“I wanna live like common people. I wanna do what common people do.”

The new album, “Has Been” by William Shatner is now available for streaming. Guest artists include Joe Jackson, Henry Rollins, Ben Folds and, most interesting, Lemon Jelly. Interesting. And if you can’t take that much cheese in one sitting, try listening to the new R.E.M.

Update (11:32 AM): I think I actually like the Shatner album better.

So Michael and I go to see the Marillion show at The House of Blues last night. It is my first time seeing those cats, which is strange, because I’ve been a fan since 1985 (back when Michael and I used to work at Movies Twin in Santa Fe.) In truth, I was an avid fan then. When Fish left the fold, I kinda fell away. Seems that was a mistake. The breadth of material they’ve recorded since Hogarth picked up the reins is amazing.

They play most of the tracks from Marbles, and then announce they would take a break and come back to play about ninety minutes of older stuff. Three encores later, dazed and happy Marillion fans stumble out into the night. Michael’s pretty happy. It’s been, like, a decade since he’s seen them perform, so he’s pretty blown away.

Returning to the car, we find that the battery’s dead. I had left the headlights on. I no longer have a Triple-A membership, and the last thing one should have a friend visiting from Portland do is push your car down Santa Monica, so I call Ryan. He’s watching a movie with Creighton, but they have no problem jumping into his car and pulling to a stop next to mine long enough for me to brush the corrosion off my battery terminals.

Ryan’s a good guy. I owe him one. Next time your car breaks down, let me know. I’ll give you his number.

I also owe the city of Los Angeles another $35.00. Remember this? I got another one. Again, I missed it by moments. Michael and I are in Westwood yesterday. We park the car and put two dimes in the meter. With twenty-six minutes of parking time we walk off to look for more change. Twenty-seven minutes later we return to see a nice lady writing a ticket. She tells us, “too late.” I consider arguing it, but she’d only say something like, “I’ve already transmitted the information to home base. Yeah, it goes by satellite, so there’s no way to stop it. In fact the bill is already in your parents’ mailbox. Home base is on the moon. I am a robot. Don’t touch me.”

You know how it goes.

Anyhow, forgive me for the silence preceding this post. It’s been a busy weekend.

2. Knights. In ancient times, Calvary never advanced head on, but flanked i.e. they went around the back and attacked at the side.

Hugh Macleod over at The Gaping Void passes along an interesting analysis of the movement of chesspieces. It seems their rather unique and individual styles are rooted in historical deatail. Check out his post here.

This is what I do when I should be writing.

I think there’s a Brink’s truck out there, and it’s having trouble finding my house.

Now that I’ve pretty much decompressed after the Sierra trip I find that I’ve much to do. I’m not going to put much stock in the continuation of my so-called job. In spite of his calling me on the way back from Owens Valley asking for help (the keyboard on his wife’s computer stopped working) he remains as elusive as ever. He’ll pay me. But getting him to do so is often like trying to catch a moth with the sharp end of a straight pin. And considerably less fun.

Since I’m an idiot, I’ve decided that what’s going to save me is the writing. While recuperating in a motel room in Bishop after Sunday’s snowstorm we watch some bad adaptation of 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea on television with richard Crenna and Ben Cross and it makes me mad. The script is terrible. I could have adapted rings around that story. I mean, ignoring the awkward cliche I just used, I can’t believe that I’m not a working writer yet. Sure, I’ve sold stuff. I’ve optioned stuff. But I work at Amoeba by night and chase moths by day. Admirable pursuits, both, of course, but it’s time to figure out what’s holding up the Brinks truck and chase down some of these opportunities. My approach has always been, “Okay. New script done. Let’s run this up the flagpole and see if the cat salutes it.” That’s no longer working. It is clear to me now what I need to do.

I need to round up more cats.

As I said, I’m an idiot.

Cirque Crest north of Pinchot Pass, September 19, 2004

So I finally track down Boss. I manage to get him to agree to pay me what he owes me for the end of August. I also agree to take on half my duties for half pay. This is good and bad. It forces me to go full-bore at Amoeba. That’s good. It’s a fine job and now that Sara works there, I have a close companion at arms to hang with. It’s also good because it means the bit is looser in my mouth.

But this agreement comes as he’s preparing a characteristically last minute project for which he needs my urgent assistance. He’s got a twenty megabyte Powerpoint presentation that he wants to get to his buddy in Iceland. His buddy happens to be the Prime Minister of that country. Boss has an idea for a Viking theme park that he’s confident will become a world-wide phenomenon. The catch is his buddy steps down as Prime Minister today.

