…that I work on Saturdays, so I’m going to be missing yet another birthday party.

I know that I gave up my social life for this job, but lately, I’ve been think that Saturdays better shape up or I’m jumping ship.

And yet, I realize that I can’t, because I’m the only one who knows how it works. What a pickle.

I’m beginning to think, also, that since my free time is incredibly constricted, that I’m living in a weird paradox. I’m around people all the time; I’m around co-workers in the daytime, I’m around family at home, I’m around co-workers at the bar, I’m around friends when they discover I’ve a precious little pocket of free time. And as much as I would someday like some time to myself, I still feel very much alone.

Oh. I just made myself sad.

In happier news, and keeping with the theme of forgetfulness but switching content matter, I’ve been playing the Xbox 360 in the office to test our products, and I must say that it has revived my interest whole-heartedly in gaming. I used to rent games on nearly a weekly basis, but became only a casual gamer after I started gigging in bands every week. Didn’t ever really play video games for more than 45 minutes at a time.

Well, after work on Monday, I plopped down in the conference room to hook up the office 360 and played Gears of War for an hour and then it just clicked. If I were Stella, my groove was as good as back. My eyes glazed over, my fingers regained their erratic twitchiness, and holy hell, I remember now why I played video games in the first place. And then my characters motions became fluid, the GUI in peripheral information all of a sudden became subconscious, and I swear I could hear and angel get its wings every time I used the chainsaw on an alien.

Hm. So, I guess I should say that, no, I’m not lonely at all. I’ve recently gotten in touch with an old friend: video games.

“Dude, how the hell have you been, my old friend? You look great! Your polygons are all smoothed over and you don’t get sluggish when too many things are going on and you’re just as fun to hang out with as you used to be. Man, you’ve come a long way. Just look at your D-Pad! Oh, you want me to hold it? Well, I’ve got things to do… Alright, just for a bit… Oh, god, why did I ever leave you? I will hold you and never let go (without saving). Take me away from this reality and embrace me with your sweet, sweet escapism!”

Oh, video games, I’ve missed you so. It’s good to have you back in my life.

If a blogger posts on the internet and nobody reads it, does it still exist?
~My Boss

I know I’ve already pegged unread posts as “internet detritus,” but the popular print media still insists that blogging is contributing to the autobiography of the telecommunity that is written and archived by its citizens. So, as masturbatory as it might outwardly seem, it might be a good idea to think about it inversely and not so self-consciously; that is, who really reads these things, anyway?

Well, for one, I do. And not just because it’s part of my job.

And why? Well, simply because it’s there. And as I was once a literature major, I can confidently declare that it’s just nice to read things, especially those of half-assed, non-directional rantings. I even like to read blogs that I don’t like, because I value the fact that someone has affected me, even if it is to have been irked.

So there. Keep blogging. All of you little scatterbrains. Scatter the ashes of your immolated occurances over the ocean that is the internet so that I MAY SURF UPON IT. If not for you, then for me.

. . .

On an irrelevant note, I completely neglected to tell the story of the girl who I met at my cousin’s wedding, but that’s more of a story to tell after 1. I’ve let the Fred/Nico story simmer, and 2. I’ve decided exactly what it means (or at least approximated it).

More irrelevant is how I’ve forgotten that the images I use on this blog have disappeared because I’ve changed hosting. Must get on that soon…

Oh yeah, I’ve learned to use iMovie. Watch:

Let Fred and me relate to you one ass-crazy texting fiasco.

Exposition: My number is listed in Fred’s phone with 1 number off. I called the first week of January to see what he was up to, but he didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message. Keep in mind that at this point, my number is now a rogue call due to being one number off. The only number Fred would suspect from a 626 area code is his ex.

So, he sees the number as 626, thinking it was his ex; he didn’t answer, but he had entered my number in his phone as said ex. So now, I am unwittingly playing Fred’s ex-girlfriend.

Flash-forward to January 12, Fred gets a text from my number that says “Bar tonight?” which, interestingly, I do not recall and doesn’t show up in my sent messages history. Fred, with his exquisite manners, is unavailable as he’s in the airport during this text, but wanting to hang out with her he proposes dinner for next week (also a text I did not get).

So poor Fred thinks that things are on the mend; Fred touches down Monday night and says he wants to get dinner sometime this week. I didn’t respond since I didn’t get this text, but now he’s getting riled up because there is a chance that the phantom ex-girlfriend is being coy.

Thursday Fred texts wanting to put the best foot forward in patching things up with said ex, asking if I (she…) wants to go to a bar tomorrow night which is a Friday.

Have you seen my last post? I went to San Diego on Friday. So I respond to this message (which I actually get) that I’m going to be in San Diego starting Friday. Now, this reinforces evidence that I am the ex-girlfriend because she goes to San Diego to visit a friend at least once a month (usually for the whole weekend). So Fred offers to hang out when I (she) gets back.

So today rolls around, I (she) gets back from San Diego and I message Fred along with others to see what my Los Angeleans are up to. He tells me about the Magritte Exhibit (which I actually want to see, too) and we have a conversation about me working (which I always am) — in any case, Fred suggests dinner. I respond in a half daze after waking up that I fell asleep but that I was down to hang out because I was sick of my family already. As Fred construes this as reticence, it reinforces my (her) identity. He proposes Korean BBQ (which his ex enjoys), and this is the part that you all must read verbatim:

Fred: “No problem (smiley), I was feeling like some Korean BBQ in K-Town. What do you think?”

Nico: “Sure, sounds cool. Should we meet somewhere?”

Fred: (note: Fred’s ex does not have a car, so she takes the Metro everywhere and so he tries to find the closest Metro line to his house) “It would be easiest for me to pick you up. The closest Metro station is the 7th st. Station. Whichever way is qui ker; the sooner I get some food in my belly the better.”

Nico: (note: I drive) “I’m out of the way in the other direction, how about I drop my car off at your place?”

(note: at this point, Fred is thinking “oh, so she (I) has a car now.” Also, in this note, I am at Fred’s on a regular basis.)

Fred: “Sure, my address is [insert Fred's Address] — basically where the 110 and 101 meet right by downtown.”

(lag in response)

Fred: “It’s a little hard to find; up a driveway that’s next to some shops and a bar called El Chubasco. There’s a little red hardware store across the street called Do-It-Center. Let me know if you need any help finding it.”

Nico: (note: this is where it gets weird, as if it isn’t already) “Dude, I’ve affl there a lot so I’ve got it down hehe. On my way!”

———–

Alright, so after a while, I randomly show up at Fred’s place, Fred thinks nothing of it since I’m always here, and poor Fred is sitting here for 2.5 hours wondering where the hell this ex is. 10:30 rolls around, he’s concerned, so he texts “Hey, how’s the drive going, is everything alright?” A couple minutes go by so he probably thinks she is just on the road and can’t respond. So he buckles down and decides to call, braving possible awkward silences and ex-girlfriend vitriol (what a trooper – ladies, he is single and a real catch, btw), he presses call, and he hears my phone ring in the next room.

Yeah.

Best. Anecdote. Ever.

So now, Fred and I are going to get dinner and follow through with this because we are laughing entirely too hard about this that to not end the story this way is just inappropriate.

Sometimes, people you know give you mixes when they know you are going to spend a long time in the car.

For my trip to my cousin’s wedding, the mix playing in my headphones will consist of:

Boris
Psycroptic
Boris with Michio Kurihara
Beneath the Massacre

Should be an interesting trip.

\m/

~Ollie Williams

Actually, it already is. Portent? Maybe.

I wrote my first entry in my paper journal last night (provided for me by the awesome Mahea and Evan, I believe one Christmas ago). I know that a lot of people will use protected posts to record exclusive content, but why post that kind of stuff on the internet in the first place? Also, why not enjoy the tactile sensation of scribbling on paper? Especially when you will develop a relationship to the tactile sensation through its cathected and associative employment?

Anyways, I opened the journal and out fell the orchid from the Matsumoto funeral. Man, I miss that guy. He was probably fifty years my senior, but he was definitely a brother in arms in the fight against the music industry. It was his vision that helped start The Cocaine with Johnnie, he was full of the zen wisdom of a long lived sensei; he swore not like a sailor, but more like a posse member of Miles Davis; he was a really good friend. I don’t believe I’ll ever meet anyone like him in my life again.

The orchid was pressed and still retained its color. I’ll probably keep this for a long time.

