The weekend arrived and I finally got around to helping Rob record more drum parts for the c.d. We took a listen to what he did weeks ago and decided Superstition worked, and then he did Missing Persons. I always found it especially tricky because his only cue is a basic, pre-recorded pizzicato of Dave's guitar and the click of the Roland. Last time, he had me mouth the lyrics for him and sadly I realized how difficult it is to even remember how a song goes without the presence of the guitar. I'm really learning how to listen back on the tracks though, since Rob points out to me all these nuances that I would have otherwise never heard.
       I've always depended on reiterating an audible cue in order to learn and use certain notes beause I never had so much the technical ability to read music as the inclination to imagine it spatially. I told Rob once that I admired his ability to coordinate both of those means, because they work together in such a way that a drummer has to be somewhat of a mathematician of sound. He has to invent unique "formulas" (logical patterns) out of specific variables (his toms, snares, kick drums and cymbals) that orchestrate arrangements (licks and fills) which not only function independently of their placement but end up an organized "equation" (the rhythm). I had to think a lot about how to word that. This is ironic considering both Rob and I would sooner assert our knack at writing than our mathematical ability. It should be enough that everyone has eardrums. Some of us just need to sit down and practice ours more.
       We did have to think about how many effects we could put on our "Noticeable Ones" before it was what he called "80s'ed out" enough for it to sound like the original. I remembered hoping, when we did that song at the party, that everyone would either recognize the song we were doing, or realize that I was doing a half Gwen Stefani, half Dale Bozio thing with my voice. I hate that I even have a combination of the two.
       Finally we listened to Rob's last take of the Incubus song and agreed that its complexity would require more time than we had. He and I naturally share this expectation of ourselves that borderlines exceeding the efforts of most "real" bands out there and becoming a satire in and of ourselves in the process. It's not just the timing or phrasing or effects on "Pistola" that intimidates me, but the actual arrangement of all of it. I get this feelings of "Is it all gonna work?" or is it going to turn out like a bad horor movie--promising concept but horrible execution? For this reason, I'm willing to concede that my fear of doing the vocals for that song completely overwhelms the phobias I have of snails and heights and even the marriage of the two. (Snails on stilts?) My pessimism suggests that I would be a disappointment even if everyone in the world understood that Rob, Dave, and Mike's collective ability gives me nervous bitch convulsions. Luckily I trust Rob's ultimate belief in my own talent and I trust it, even if there was room for any doubt.

July 25, 2004  Comical Con

       This weekend we pondered the lives of the people amongst us at the San Diego Comic Con.
       Our resident Klingons, witnessed roaming through the Exhibit Hall like a pride of Spirit Gummy-headed lions, made their annual appearance this time with a junior Klingy I haven't seen in prior years. Consequentially, I couldn't help but entertain Rob's idea of how the family's household must be abuzz with the fervor of a showgirl changing room before they leave the house. We mused at the imagery of gloved Klingon fists rapping on doors ("I need the bathroom!") mirrors crowded with make-up checks ("Your forehead ridges are slipping.") and the clanking of their armored skirts filling a hallway lined with framed head shots of the actors in full-costumed force. Undoubtedly, dinner time at the K's is equally amusing, with no plate of Gagh being passed without the request being in their foreign tongue. ("nuqDaq yuch Dapol? I'd like it for desert"). The missus reinforces such strict rules.

       More when the mood strikes...

July 22, 2004   Prozac vs. Ritalin: You Make the Call*

Freddie Mercury is by far the best male vocalist of all time, I don't give a fuck. I'm stating this only because I unfortunately don't hear enough Queen to have it ingrained into my head that he is, but it should be. I realized this in the car today (the 2005 Ford Focus, Rob's consolation prize from the accident) when he was played "You're My Best Friend" and told me he wanted to sing it to me at our wedding. He can play it on the keyboard. That's hot. He told me of Queen, "Freddie just makes singing sound so fun. Dave told me when we started playing that if we can't do that [pointing to the CD player], there was just no point." I like to hear about Rob's inspirations because I can relate them to my own. More about that later.         One thing I forgot to do was apologize in advance for the previous entry. What a day it will be when my friends, dear readers, you'll be able to recognize which entries I've written doped up on Vicodin and beers leftover from last weekend's party. I meant to catch up on the events neglected during our month of busyness, but instead I cranked out a record of my omnipresent A.D.D and tendency to be distracted by a possessed child actress who grew to become the spokesperson for contact lenses. There was something too spectacular about scanning The Exorcist with my boyfriend that I couldn't not commemorate it. That is all.        As I write this, my baby is tuning his drums and preparing to record his part for "Son of a Preacher Man," one of the songs that we've been meaning to complete for, well, one of our ongoing projects. I sang it to Jen at our birthday party because it's her favorite song of all time. Even though I was practically sweating alcohol, she cried like a newborn woman. It's hearing people applaud after the last chord that makes me want to play more but mostly I just love playing music with my sweetheart. It's a gift that cannot be desecrated by the fate that met Teri and Dale Bozio. Sure we fight but, at least my bitchiness compounded by extensive touring and reverb abuse could never come between us. We create together. We've written music, magazine articles, movie sequences, he has me do voice-overs for his design company's projects, he helped me write my first song, and we love to cook together. It's incredible.        So tonight I was the designated button-pusher, or as I like to think of it, Assistant Engineer (yuk yuk yuk), watching the endless wonderment that is Rob's talent raise the bar for every ounce of potential I can offer to this CD, vocally. God, help me. It's truly the malady of musical aspiration that I feel when I think about the bands he's been in, the singers he's heard, even the passion I have for music tht makes me wish I could just magically become the best singer I could possibly be and just blow people away. I want to have that so much, it sucks. Alas, like that jerk Bobby Flay says, "There's no substitute for experience" (and yes, I'm quoting a guy that works with legs of fucking lamb).        I want to make people proud; Rob, myself, my father.. I want my brother to put in our CD and say to his friends, "This is my sister singing." Isn't that douchey? It's as much hope that a flea in the circus can have. And if I ever get to the point where I'm in that circus, wearing a sequined v-neck jumpsit and cracking the whip? Letting myself down will be when the furry, striped jaws of defeat can rightfully clamp onto my jugular and drag me offstage into a coma. (Sorry, Roy.)

