“Don’t Let the Darkness Eat You Up.”

October 24, 2007

Tours sneak up on me. Yesterday in the store, I was comparing cartons of milk, and bought one that expires on Nov 7 rather than one expiring on Nov 3. I’ll be gone to Texas on Nov 1, for the first show of The Question Jar Show tour, in South Padre (and I still can’t believe I actually have a gig on South Padre).
I opened the fridge this morning, and realized: Oh, right.
First order of business: to actually find the eponymous jar. I’m gonna try Economy Candy on Rivington Street–my old block, before I moved to Brooklyn last year–and maybe get a big plastic jar of Twizzlers or something, and hopefully dispose of the Twizzlers humanely, before I become a pre-tour Fat Mike.
The terrible fires. The head of my first record company was this comical, ur-Californian guy, and when he flew Soul Coughing out and put us up at the Mondrian to woo us, he brought us by the office and said, “Dude! Let’s go to the Bu! We can get margaritas.” Malibu, he meant.
The Bu.
The next week, in 1993, there were wildfires in the Bu, and River Phoenix died in front of the Viper Room in Hollywood. An ex-bandmate of mine suggested that the headline of the Post read Bu Burns, River Runs Dry.
My computer died last week. It died the way it always does–utterly without warning. I came home and the screen was black, and when I rebooted, a question mark icon came up. Hard drive? There’s no hard drive here, my friend.
I bought a new hard drive, but I bungled the installation, and fucked up the computer hopelessly. So I had to buy a new one. It arrives tomorrow on its long journey from China (seriously, when I look at the FedEx tracking online, it starts in Shanghai, then goes to Anchorage, and now it’s in Newark). I just know that a month after I get it, a spanking new Mac will come out, and I’ll have lost the chance for a more prestigious toy.
But I have work to do, and I gotta do it now–I actually got a DJ gig in Salt Lake City–opening for BT!!–on December 15th. In order to do it, I have to meticulously reconstruct all the tracks I lost when my hard drive died. (It’s all on drum machines already, it’s not like I’ve lost any intensive creative work, I just have to load it in there and dice it up) And I’m doing tracks for a movie (hopefully). And I got a video camera, and hope to be YouTubing road videos.
In general, I was in the middle of some glorious, obsessive music-making on my computer right when it fizzled, and I don’t want to wait to jump back in.
I’m typing this to you on a turn of the century coal-burning iMac.
Scrap and his old friend John and I all got new tattoos last week–Scrap’s is this amazing Picasso drawing of Stravinsky, John got the Fibonacci diagram (the golden something-or-other), I got a graphic of a flower–and I videoed it, hopefully I’m gonna edit a little segment about it.
I have bipolar disorder, and I don’t like the term. For one thing, there’s no bi to my polar. I go into these modes of extreme irrational anger, keep myself up all night with strange feverish worry and self-hatred. I think it was Jonathan Ames that suggested the antiquated Victorian term maniac is more appropriate. I agree.
Opiates and weed used to be very handy in treating it, but fucked up my ability to be creative (and I don’t go into fanastic he-man creation mode when I’m having a bout, sadly). Now I’m on a cocktail of meds, and I don’t suffer anymore. I’m going to the shrink today–on the Upper West Side, aka the Shrink District–so it’s on my mind. I will be, as Bodie on The Wire would say, re-upping.
Now that I have a cam, and one that has that amazing spooky green-lit infra-red mode at that, it’s about time I made a sex tape, right? After all, look what it did for Vince Neil.
Mine should be more conceptual. It will be a threesome with Anjelica Huston and Monica Bellucci, and Scrap will be in the forefront of the shot, playing cello.
I saw Ivo van Hove’s production of Moliere’s The Misanthrope, and it blew my mind. It’s at NY Theater Workshop, on E. 4th Street. On Sunday nights, there are cheap tix for $20. (Man, the theater in general is expensive, why is that? OK, I’m being disingenuous, I know exactly why it’s so expensive.)
The set is all flourescent light, and cameramen move silently behind tinted-glass walls, simulcasting the actors on plasma screens. When I suddenly saw the ghostly face of a cameraman in the glass, focussing on the magnificent Quincy Tyler Berstine, it was startling and sublime.
Jeanine Serralles was particularly enthralling, fierce, playful, vicious, captivating.
Awesome pix of the Misanthrope are here.
I was in a cab afterwards with die-hard fan Rachel Benbow Murdy–aka, the voice of Janine in “Janine”–apologies to Ms. Serralles for the mispelling, had I seen her perform in 1993 I would have spelled it differently–and she was all Hove this, Hove that, enthusing. For a milisecond, I thought she meant Hove as in Hova, as in Jay-Z, and she’d never heard of that; I explained that it was a derivation of J-Hova, ie Jehovah, and that made her most intellectual self giddy.
I also saw The Darjeeling Limited, and loved it. It’s pretty far out how little Jason Schwartzman has to do to make me laugh.
I’m the kind of person that’s always laughing loudly and conspicuously at things nobody else in the theater laughs at.
My theory is that Wes Anderson finds atmospheric places where it’s cheap to make movies–India in this case, and Italy in The Life Aquatic–assembles his usual cadre of actors, and then figures out what the story will be. I think it’s an awesome way to work–I’ve always done the same thing, in a way.
I endorse the incredible Swedish (yeah, Swedish) singer/songwriter Jose Gonzales: