skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Wednesday, 10 December
This Is A "No Rush" Zone
Tonight the wife and I began our Long Sojourn Through Multiple Holiday Get-Togethers by attending (for a bit) a party thrown by a sketch comedy group with whom we are good pals with, Bald Faced Lie. These are some of the most freakishly talented people I've had the alarming pleasure to hang out with, and they decided to give a little year's-end thank-you party for all their friends, replete with those strange wind-up sandwiches bathed in tahini, free pool tables, free beer. Naturally, actors came from every edge of reality to attend; announcing to actors that booze and food are being given out gratis is basically like setting out free meat for C.H.U.D.s. Eventually they all shamble up and gorge.
It was held at the venerable Seattle bar-cum-performance space-cum-disease vector Re-bar, a legendary institution famed mostly for its prodigious talent at making you feel like you might possibly die at any moment. It's one of those places that you can sort of feel where your DNA is being damaged just by proximity. Naturally, I like it a lot: the last time I was working on a show there, someone found a little coke vial on the bathroom floor. A couple of us cheerfully gave the contents a tongue-test: "It's crystal," I declared, being one of the us. My friend B. merrily pocketed the rest. "I'll save this for later." He later confirmed my analysis, which made me happy. I swelled with the sort of pride that one can only achieve by tasting things that are found discarded on ghastly bathroom floors.
After hobnobbing for a while, a band came on, if it can really be called a band, which it cannot, since it consists of three sketch people who--by their own admission--"rehearsed about twice." Calling themselves The Diamond People, the trio mounted the stage, decked out in ridiculous wigs that made them look rather like members of EMF after being beaten up by Lynyrd Skynrd roadies. I. was the stolid singer and twitchy guitarist, a vertical bench of a man; B. was the bassist with sunglasses who strangely evoked uncomfortable associations with NAMBLA; and K. rounded out the three by being the "drummer" who sat on a stool with a mysteriously unlit cigarette, not manning a drum kit, but instead a tiny Casiotone thingy that looked for all the world like an old Brother typewriter. He coaxed trembly, sterile beatlets from the device while bobbing his head, occasionally fooling nobody by mimicking cowbell beats that foghorned sadly from the wee plastic slab.
And they played, starting out with a kind of "Chrissie Hynde stubbed her toe" little punker called "Leather Balloon." Isn't a leather balloon basically a football? Whatever. It was worth it to hear lead singer I. wail, "I wanna pop you!" It is endlessly heartening to me that practically every rock song ever written, apart from perhaps Yo La Tengo's "Moby Octopad," can be interpreted as an exhortation to fuck. Dispiritingly, however, nobody fucked, but one in-the-spirit-of-the-thing gal did end up throwing some unidentifiable undergarment onstage, possibly a truss. It was hard to say.
They did a few other songs, one of which was a strangely REM-like bit of midtempo pop, which I think was called "Oh Glamor," mainly because I remember that they rhymed it with "clamor," and I spent some dumb Skot-time helplessly thinking of other things that rhymed with "glamor." I came up with "spammer," "hammer," "jammer," "slammer" before I got stuck with the assonance of "Bruce Banner," and had to quit, because by then I was imagining The Incredible Hulk as a Mod, riding angrily around on a Vespa, thanks to the original "glamor" association.
The final song we endured was the strangest (and I have no idea what the title was), and I suspect that part of the strangeness came from K.'s earlier trembing vibe from hearing Rush play over the sound system. Nobody should ever hear Rush, much less be able to function after hearing Rush. Rush is basically ear poison, and Geddy Lee is the guy who goes around trying to pour it into our ears. Neal Peart is the drumming Ophelia, forever drowning behind his thousand of toms, and Alex Lifesworth (is that his name?) just sits behind heavy, brocaded curtains, waiting to be stabbed by an errant drumstick.
I'm sorry, what were we talking about?
Never mind me. I did have a good time, and despite the dick-twisting I give my friends, I appreciate the party. And if I say something stupid like the Diamond People occasionally sounded like Pere Ubu being attacked by wasps, it's because I love them, and they've occasionally said worse about me.
God knows I deserved it.
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I covet your gift for metaphor. Seriously.
He listens to Jan Hammer
It's Alex Lifeson. Rush is my favorite band, but I won't hold it against you.
Right before visiting your neighborhood today I sent an e-mail in which I gave someone the business because he'd been listening to Rush. It's so very thrilling to read the anti-Rush rantings of the misanthropic marvel that is Skot. I directed my normally tasteful friend to today's entry.
P.S. I am at work and hung-fucking-over, and I'm so grateful for your screeds right now that I'm tempted to pop my emoticon cherry. But I won't.
What the fuck's wrong with you? Moby Octopad always makes me turgid. Freak.
"an exhortation to fuck"
Ah, a phrase like that could earn us MEELIONS
of course nobody fucked -
a) they're ACT-TORS
b) they are are all over twenty one, and know that sex is accompanied by angst
Rush is a great band. And your a fuckin' retard if you don't know that!!!!!!!
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