“Who’s a good drummer?” asked Maddie, climbing onto the couch and examining the Rock Band drums.

“This guy,” I answered, pointing to the TV. “Keith Moon.”

“I know who he is,” pouted Maddie. “You play this disc a lot. This is the Who.” She looked up at the TV for a bit, as Moon the Loon joked about going backstage to overdose. I cringed. “I think he tries too hard to be funny. Who else?”

I closed the file I’d been working on, then the laptop itself. “Who else what?”

“Who else is a good drummer?” asked Maddie.

I scratched my head. I thought about saying “Ringo Starr,” but changed my mind. “Martin Chambers.”

Maddie cocked her head to one side. “Who’s he?”

“He plays drums for the Pretenders. First band I ever saw live. Unless you count my cousin’s band when they played the Del Mar Fair. I guess that makes the Pretenders the second band I ever saw live. Anyway, that’s Don. You’ve met him. He’s a drummer too. And so’s Dustin, Don’s son. He’s in Afghanistan.”

“Is that a band?”

“Is what a band?”

“Afghanistan.”

“No. That’s a country.”

“Oh… wow.” Maddie scratched an ear thoughtfully. “He plays drums for a whole country?”

“Well, no. He’s a Marine.” I tugged my beard thoughtfully. “But it’s an arguably good metaphor.”

Maddie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to talk about metaphors,” she snorted. “I want to know about drummers. All the drummers you mentioned are boys.”

“So you want to know about girl drummers?”

“Sheesh,” shrugged Maddie. “Duh.”

“Okay, Moe Tucker.”

“No, girl drummers. Moe is a boy’s name.”

“Hang on, Maddie. Moe—short for Maureen—was the drummer for the Velvet Underground.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Gina Shock from the Go-Gos, Meg White from the White Stripes. There’s a bunch. Why are you so curious about drummers, anyway?”

“I always wanted to be a drummer. I bet I’m a real good drummer.” Maddie leaned forward, sniffing at the Rock Band drum set, tail wagging. “I bet I am.” She looked back at her wagging tail, as if surprised. “Hey, I’ve even got a built-in metronome.”


“You want me to turn on the game?”

“Would you?”

“Sure. But we’ve had this thing for, like, a year. How come you weren’t interested before?”

“I couldn’t reach the drums before. Here by the couch, I can.”

I swapped discs, plugged in USB cables, and navigated through menus. Maddie picked out a song, then looked up at me, grinning.

“Okay,” said Maddie. “I’m ready to rock and roll. One question, though.”

“What’s that?”


“What are the sticks for, anyway?”

Rupa & the April Fishes "Une americaine a Paris," from the CD Extraordinary Rendition.

Between 2003 and 2007, a strange thing happened; a handful of shared-world, shared-character stories based on my observations and experiences playing in punk rock bands in the early '90s began to transform into something else: a book-length manuscript. This manuscript--I hesitate to say "novel," as it's just a tad shy of a novel's forty thousand word requirement (now obsolete)--evolved into Chick Bassist: A Rock and Roll Fantasy, a literary exploration of sex, race, gender, violence, point of view subjectivity, and rock and roll as a unifying common book mythology. Along the way, characters developed their own agendas, plots veered away from where I'd planned, revisions got revised, and the whole ride became far wilder than I'd ever imagined. In May of 2007, I submitted Chick Bassist as my Master's Thesis in English/Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, describing it as punk rock noir, or Rashomon in a rock-and roll band. Needless to say, it was accepted, and copies of the work were signed, bound, and shelved. Although a handful of excerpts have been published as stand-alone stories, the manuscript as a whole hasn't exactly set the publishing world alight, so Chick Bassist has spent the better part of the last year sitting on a shelf, gathering dust while I worked on other projects.