Accompanying the orchid was also a crisp $1 bill folded in half. No, I have no idea where it came from nor do I know if it was put there by the likes of me. Portent? Perhaps.

This weekend, I’m headed out to a wedding.

So… Rain, orchids, money.

I’m sensing some foreshadowing, but unfortunately there’s no way for me to read ahead. So I’ll just be wary.

Hello everyone, this is Phantom Nico. The other side of Nico; see, he’s a gemini, so there’s definitely two sides to him. I’m not that self-aware, unsure, rhetorical, psychobabbling, passive, pretentious little snot.

No, I am a rock star. I’m who you see on stage. You might have seen me in A Patch of Black in a riot of color, and I played the guitar like a weapon. Well, it was more like me vs. the guitar since I used to beat that thing to bloody hell and it would leave scars. De Facto Nico didn’t really like that since he likes to spend time typing a lot and hand scars make it slightly more unpleasant. What a wuss.

Well, I wanted to introduce myself because he mentioned me and FINALLY gave me the recognition I deserve. I mean, there’s a reason I became a musician, right? It never stops, either. I play drums now in BCNM and let me tell you, it feels so. damn. good. to be playing loud and fast. And I love the drums, it is so easy to take out any and all aggression on some tightly tuned drum heads. So you’ll see me on stage again soon enough!

Oh yeah, I wanted to make a comment about the Dustpanic, though, since that seems to be the musical manifestation of De Facto Nico, and, you know, it’s pretty cool, but he never finishes anything. Or a lot of it is unfinished, I’m not sure, I didn’t really pay attention. Didn’t expect that kind of stuff, also. I mean, I like electronica and all, but there’s some singer-songwriter-ey stuff that makes me think he really means it when he wears those emo-riffic glasses.

Well, whatever, to each their own. I prefer loud and fast, to be honest.

I don’t wear glasses on stage. They’d fall off anyway with all the head banging.

Well, I gotta go for now. If De Facto Nico sees me using his computer he’s gonna be pissed. Actually, no, he’ll probably be passive aggressive about it, but I’ll know he’s angry. So I’ll see y’all on the flip-side (rather, in text aligned on the right).

Also, I’m bored. So I’m gonna find some trouble to get into.

Peace,

PN

nicopolitan: woohoo! 3 day weekend!
lucascometto: sweeeet
lucascometto: for what?
nicopolitan: MLK jr day
lucascometto: right, sorry, i’m unemployed

So what to do with a 3 day weekend? Sleep in? I’ll have already done that by Sunday. Party? I work at a bar/venue, man, I’ll be partied out. So if I’m neither going to take it easy nor go out, I’ve got to figure out something to do somewhere in the middle.

“Nico, you could work on your album.”
That most likely won’t happen, as I am easily distracted by other things and I know how sucked into composition I become. In other words, if a two hour activity presents itself, I would take that over the 6 hours I would spend looping and cutting up beats. It’s not that I don’t like writing anymore, it’s just that I need more time than just one day off. It’s a massive project that requires undivided attention, and I am, as indicated earlier, easily distracted.

“Nico, you could work on your novel.”
Maybe, and although this also denotes the unavailability of Nico for at least three hours, I’ve forgotten where I left off — which is bad, since the book is non-linear to begin with. Which reminds me, where did I put my query and proposal? And did I ever get compensated for that manuscript?…

“Nico, you could finish up some of those web freelancing projects.”
Oh, that’s not a bad idea. But this is dependent on my host, which has yet to get back to me, so if I don’t see an email over the weekend letting me know that the domains are ready to roll, I can’t really do anything.

“Nico, you could figure out booking at the bar.”
I already assume that I will be doing this every Sunday. What about Monday?

“Nico, you could do drugs.”
I could. But then I wouldn’t be able to drive, which I need to do. A lot.

“Nico, you could catch up on your reading.”
Oh. Yeah, I guess I could. Alright, reading it is.

So I guess this blog has turned into an exhumed internal dialogue between myself and phantom Nico. I need to spend less time in my own head…

Venting I guess only takes a day.

On an irrelevant note, it has come to my attention that I use the phrase “I guess” a lot, which probably lends itself to a post-modern outlook on life in being completely noncommittal to any assertions.

