many secrets.  We all do.  Small ones, horrible ones, inconsequential ones.  But if you ask me what I had for lunch, it's akin to putting a knife to my throat and asking me to sell out my best friends, if, in a fictional bout of storytelling, they just happened to rob a bank and I was entrusted with that information and nobody was hurt.  You know the saying, snitches get stitches.  

The symptoms;  throat constriction, brain fog, and suddenly finding myself in an intensely difficult moment which could be alleviated with uttering a few simple words, whatever they may me, about what I had for lunch.  The most inconsequential questions become existential dilemmas.  Vague is my due course.  That is a character trait, years in refinement.

In my time, i've been able to get away with this in good style.  It was much easier without social media.  And even after, I could hide those simple pleasantries by way of social media interactions. After all, if I posted about where I was, why would I have to repeat said place to a girlfriend, or buddy, or anybody else?  Now, this isn't a modus operandi about everything, just the simplest of pleasantries.  The type of philistine chit chat we engage in as humans for some odd reason.  At some point, the mere thought of these simple niceties became too exhausting with people whom I've known to some degree.  Now, people I don't know so well, this is a non issue which is a sort of weird paradox all to itself.  

Now, everything I wrote above is mostly metaphorical.  It refers to the artist, the process and the work.     

So, it's time to try another approach.  Since I would like to practice what I preach, I will be sharing more information about process.  Secret projects that I toil in for long lengths of time, well, now I will show you what goes on behind the curtain.  This is not easy.  This is total cognitive dissonance.  But, I cannot tell another kid to share their work (and I mean process) without me doing it without abandon.  We are living in an Austin Kleon, Seth Godin kind of world.

Burn those old ideas.  Keep the head empty, and maybe, it can refill itself.

Of course, this experiment has a time limit.  Till the end of the year.  If it proves worthwhile to post clips of a fucking rehearsal, it will continue.  If utter repulsion sets in, I have the rights to terminate my own self inflicted experiment.  

Cheers my friends,

back from the old country

made my way back from the old country to again discover our collective lack of bread making, especially in the form of croissants.

they do in fact taste better in France, but not so much in Switzerland.  however, the Swiss make up for this deficit in chocolate making.

all is not fair in the world nor will it ever be.  but, if you travel far enough, you see good all around.


melatonin days - some type of way

the day was filled with heaps of molasses
brain function, enslaved by an under the influence and angry source
a day where "you just can't fucking do anything"
except think of the scattered-ness of everything
and all worldly things
like an old, cool nikon lens you found in your grandma's attic
that just doesn't focus 
and even though it's kind of hip with that softness, deep down you know
it's only producing shit
but where do you take it
are there such things as camera stores anymore


wass hap-en-in

Friends, hello.  I have not been writing up on this web device on the regular.  Maybe it's a lack of discipline, desire, or time.  It can possible be all of the above.

Irregardless, we have been quietly working on new things.  Many new things to be exact.  I recently directed some web sketches (people get angry if I call them skits) that were handed to me by one of my talented group of writing partners.  They are of the comic variety, something which I am not completely familiar with; but it was a blast, and I got to work with some talented, fun actors.  I'm not naming the project, since it works best without context for now.  

Also, I finished recordings for the new Mirs EP, MEAT ON YOUR LONELY BONEZ.  We haven't set a release date, but, it should be available in the next month or so.  THe second single (LIZA) should be available early Jan.

Lastly, I've been steadily shooting a long length film/media/whatever project since late Oct.  I want to wrap all principal photography by early March.  That's all I'll say about that. 