Until now. Inspired to do so by a pair of authors* I enjoy, starting this Wednesday, I will be serializing Chick Bassist on the Web, uploading a chapter a week to the LiveJournal community chickbassist (http://chickbassist.livejournal.com). I will also be posting commentary, discussing decisions I might make differently today, sharing anecdotes, pictures, and behind-the-scenes insights, and generally making a fool of myself. And, of course, you are welcome to post comments.

So come on by, check out Chick Bassist, and add it to your communities list or RSS feed. And if you enjoy what you read, tell a friend or drop a little loose change into the tip jar.



---
* Who? Catherynne M. Valente and Tim Pratt, of course.

Lucius Shepard is calling Fever Ray his "new favorite band," so I figured it was probably worth my time to check out the video for "When I Grow Up" and see why.









"When I Grow Up"


And I can definitely see why, since, with its crazy-pretty girl in motley, psychopomp/shaman-dancing on a diving board overlooking an uncomfortably leaf-strewn pool, it looks like something out of a Lucius Shepard novel. But it sounds like something otherworldly, at times reminiscent of Björk at her most clever, by way of mid-90s Happy Rhodes (kathputli_girl, you're gonna love this). By 2:23, I was convinced. Fever Ray had become my favorite band, too. So I Googlepedia-ed 'em. What do you know, the girl from The Knife has a solo project. I'm going to have to track this one down. I wonder if they released it on vinyl. They did? Awesome.

Here, have another...


"If I Had a Heart"

There are several "unofficial" videos on YouTube, as well, including one incorporating art from Charles Burns' Black Hole. Watch 'em before the copyright police yank 'em. That should keep you busy for the next hour or so... have fun.

As announced yesterday, The Beatles: Rock Band is coming, street date 09/09/09 (...number nine... ...number nine... ...number nine...), just six months, give or take, after the release of the other big rhythm band video game of the year, Guitar Hero: Metallica. Hopefully, this game will feature images and locations figuring heavily in the Fab Four mythology, providing an experience closer to Guitar Hero: Aerosmith (and the aforementioned metal monster) than AC/DC Live: Rock Band Track Pack. For me, the biggest part of the promise of the game (and attraction) is new instruments "modeled after instruments used by John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr throughout their career." Does this mean plastic replicas of John Lennon's Rickenbacker 325, George Harrison's Gretsch Country Gentleman, or (most importantly) Paul McCartney's Höfner bass? Hopefully they're not just planning to repaint the Rock Band generi-caster blue (to match the 1961 Stratocasters John and George acquired during the Help sessions). Or worse yet, release one featuring the eye-gougingly yellow design scheme of Love. Only time will tell.

Over my morning's regimen of e-mail, espresso, and Led Zeppelin, I decided to sign up for one of those government-subsidized digital television converter box coupons (and nice website, BTW), reasoning that since we hate our ever-increasing cable bill, having a converter box would be convenient, should we decide it's finally time to starve the pig, besides, even if we don't quit cable cold turkey, there's always a chance we'll upgrade TVs, moving our current one to the bedroom, which doesn't have cable. Furthermore, any government program underwriting cheap foreign-made electronics is cool in my book.

Anyway, while filling out the form, I rather enjoyed typing this captcha:



I'm thinking that would be a great 90s industrial-rock band name. "Direct from Belgium, Immaterial 23!" Nice to see my tax dollars at work.

And speaking of the unholy union of cable and rock and roll, is that the Ditty Bops I hear in the latest Comcast jingles?

I'm watching Heima with my morning coffee, wishing there was a Sigur Rós track pack for Rock Band (or Guitar Hero, I'm not too picky, it's just that I already own Rock Band). All in all, not a bad state of mind for the Friday morning of a week that pretty much demanded a do-over.

