I don't much like to write about non-musical issues here anymore. And I really hate writing/ranting about politics. I don't understand modern day politics nor do I understand the people who chose to devote their lives to it. They might as well be speaking Esperanto for all the sense it makes. But something interesting, utterly non-musical, and only slightly political crossed my path today. In this era of galloping paranoia and state-sponsored fear-mongering masquerading as patriotism, I got a friendly little reminder today that not every modern high-ranking federal employee is a raving jingoistic flag-eating psychopath.
I have one especially gooberish hobby, which my mom might say I was born with. I love airplanes. There used to be a little public parking lot right next to two of the runways at SFO where I would wile away the time listening to the pilots and control tower jabber away at each other. The planes would position themselves for takeoff right in front of my car, the tower would clear them for takeoff, and then they'd proceed to blow my head off. This is the truth; you really haven't lived until you've had a 747 spin up its engines in your face. It's just glorious. It's like no other sound you can hear. Otherworldly. It cures joint stiffness instantly, empties your sinuses, exfoliates your skin, clears clogged pores, trims your nails, and shakes the car so hard you get a nice butt massage in the bargain. A 747 is as big as a building, which is astounding enough. But then the damn thing gets up and flies, and that to me is just too marvelous to believe. Remember the scene in "Pushing Tin" where they show the video of Billy Bob Thornton getting blown away by a landing 747's wake turbulence? I'd like to do that one day. Can't wait for the new gargantuan Airbus.
Then, of course, some rabid frothing zealots chose to fly a few of those planes into a building or two, and the next day some other rabid frothing zealots closed the parking lot in the name of security. I just may have watched one of those flights land at SFO had circumstances been much different. I managed to find a couple other vantage points for my dorky hobby, but none quite as good as the parking lot just south of runway 1R. One is really great when it rains and they reverse the direction of the runways, but it just doesn't rain enough around here.
So the other day I e-mailed the director of SFO public relations asking about any plans to re-open the parking lot. He wrote me back a great response, telling me how sad he and other aviation officials were at the closure of the lot. He went on and on, telling me how he would take his lunch breaks there, just watching and listening with some friends.
In no way do I claim to have suffered a loss as a result of 9-11 anywhere near that of others. I merely suffered a setback in pursuing my stupid beloved hobby and didn't lose any loved ones. I still can't believe that the whole thing happenned, and I was thinking yesterday that it's certainly the strangest occurence of this generation. Our idiot numbskulled president and his sloppy-fat minions may claim they've made the country safer and more secure. They're dead wrong, of course, and have only accomplished a deep wholesale saddening of the nation. My poor little fenced-off parking lot is emblematic of every last missed opportunity for this president to do this thing right, not to piss off and alienate the rest of the world and make us a global mocking stock. Only a couple more years to go.
Feh. Back to the music; Octomutt's Country Cousin at the Riptide this Saturday the 4th, Eric Friedmann and The Lucky Rubes at the Red Devil February 23rd featuring the one and only Will Strickland on drums at last, other shows in the works, and the new EF album is on the way because I just can't wait to share these cool new songs with you any longer.
I forgot how much I love Heart. I place them in that odd category of hit-churning yet highly underrated bands, along with The Kinks.
I just stumbled across a Sound Stage performance on PBS, strangely enough after hearing alot of them on the radio today. They just busted into Black Dog by Zeppelin, after actually bringing me to tears with Love Alive. They even managed to pull out Alone, from the unfortunate "hair" era, with beauty and grace. It's not such a horrible song after all. Just goes to show what unmitigated evil the wrong Peru-snorting producer can inflict upon an otherwise wonderful tune. (Note: I could very well be completely wrong about that, as I have no clue who produced that song. But it sure sounded like a snort-fest at the time.)
Ann bears an uncanny reseblance to mid-90s Rosanne these days, not that there's anything wrong with that necessarily. But oh BOY can she still sing. She has a newish growl to her voice, which is probably symptomatic of nodes on her vocal chords the size of cantaloupes. But she completely nailed every single note to the wall. One of the very greatest rock singers of all time, and I wish more people would remember that.
The band is a little funny looking, but tight as hell. Good lead guitar dude, but his AC-30s sound a little like a freshly-kicked bee hive buried in a gravel pit in a rain storm. Not that there's anything wrong with that either.
And Nancy. Oh, Nancy. Still the hottest of the hottest.
They just don't built bands like that anymore. Listen to Barracuda again. Enough said.
...to 2006! Happy New Year, all.
So far so good. I broke down and bought myself my long-drooled-after Les Paul, making its debut on a stage near you soon. It's so nice and pretty, and they gave me a stupidly fat deal I couldn't refuse. Rent, schment...
Soggy New Years here in cute Santa Barbara, where the airport looks like a country club and Ugg boots are required by law.
Last lesson learned in 05; United Airlines is singularly the most evil entity, never mind corporation, on the planet.