The Second Floor

The curtains of my sordid life are opening a bit more. I know people could peek in but I don't really expect it. Once they do, it can feel a little strange. How much to show? How far is too far? Do the neighbors need to see me running around the house in a chicken suit handcuffed to a Peruvian midget?

Good god what will they all think?

Will the vegans leer at me from their hybrids?

If I'm lucky.

So another night in the woods…

Speaking of mountain living…my neighbors, the ones you probably read about…

But wait…

If other people are reading this then do I have the right to air their personal lives? These are good people after all. According to my stats there are folks on the other side of the world looking at this (whassup Denmark).

Is this okay? Are we in an age of full disclosure? Are there even rules on this lawless digital ponderosa we call an internet? Am I asking too many questions?

Hell I shouldn't even be writing about the band. Slade's probably pissed. I see that look of vengeance in his eyes. No way to say what my next step (or slide) will be. 

Oh geeze…

But back to my neighbors who shall remain nameless for the sake of online privacy:

Remember that cool anonymous lady who gave us an all access pass to rock the redwoods? Well she just lost her mom the same week her husband had a heart attack. Ouch.

After she told us we made her a chicken potpie and took it over. We got to see her home and heard some stories. Carlos Santana was mentioned as a family friend. A few days later I was pulling out and saw her husband in a bathrobe, shivering on his doorstep with the empty pie plate.

A kitchen towel was folded on the plate, garnished with a plastic lily. I smiled at him and asked how he'd been. "Better" he said. After that he thanked me, soul to soul and walked back inside his cabin. Wish I could know everybody that well.

Check it out: 

I went over to the library the other day to get some reference books for a band idea I've been working on. It’s Top Secret right now since local spies have leaked the possibility that band members may be reading this blog. This would obviously violate security code 17A not to mention various state and local ordinances.

It might even screw up the space-time continuum. Whatever the hell that is.

But back to the books:

If you haven’t been in a while (or ever) let me just fill you in on the latest addition to the Santa Cruz Public Library System: Robrarians. At least that’s what I dub them. Li-bots would be acceptable too.

As seemingly trivial and unnecessary as it may seem, it's always a good idea to chat it up with the librarian for a few while they scan your library materials and silently judge you. The very fact that you're there and talking to someone makes it a community atmosphere. It even feels like you have a life you loser. Relax I’m talking to myself here.

This “Robrarian” or “Seething Fiery Barcode Scanning Spawn of the Devil" as I like to call it, gives you the "luxury" of self-checkout so a human is not needed. At least not until it screws up (which is about every ten minutes).

I don’t get these things. It can’t smile or tell me who’s coming to town. And forget about flirting with a Robrarian. She doesn’t care and is still pissed off about her boyfriend leaving her for an iPad.

But she is efficient. And pretty soon people wont even need libraries right? But I digress.

For now let's just relax and hear another chapter from the continuing chronicles of a nameless band:

         I pulled into rehearsal with a six-pack and a Dobro, ready to cut loose and  forget all the stresses that had been trailing me for the past week. I made my way across the lawn, damp from the rain we'd been having, and checked into the lab where my musical creature was brewing. In my corner my tools were all waiting for me: a Frankenstrat and its twangy twin the Telecaster. The keyboard was there too and as I was the first to arrive I took the opportunity to stretch my digits with some advanced noodling exercises. Halfway through a mean Bob Seger medley I heard the glass door slide open followed by a moan of pure agony. I looked up from my Night Moves finger dance and saw Slade, his tired eyes at a mid-bulge as he surveyed the wires sprawled across the floor like a school of tangled eels. "This place is a mess...I don't even know what's plugged in or where. This is goanna be freaking a nightmare...on top of it all I might just do a vomit launch on someone's amp."

"You've been sick?" I asked, still tinkling.

"I had food poisoning...didn't you get my email?"

"You had food poisoning? I thought that was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Yeah...I even wrote him. Did you guys share the same burger?"

"That was me Spacebrain. I wondered why your email sounded more bizarre than usual. Why did you keep mentioning my neck?" (Joaquin had been having neck problems all week)

"I dunno," I said, scanning my thoughts for an easy way out of the now awkward conversation. "Is there any beer left?"

 "Check the fridge Magellan."

        Joaquin got there a little later with a new snare drum in hand to help add some beef to his kit. He set it up and gave it a good whack and I could hear things getting tastier already. It was a good opportunity to go back to my tinkling, this time with a little Break On Through while engineer Slade toiled with the eels on deck. Somewhere in my hazy consciousness I was reminded of a vague memory of Slade telling me how maddening it is when everybody starts jamming when he's trying to concentrate. I made a mental note to stop after my second solo.

         It had been a week since "The Burglar" had been able to practice and the stress of the studio coupled with food poisoning and my incessant noodling didn't seem to be making things any easier. We shot the breeze for a few and eventually everyone, including Ms. Mirian, got in their jam stations and we were ready for take-off.

         With the lights dimmed and a few swigs off the last beer I went into the main piano riff of a song I wrote a while back when I was staying at the Hotel Shattuck in Berkeley. For months after I wrote it both Mirian and I kept referring to it simply as "the Hotel Song" but it's officially called Better Days. Not sure which one I like more. It starts with a driving octave line, like an old Buck rattling down a lonely stretch of road. Then the drums and bass come along for the ride and with a grizzled howl our story begins:

Well I was getting' pretty loaded in the middle of a hotel lobby.

When I met a man who told me he was lookin' for a place to hide a body.

He was in need of some assistance so he asked me if I'd take a ride…

I figured that he musta had the body in a trunk outside.

         Another verse creeps, this time picking up speed and rattling to an uncertain locale. When the chorus hits only one thing's for certain:

  Lord I guess it's time I changed my ways

'cause I sure do think I've seen some better days.

Spent my life on trouble and it sure don't seem to pay.

Lord I guess I seen some better days.

      We played the song all night, finding the right balance of kooky groove and dynamics. By the end I was feeling pretty good but I knew there was more to be done. 

         Now that I see things really coming together I know that it's time to organize and start charting a course. There are no more excuses and if I fail to give my best on this project I may not get a second chance.

         Gotta grab the reins and with this talented team and get my head out of the clouds. I have no doubt that it will be a great and rewarding trip but we've all got to do our part including me. New ideas are coming and mad visions are rapping on the cellar door and I have to be there to catch them.

         I'm going to lay off the poison for a while since moderation may as well be a word in Swedish. Time to take it to the next level and I don't need any more monkeys on my tired back. So Operator if you please…take me to floor two.

Smell ya all up there.