It all started Monday morning, with the tone of the week set by the death of an old friend's mom. I read the signs; the augury foretold: It's going to be a crappy week, might as well lie back and enjoy the ride. Sure enough, later that morning, my primary e-mail, writing, and photography computer decided to show signs of infection (weird pop-up windows attempting to sell me anti-virus software, among other things). Where did I catch it? I wracked my brain, seeking answers, then realized: That damned faux-Etsy website StumbleUpon tumbled me onto the previous night! Beware malicious crafters, they have far too much time on their hands. Now I should have gone with my gut, called in sick, and gone back to bed right then and there, but determined not to let the week get the better of me, I walked Maddie to the park and back, then loaded her into the Prius, loaded up my gear, then started the car, only to be met by the dreaded “check engine” light.

Here's the thing, I'd already scheduled an appointment scheduled for Wednesday at the nearby Toyota dealership, since the car was about 900 miles overdue for an oil change (it's got 135K on it) and it was making an annoying noise, one I started noticing right before the holidays, but hadn't had time to deal with then, a low thrumming noise that shifted pitch with acceleration. So I called the Toyota dealership up and explained the problem. They told me to bring the car on in, quoting me a $160 estimate to diagnose the engine light. So I unloaded Maddie and my backpack, started up the car (no check engine light this time, was it just cold?) and drove on over to Toyota. Once there, I explained that there were no warning lights now, suggested that it was possibly a combination of environmental factors that caused the light, and asked them to go ahead and do the scheduled maintenance, watching for any warnings in the meantime.

Well, the maintenance went just swimmingly. No warning lights, no problems. Unfortunately, the noise was diagnosed as something else entirely: a bad wheel bearing. Driveable, if annoying, but has a chance of locking up. Quote to fix: $860. And the part wasn't in stock. So we picked up the car, paid for our glorified oil change (just over $250), and I drove it home.

On Tuesday, I left Maddie at home when I drove down to the 'Shade, just in case, playing my iPod extra loud to drown out the jet engine whine. While there, I arranged a better quote ($500) via e-mail with Out West Garage, a locally-owned shop within walking distance of the house (recommended by, well, just about everybody in town). Then I arranged to work from home for the next couple of days so that I could get the car taken care of. Good thing, since another car problem arose that very afternoon: Jennifer called, she'd just been rear-ended. So I finished up what I could with work and headed on home, fearing the worst. Fortunately, the worst wasn't too bad, Jennifer was okay, and, though the bumper was a mess, the car was still drivable. I'll leave that whole story to her, if she's so inclined (she's got pictures!).

So in short, it's been a week of annoyance. But we made it through. It's Friday, and Jennifer and I managed to make the best of a bad week, staying afloat by reading, playing Rock Band (Jennifer sings, Maddie plays drums!), and enjoying one another's company. Not bad at all. Today, my car's at Out West Garage (I dropped it off bright and early this morning, walking home in the shivering cold) and we've got an estimate for the repairs to Jennifer's car, which will ultimately be covered by the insurance company.

And so I'm sitting here in the living room, drinking my coffee and typing, enjoying the moment, the hopeful end of a frustrating week. Sure, I'm headed off to work at Our Best Friends in a bit, and next week will bring its own challenges, but for right now, I've got fireplace on, Maddie's curled up and napping nearby, and Sigur Rós blankets us in 5.1 surround.



UPDATE: Out West Garage called at quarter after ten, saying the car was ready to go, and that the fix was easier than expected. Grand total: $407.62, nearly ninety-three dollars cheaper than the estimate. Awesome! Now, off to Our Best Friends with Maddie. Now, if I can just figure out how to get VirtuMonde off my computer, I'll be happy. At least reasonably so...

I'm finally starting to sort through pictures taken during the holidays. You sure can put an awful lot of pictures on one of those 2GB cards...


Maddie, having just polished off a few bites of baked macaroni and cheese, asks for seconds.

( More behind the cut... )

"I'm bored," said Maddie. "Can we put on records? Can we? Can we?"

"Just a sec," I said, glancing between yellowing paperback and computer screen, comparing and correcting copy. "Sure. Go ahead. Pick one out."