I have a soft claim on life. Is it this? Is it that? “I dunno. I guess?”

Nothing is in and of itself.

. . .

Oh, but I did want to bring up a point that I brought up in the last post which mentioned that the “music business” is attempting to thwart the independent spirit of The Cocaine, so I should probably clear this up.

After looking that post over, it occurs to me that “music business” is not altogether one entity entirely. “Music business” as we know it is more than just musicians and managers; it is labels, distributors, vendors, stage hands, roadies, sound technicians, venue operators, and of course, the audience. And there’s probably more to this.

Now, after Johnnie had initially set up the Cocaine as being a specifically internet-driven booking company, a lot of middlemen were cut out. We, the venue, were able to contact directly, the musicians who did not need to first seek the approval of managers, A&R reps, lawyers, girlfriends/boyrfriends, parents, etc. etc. It was venue to musician, no middlemen, no fees, no crazy money being moved, it was just a safe place to throw a show and the prospect of some gas money; but most importantly, it was a place for nascent bands to grow and make friends. And that is how we envisioned it would be for a long time, and for a long time, that formula worked.

And then came the LA Times. Of course, it isn’t their fault that we’re all of a sudden the target of guerilla marketers on a campaign to exploit their puppet musicians as commoditized fodder, but we set up our venue as a direct opposition to this same kind of business.

We are a nonprofit venue. We are not for profit. No profit. Why can’t they understand this?

Because music, my friends, has become a commodity. It is no longer that entity with its own heart and spirit that brings people together. It is something to be bought and sold and lobbied and bartered and straight up whored.

And who suffers for this the most?

It has become infinitely more cost-effective for musicians to go DIY; to record, mix, and produce their own music without> the help of professionals. After a little while and some smart investments, it can become free, and all it costs a musician is the time it takes to create.

Of course, stealing music doesn’t hurt the musicians who play music simply for the love of music, but does hurt the industry; people with real jobs in a market that is set up to enroll music into indentured servitude.

So the problem, I believe, is similar to that of a fascist state. Do we take down an exploitative and money-grubbing dictatorship at the cost of ruining the lives of all that they control so that we can set free the spirit of music, especially since rebel factions of music have already become self-sufficient as they recognize that the industry is largely an esoteric and exclusive high society as much as being part of it is an unrealistic fantasy?

I believe I’ve just made an Iraq out of the music industry; but at this point in the game, who could blame me?

And as a disclaimer, this is a sweeping generalization, true. There are cases where the music industry has lived up to pure intentions, as in the case with, say, the Beatles. But that was nearly 30 years ago, and nowadays I find it difficult to see any good-willed manifestation of the industry.

As a child, I fell in love with music thinking that she would be with me forever. These days, she is forced by her parents to prance around in short skirts, has taken on an alcohol and drug problem, and the courts are giving custody of her to the highest bidding LLC. They never sent her to college, so all she can say now is “Baby” and “Yeah.”

Nothing is how it used to be. I guess that’s what you get when nothing is in and of itself.

Adult Swim is using music by Prefuse 73 for their station bumps! I knew there was a reason I appreciated this television block.

Well, it seems that my case of the Mondays has begun on a Tuesday. So here I am, back at work, with a pile of stuff to get through but I am managing to find the time to blog. I wonder how much of the blogosphere is based on people who blog from their day jobs?

In terms of my day as of yet, I was, along with my carpooler Mahea, late for work because of a faulty alarm clock that was flashing 12:00 when I woke up. Fark that, man. I can’t be starting ’07 late for work, that’s just a bad portent. But what made my day a whole lot better is that I had stumbled upon some Pocky here at work. Dunno where it came from, but I know that I am a happier person for it. Mmmmmm. Oishi!

At least it seems that ____ didn’t hit the fan while I was out on break from work. That’s always a good thing. But vacations are never long enough these days; I remember in college getting really bored during the breaks, but not so much anymore. I was a fool to squander time off. And now, when I have even the slightest trace of vacation, my first thought is “I am going to be able to get so much done!” and, of course, never follow through with that since other plans surface.

So much to do, so little time. I never thought I’d be using that cliché as much as I have been.

I also have just noticed that in the blog entry panel here on Blogger.com that I can tag posts. I wonder what this will do?