Now, there are other projects in varies stages of development, but these are the most tangible items.  I hope you guys tune in.



the woman worked at a bar in little tokyo

and she loved her phone so much

and one day, on a cold and rare rainy night in Los Angeles, she made love through her phone 

but the very next day, the phone broke

and it broke her heart

"love is fleeting" , she concluded

but I think she's a bit immature

your ghost.

the full moon frightens me.
i remember that last terrifying night.
that one whispering night.  the haunting.
your dead soul.
rummaging for the last morsel.
leaving me option-less.
leaving me hung.
the breath escaping.
the squirming.
that last gasp.
a ghost.
your ghost. 

lessons hardly learned.

the old man would pull me over and talk to me every time I saw him at the coffee shop.  his subjects were often the same, little nuggets of wisdom we're all familiar with.

most of the time it was a nuisance.  i would make smiley faces, half understanding anything said, as I kept wanting to get on with life, which is code word for work.  

and most grating of all, this ritual kept me away from coffee.  i mean, that's the main reason I came, and my cravings would erupt in quiet desperation.  i would start resenting everything.  why the hell do i do this to myself every damn time?  why do i come here knowing this is going to happen with 100% certainty. 

but recently, he hasn't been coming in.  and life has gotten more uncomfortable without his greetings. and life is never 100%.


the coat of color reddish.

Michelle’s favorite coat was a tint of red.  I can get specific about the type of red it was.  But, I don't want to. I mean, I'm sure there is an exact name for that red.  Like all those goddamn house paints with those silly names you find at Home Depot, or some place as dreadful.

I just know, let's say, I can tell you, non subjectively that it was a hue of red.  Or tint of red.  What's the difference?  I can see that you're already signaling me to “Google” it.  But no thanks, I like my world with a bit of mystery.  Plus, Google has clocked me watching porn one too many times.  iI’s embarrassing and I don’t trust them. 

I mean, I get it, all this business about the specific color of a coat, it’s a small detail.  But that's what I remember.  Maybe that's all I really remember of Michelle.  Michelle was a coat to me.  A bit harsh, and selfish, and chauvinistic, but, if you're looking for the truth, yeah, that's what sticks out.  If you don’t like my feelings for Michelle and her red toned coat, big whoop, sue me Larry H.  

We slept around for a bit.  Totally causal.  She never asked me more then four questions or so.  She was a cocktail waitress on the lower east side.  Oh, i remember now, it's coming to me.  she was pretty cute too.  Not a real knockout, but, plenty cute.  So, Michelle, cute, reddish coat, minimal talking.  

Whatagirl man. Whatagirl.

limits of control.

the woman tried to change her life.  one morning, she awoke with an insistent image.  it was herself, but refined, elegant, shiny and new.  she also looked about 25 pounds thinner.

the woman became ecstatic thinking about this image over and over, every second she could.  she was completely obsessed.  it was what she had always wanted herself to be.  an uptown girl.

the woman was soon full of "vital life energy”; an incantation she learned and repeated 45 times a day from an instructional DVD she bought over the internet.  "I AM VITAL LIFE ENERGY" she would scream to herself every morning, at exactly 7am during her morning HOUR OF POWER.  she felt “alive for the first time in years”, she told an uninterested co-worker.  

she continued signing up for the newest workshops, researched all her food habits, bought the latest motivational books.  in a span of three months, she spent $3200 on her new life.  but, it “didn’t really count as an expense, because it was an investment”, she told her mother one afternoon at a juice bar.

one day, on her way to work, she witnessed a gruesome accident.  a motorcyclist lay sprawled out on the concrete, motionless.  Another car flipped over, a body inside, engine running.  the sound of that out of control engine terrified her.

she began to sob uncontrollably.  she didn't know why, but she couldn't control her emotions anymore.  they where running away like that engine.   a week of crying was enough!  she bought her first book on emotional self control after reading all the reviews online.  they were very positive.  one customer wrote, “this book will change your life.  trust me, it changed mine almost instantly.”  she was destined to be somebody else completely. 

her weight, her nose, her goddamn ugly shoes, her lack of emotional self control, her stupid honda civic, her back-fat, her frizzy hair, her gossipy and unreliable friends who drag her to T.G.I Friday's on the weekends.  yes, she absolutely despised herself.

morning fuckery.

it's 5:37am.  why did my snooze button land on an odd number?  am i being tricked?

it's a bit dark outside, as I pull the curtain to see if other life forms exist at 5:38am.  a man get's into his old, red BMW across the street.  

man, he must have gotten a lot of pussy a decade or so ago, i quip.   

but then, maybe he's married and has three kids?  what the fuck do I know anyway(s).  

it's 5:39am.