Maddie nosed through the collection. "How about this one? Naah... not that one. Oh, I know, this one. Play this one."

"Again? You always pick that one."

"But I love this record!" insisted Maddie.

"Fine," I said, stepping across to grab the record, then loaded it onto the turntable and queued it up.


"Oh, yeah," said Maddie, bobbing her head in time to the music as I sat back down at the computer, resuming corrections. "And here's the best part," Maddie announced. "Oooh, barracuda."

I've been taking advantage of a rare day off by playing Guitar Hero 3, a game that thrives on the cognitive dissonance of characters like corpse-painted black metal rocker Lars Umlaut shaking bootie to the sounds of Pat Benatar's Hit Me With Your Best Shot. While the game lacks certain rock-and-roll nuances, like hitting a botched note twice to pretend you're improvising or the ability to throw a dirty look at the bass player when you make a mistake, thus passing the blame, it's a realistic enough experience that I've managed to blister a thumb. Ouch.

But it's entertaining, though not quite as entertaining as watching Jennifer play Rayman Raving Rabbids; I've never seen anybody swear quite so creatively at annoying cartoon bunnies.

Though I shouldn't get too game-addicted, since I'm off to The 66th World Science Fiction Convention bright and early tomorrow morning. Stay tuned for pictures and more...


...but until then, here's Maddie.

Maddie gets philosophical...



"Didja ever wonder what would happen," pondered Maddie, lounging on the couch at Our Best Friends, "if gravity just suddenly decided to go the other direction? It would be pretty cool, at first, walking around on the ceiling, but going through doors would be pretty hard, since you'd have to climb up and over the doorjamb. I guess you'd have to put in stairs. And everything would probably fall from the floor up to the ceiling, and that would be a big mess, 'cause stuff would fall out of drawers. And you probably wouldn't want to go outside, because then you'd fall up, and just keep falling up until you ended up in outer space or something, which would be bad. But then, what if I was the only one that gravity went all wacko on? I could walk around on clean ceilings, though I'd have to stay away from the ceiling fan. And you could take me outside for walks, on a leash, as always, but I'd float above your head like a balloon."

"You're a very weird dog, Maddie," I said, reaching down to scratch her belly.

Maddie squinted up at me. "Oh, foo. Like you've never thought of it. Besides, you look funny upside down."

---

Maddie listens to tunes...



"Play it again," demanded Maddie.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "This will make the fifth time through."

"But it's vinyl. It sounds so much better than CDs, or when you play music on the computer. It's warmer. You say so yourself."

"Yeah," I answer. "But you've already had me play this one four times. At least pick a different record than Henry Mancini's The Cop Show Themes."

"But I wanna hear the Theme from 'S.W.A.T.' again."

"Come on, pick something else. Please."

"You could put on Sebastian Speaks," suggested Maddie.

I considered this, rubbing my chin, then shrugged. "You win. The Theme from 'S.W.A.T.' it is."

---

Maddie meets Paris Roubaix...

We've got a new Dachshund in the neighborhood, Paris Roubaix. Yes, after talking about it for ages, Claire and Saul finally adopted a dog, which has turned out to be a little bit more of an adventure than either one of them anticipated. Some dogs have issues; Paris has a subscription. And she prefers to stand directly behind women. But give it time, I'm sure Paris will eventually fit right in.


Claire and Paris. That's Claire on the left.


Maddie, Paris, and feet.

I'd retreated to the office, in an attempt to catch up on some e-mail, leaving Jennifer watching some mediocre R&B tune on American Idle. Maddie followed me in, settling into her bed while I typed and read. She recognized the riff first, and started pawing at my leg while I was still mindlessly tapping my foot along with the rhythm. "Come on," said Maddie, turning in circles. "I love this song!"



I've got to say... It's been more than thrity years since the song originally came out, and Nancy Wilson may be pushing sixty, but they rocked it. And Fergie? Who knew? (Yeah, yeah. She covered it on the Shrek the Third soundtrack. What can I say, I was warned away from that one.)

Here's the rub... I went to ITunes this morning, figuring that this was the one performance from that godawful show I'd actually be willing to buy (and hey, proceeds go to charity). But guess what's not available. Sure, they've got two songs from Billy Ray Cyrus's annoying sprogling, but Heart? Nope.

Searching for a commercial, for a rock-and-roll record compilation, but so far to no avail.

Thought it may have been Freedom Rock, but You Tube proves me wrong.

That's the right neighborhood, though.

Here's the musical cue: Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" segues into Foreigner's "Hot Blooded." Any ideas?

Strike's over. Everybody back to work.

Rounding up pictures for the last week or so. Smaller than the last couple of posts. What'd you folks think of the larger images, anyway? Did you dig 'em? Should I upgrade, go for the gusto, and continue posting at 800 X 600 in the future? Or do you prefer 300 X 400?


Stopping at Walnut Park Grill for lunch. Maddie can has cheeseburger.


Rock star.

( More stuff behind the cut... )

This morning's reading included Sarah Layden’s ”The You You've Wanted to Become”, which appears in the first Online Edition of Diet Soap, a literary ’zine edited by Doug Lain and M.K. Hobson. Ms. Layden’s tale of a doleful, workaday loser finding solace, perhaps even redemption, within the red leather embrace of a Japanese restaurant/Karaoke bar is expertly crafted, with a protagonist that engenders a reader’s sympathies, even as he drunkenly blunders along, pining for the woman who abandoned him along the way. Even as he watches the bar’s patrons performing, this sad-sack yearns for more: “Even if he could sing, standing on a stage in front of strangers seemed show-offy, a mark of desperation, foolish. A small part of him wished he had the guts to perform, but the feeling was like a painful splinter under a thumbnail: in need of removal.” While Layden’s story remains firmly grounded in a First World, non-fantastic setting, there is a hint of something larger, something perhaps even magical at play as it reaches towards its climax, intimating that true change, real transformation is about to occur.

In an attached interview, Layden states, “There’s something so heartbreakingly real and true about karaoke, which is basically the art of faking. The performers, by and large, are a bunch of amateurs, and they’re so vulnerable.” While I would agree with Layden’s assertion that karaoke singers are exposing their vulnerabilities (but what artist isn’t?), I can’t help but feel that she is off the mark in calling karaoke “the art of faking.” In fact, I would suggest that karaoke, at least as a fictional device, is a perfect metaphor for the magical, the fantastic, and the transformative, in a culture that has, for the most part, abandoned belief in the supernatural.

Karaoke, its name a portmanteau of the Japanese words for “empty” and “orchestra,” has, over the last thirty or so years, moved from hotel lounges and backwater bars to the forefront of Western attention. Several nights a week, you can turn on a television and watch note-perfect mimics warbling renditions of popular songs spanning the past forty years. Many fall short, but some are transformed, becoming kings and queens of popular culture at the whim and delight of an always-fickle public. Is this faking it, or a reward of self-transformation? And is the idiom of the popular song, through the influence of these amateur endeavors, evolving into something more? There are very few rituals in 21st Century Western culture, few transformative rites. Pop music is the only common book we have.

An early draft of Mark Anthony Carpenter’s (sadly unpublished) “Fall of the Karaoke King” puts it this way: “For anywhere between two and five minutes, you’re a star. For two to five minutes, you’ve got them eating out of your hand. Under the spotlight, sweat beading on your brow, your hand shaky on the microphone, you still exude a certain confidence. You might forget some of the words, but to the drunks, you’re Elvis. Presley or Costello, that’s your choice. […] The KJ calls your name, puts on your song, and you’re transformed. For the next two to five minutes, you’re Springsteen or Sinatra, David Bowie or Toni Basil.” For a society that dreams of, yearns for stardom, karaoke is transformation in action.

I wonder if jlassen knows about this yet.

On a Mountain Goats tip: John Darnielle in collaboration with Aesop Rock. With zombies.



(From Aesop Rock's 2007 album None Shall Pass.)

Maddie's off at the groomer this morning, so I'm sorting through unposted pictures, drinking coffee, and loading more music onto my IPod (The Sporting Life, by Diamanda Galas and John Paul Jones, anyone?). Soon, I'll be headed over to Our Best Friends for the usual Friday workday...

...as I type, the groomer calls. Off to pick up Little Miss Haircut.

On a rainy day in San Francisco, Maddie and I took a break from shipping books and listening to an advance copy of the new Mountain Goats CD, Heretic Pride ("Lovecraft in Brooklyn" is a big hit downstairs at Night Shade Books for obvious reasons), in order to take a walk.

San Francisco has lots of parks, green belts that run alongside residential neighborhoods. Not a trash can in sight. I guess the belief is that folks who venture out to explore will clean up after themselves and pack it back to home. Strangely enough, people still manage to leave things behind.


"What's that under the tree?" asked Maddie. "Is it a time machine, or maybe a UFO?"


I looked over where she indicated. "Close, Maddie," I said. "That's an old VCR."

"VCR, UFO," said Maddie. "What's the difference?"

"Well, a UFO is an Unidentified Flying Object. Once you know what it is, it ceases to be unidentified."

"And a VCR?"

"A Video Cassette Recorder. It's for watching movies."


Maddie sniffed at the VCR. "We've got a VCR," she said. "Jennifer tapes shows on it. But ours doesn't look like this one."

"Right," I answered. "This is an old VCR. It's a top-loader, like a cassette deck."

"Oh," said Maddie. "How old?"

"Maybe twenty years. Maybe a little more. Maybe thirty."


Maddie sat down and thought. Then she got up and paced around. "That's a long time," she said. "You know, I think I was right to begin with."

"About it being a UFO? That's silly, Maddie."

She shook her head. "No, about it being a time machine. Twenty years is a long time. That's a lot of movies. I sure hope that tree likes movies."

I bent down and scratched her head. "Yeah," I said. "Me too."

After this morning's weather-induced blackout had passed (We spent our powerless moments putting together a puzzle and listening to a battery-powered radio. How about you?), we decided to brave the rain and venture forth for our usual Saturday walk downtown.

We stopped at Starbucks, only to discover (Horrors!) that they'd run out of soy milk, so we made our way, espresso-free, to Copperfield's, where I picked up a few books downstairs: A Song of Stone, by Iain Banks, The High Window and The Long Goodbye, by Raymond Chandler, Karl Edward Wagner's Robert Howard pastiche Legion from the Shadows, and Fritz Leiber's Conjure Wife. We stopped back by Starbucks after leaving Copperfield's to find that soy milk had been delivered. And there was much rejoicing.

From there, we made our way over to Theatre Square in order to check out the grand opening festivities.

We'd just walked onto the plaza, and were standing between Toys West's balloon-tying magician, Twistyman, and Jennie Low's sample fortune cookies and princess chicken when Maddie pawed at my leg. "Omigoodness," she said. "It's Elvis."
"What?"
"Elvis is here. How's my hair look?"
"Maddie," I said, shaking my head. "We're not calling any tabloids."
"No, really," said Maddie. "He's here."
"Maddie, Elvis Presley died in nineteen..."
And that's when Elvis sauntered over.



Not Elvis Presley, mind you, but Elvis the Papillion, along with his human, Frida.



"Oh, Elvis," said Maddie, batting her eyelashes. "You're so dreamy."
"Thank you very much," replied Elvis, with a curl of his lip.



Elvis and Frida demonstrated one of their parlor tricks as well, as she balanced him atop her head. Wow!

( A whole lot more behind the cut... )