Of course nothing ever goes quite as easily as it should, and it isn’t until late the afternoon that his Powerpoint presentation is up and running and ready for Icelandic Royalty.

As for me? I’m taking off for the next five days. Gonna get me out of the city. It’s been two years since I hiked the John Muir Trail, and after the irritation and stress of the last few weeks, I’m ready to take that break. It won’t be much of a relaxation thing. My brother and I plan to tackle Sawmill Pass, one of the most grueling and intense access points into the Sierra. The climb starts at about four thousand feet and crests the pass at about ten thousand. That’s six thousand feet up on the first day.

I’d be lying if I said I weren’t a little apprehensive. But I’ve been to the area on the other side of that pass, and it’s a garden of Eden. We’re leaving via a different route, the equally daunting Taboose Pass to the north. But hey, at least we’ll be descending right?

Photos to come.

Something older, something brand new. Dot Allison used to sing for One Dove, a band whose music slingshots me right back to those frollicking ecstasy days of 1994 with JP, Dayle and company. I just picked up Allison’s first solo album, Afterglow, at Amoeba. Interpol comes my way via my de-facto music guru Michael up in Portland. I dunno how he does it, but he does it. He sent me this disc a couple weeks ago. I didn’t realize until tonight that it’s not even due for a release until late September. All of a sudden I feel like an insider.

It’s late. I finished a semi-shift at Amoeba tonight, working for Sara, who’s in New York shooting a jeans commercial with Tony Kaye (the director, not the former Yes keyboardist.) It was a pretty ho-hum evening, though Corey Feldman dropped by to inquire about a flick. We all wondered if it bothered him that the mezzanine sports a large poster of Corey Haim behind the info counter. I remember his asking me about the movie. But from what I could tell, he didn’t even see the poster.

I’m surprised I see as many celebrities up there as I do. I expected to see far fewer than we used to at Rocket. Not so. There’s just less of an opportunity to talk to them. Unless, as in the case of Quentin Tarantino, they just walk up and ask me where the martial arts movies are…

Nothing to report on the impending downward financial spiral. Boss did call me today, but I couldn’t take the call, because I was leading Mr. Feldman to the discount DVD’s. His message tells me he’s leaving town and he wants to meet so he can give me a check before he does [I accidentally typed “dies” just then] That’s a promising start. I just hope he takes it well when I remind him that he owes me two checks, not just one.

And thanks to those of you who’ve written to offer job assistance, empathy and/or automatic weapons. I’m sure everything will be cool. And hey, if you want an extra dose of coolness, check out Alexa’s interesting blog. She’s just getting the ball rolling over there in NY, but if she hangs in there, she could have a winner on her hands. A New York Escorts Confessions is frank, entertaining and sexy. Check it out.

And don’t give her grief about the apostrophe. It’s a style choice.

Be cool.

I wish I could remember where I found this drawing. I discovered it on the web a couple years ago and a thorough search fails to turn it up again. This child’s reaction to the events of three years ago seems most appropriate, and somehow says more in its few lines and expressions than all of the cloying photo collages and sickly-sour verse that we’ve seen in the past three years.

My own artistic reaction to the events of September 11th waited a year to find its way out into the open. And since I consider myself a DJ, however amateur and undeveloped, that reaction took musical form. Two years ago today I assembled, spun and recorded a mix that I felt expressed what I felt about everything that had happened in the previous year. The resultant mix remains the favorite of my compilations. The transitions are tight and smooth. The build is solid. And most important, there really is a message in the mix. As one might expect, it’s a dark and serpentine journey. The opening segment, in fact, might be too bleak for some. I had to play it for a few friends to get reactions to make sure I wasnt on the wrong track. I culled the audio samples from a variety of news sources, including CNN, various DVDs and especially Warren Olney’s phenomenal KCRW talk show, To The Point. It begins in horror and insanity, but as the mix progresses, melody creeps in. The mood surges and retreats, building to the climax in the growl and spit of Satoshi Tomiie’s “Virus” and then finally releasing in the epic triumph of the Humate mix of “Ruhe” by Schiller.

Give it a spin. It’s long, clocking in at just over 77 minutes, but if you stick it out it’ll be well worth it. Click here for the page. Or click either of the images on this post.

The sun sets over the western ridge of Runyon Canyon. I am glued to my computer for most of the day. Then I suddenly remember that the sunset promised me to be beautiful today. So I jump up, grab my camera, throw the new Paul van Dyk into the cd player and hurry out the door. I manage to get to the eastern ridge before the sunset completely fades.