       Not to say that I'd ever try to make it in the music business. No one quite realizes what a fluke that dream is unless they see this link Rob gave me. He subjected the letter, "Why I hate the music business: Part 100." It's terrible pictures of terrible bands. The sad thing is... well, you don't need me to finish that sentence.

*just kidding you dope

July 21, 2004

       I asked Rob if I could update my journal entries next door to our room with his iMac so that we could chat with each other like we'd been doing all day. He said "You can update your journal entries on my computer while I lie on the bed with my eyes closed." He had a long day.

       So here I am, with our cat sniffing around the Pacifico I've got strategically placed in front of the monitor where she can't get it, updating my journal page. In the beginning of July, he and I spent five days in Tahoe for his birthday, I finished up summer school, and Rob was recently in a car accident. The task of recapping these events at the moment seems quite daunting. Rob's lying in bed, albeit perusing through "the creepy parts" of The Exorcist.
       "HERE IT IS!" says Rob. It's the part in the movie where Regan is popping like a Jiffy kernel in her bed. "That's awesome." Before I know it, he's skipped to the part where Regan is crawling like an upside-down spider down the stairs and vomiting blood. "I like the build in the music here," he says.
       Life with a screenwriter.
       "That's Sara Goldfarb," he says in disbelief. Ellen Burstyn's face is covered in blood. Our cat jumps on top of the monitor and looks at us like we're insane.
       DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE DID? YOU'RE CUNTING DAUGHTER?! It's the movie. God, help me.
       "Oh, I like this part." Rob's eyes are kind of lit up. I'm frantically typing this whole commentary as Regan's complexion goes from Noxema to Stridex. Something was going to happen. "Look," Rob tells me. I keep typing. "LOOK!"

The split-pea soup scene. YOUR MOTHER SUCKS COCKS IN HELL, KARRAS! YOU FAITHLESS SLIME!! I look up and there is fog coming from Regan's breath and her face looks like pizza.

        My gaze goes from the shennanigans on the screen to my boyfriend, sitting up in bed with a beer and a remote in each hand. "I love that you can go to Kmart and get a movie that has this in it," he says. Billie lay down in the cool space on our desk between the monitor and the G4. The week is halfway over and all we can think about is the bottle of Vicodin in the drawer next to the bills.

June 24, 2004

What's up motherfuckers! Goddamit. I'm happy to announce that I'm producing this journal entry on my latest gift for Rob: the special edition clamshell Apple iBook in Graphite. HOLY FUCK! He's been wanting it for a year and it cost me various appendages including that Korean hostage's head. Uh oh. Sorry. But I got it, and that was the big present that would substantiate my generosity (or lack thereof) in the aforementioned entry. Iraq. I mean, I rock. I'm also excited. Since Mike moved out of Syracuse Manor, Rob (who's now compensating the rent) has given me full reign over the decor of his former quarters. I kind of like the fact that since I started moving my stuff out of my old house, the red, black and white motif I had going on has been resurrected in the most horribly gothic fashion. I dyed the curtains red, draped black lace around the perimeter of the room, hung up a framed nude portait of Morticia Addams up on the wall, painted his old wooden table black and dripped red "blood" down the legs, hung up bat-shaped tealight holders next to the door, and centered Rob's Baphomet clock above the keyboard (which, along with the computer desk, is covered with zebra skin fabric). I'M GAYYYY! It's Queer 60's-Vegas-style-Bachlorette for the Straight Guy. You can say I ran out of ideas. I left the tiki lounge/martini decor in my old room. Leopard print is the only thing that I have ever hated and loved so much at the same time and I like to torture myself by surrounding myself with it. Lame.

As usual, we've been doing shots of Jim Beam and drinking beers. What do you think the teacher will look like this year? I was supposed to go to class today, but to the negligence of Rob's roomates, the water was shut off and he couldn't shave and go to work with that little scruffy beard that I like growing out. So we stayed home and decorated the "redroom," and it's coming along nicely. I strung blacklight bulbs up behind the black lace for when we have parties, so that all the loadies can have a retreat from the Back Porch of Alcoholics and find solace in the opium den-like atmosphere. Gnash your teeth to that. It's fun to drench an empty room with the stench of my erratic and somehow appealing designing abilities. Stinky.