Now please, don't get me wrong: I love the corporate gig. I think I can speak for the band in saying we love the corporate gig. For those of you wondering what exactly that means, let me explain:
From time to time, throughout the year, we play "private" shows for various companies and their sundry functions, and they're fun. I've gigged for some really weird companies filled with really weird people. I've played for little companies in tiny cabins, and for companies that give iPods to whoever shows up and sports cars whoever wins the drawing at the end of the night.
Usually these shows are great successes.
Sometimes they are not.
The catch is simply this: At a regular concert, folks go to see a band play. A band they like, and choose to go and see. At a company party, folks go to get a free meal and a bonus check. Come on, tell me it isn't so. At one show last summer, the CEO got up after the free dinner and said "Thanks for coming. Hope you enjoyed your dinner. Your bonus checks are on the table by the back door; pick them up on your way out. Now here's the band!"
Needless to say, everyone got up, grabbed their check, and went home.
Kinda funny. Kinda not.
Tonight I played a corporate gig, and there was a lady (no lie!) sitting front and center crocheting. Socks, or something, I don't know.
At a concert? Seriously?
Well, that's fine. The truth is, I'm a little jealous. We of the RubberBand have talked quite frequently about having our own corporate Christmas party, and maybe even hiring a band to set up and play for us. We would hand out bonus checks, and by bonus I mean bogus, eat chicken cordon bleu (Shupe orders the steak), and have Roger give a presentation on how we've grown this year. Craig would receive the Banjist-of-the-Year award for the 12th straight year, I would secretly be jealous of his award, and Bart would probably make a move toward spiking the egg-nog, but probably just with Gatorade powder. The band would start to play, and Shupe would just start talking louder, Craig would sneak out the back, Roger would be playing with his new iPod (and by new iPod, I mean napkin), and Bart would clap along to everything, even the ballads, and somewhat out of time.
And I would get out my hooks and start crocheting.

Third Overtone XO Crystal Oscillators, and the Banjo.

While others may have realized I was a nerd years and years ago, it has only recently occurred to me. I’ve since been trying to pinpoint the moment in which I entered nerd-dom.
I should have realized the day I decided to play the banjo instead of play little-league. In photos, it seems painfully obvious during my glasses/braces/growth-spurt phase. I don’t think anybody realized they were a nerd in high-school, although I honestly think all of us were.

But I only fully realized my nerdocity today, when I caught myself reading (and thoroughly enjoying) the following paragraph:

“While experimenting with internal clock designs, we found that we liked the quality of the audio better when the master clock frequency was increased. Due to the superior nature of third overtone XO crystal oscillators (they have inherently less jitter than fundamental XO oscillators because they have higher 'Q'), we decided to utilize the same clock that we use in the 002. We increase the original master clock frequencies, and then divide them down as necessary. We started with a pair of ultra-low jitter (1 picosecond delta sigma average) XO oscillators, one for 44.1 kHz and its multiples, and one for 48 kHz and its multiples. We divide these two frequencies using a proprietary method that keeps accumulated jitter to a bare minimum: under 10 picoseconds. Would you ever use the word "punch" when describing the sound of your 003? With our internal clock, you most certainly will.”

Holy crap that’s nerdy.

"The World Don't Owe Me a Web-Site'"

I read recently that on college campus, Facebook is more popular than, well, anything else college kids might be looking at on the computer. While I do think that's good news, I also think it's kind of bizarre. It all led led me to a theory about my generation: We feel entitled.
The blogging phenom tipped me off. (Yes, I know, I'm blogging right now. I laugh at myself all the time.) I'm bewildered at the number of people my age who blog. Add that to facebook, myspace, etc, and you've pretty much got a personal website for nearly everyone I went to high-school with. Now, where did we get the idea that we all deserved our own URL? Is it that terribly useful? Does each of us feel our lives are that interesting/important as to document each daily occurrance? (Again, I have no room to talk.)
I know we've been described as the "Peter Pan Generation", and as a musician I feel uniquely unqualified to dispute that point. So maybe it's true. We expect to be provided for, maybe not by our parents, but perhaps our government (!?!), and if not the government, well, we'll figure that out later. In the meantime, check out my sweet house/truck/boat/TV/stuff. Credit crisis? That silly government.
My point? I don't have one. That's part of the irony of the blogosphere. I think it's just an interesting observation to watch the world slowly get passed to the next generation, and like all previous generations in the history of the world, think to myself "well, this isn't going to go well". But I suppose it always does. Just different.
And in our particular case, with lots of documentation.

Tilby (heart) Utah

Last week I officially decided that I’ve now seen all of Utah. It was while on Highway 21 between Milford and Garrison, in my trusty Isuzu Rodeo filled with bluegrass instruments.

Utah is the state of my birth, and for all the places I’ve been, it remains one of my favorite. I think the variety of geography is unbeatable, and the quality top-notch. Here’s a brief overview of my experiences around the borders of the state, starting at the top and going clockwise:

I once hunted deer with a muzzleloader (black powder, lead ball, buckskins) in the mountains above Snowville. Very cold. Saw one deer, took one shot, missed by a mile.

Last week I spent three hours on the side of the freeway in Tremonton when the band-mobile exploded on the freeway.

Lived in Mendon while I went to school in Logan which is next to the town where I was born, Smithfield. I’ve been to the back of Logan cave 3 times.

I used to believe that no one had ever found the bottom of Bear Lake. My dad broke some ribs on a four-wheeler while trying to ride the four-wheeler in the lake. That was weird.

I spent my high-school weekends hiking above Huntsville, in the Middle Fork area. I used to cross-country ski around Snow-Basin. A girl took me downhill skiing there once, but I crashed a lot and we never went out again.

My grandparents lived in Enterprise/Morgan while I was a kid. That’s where I learned to shoot, fish, hunt, chuck rocks, and stop profuse bleeding with dirt.

Evanston is not in Utah. It is also not pronounced “Evingston”.

I’ve backpacked into countless high Uintah lakes. I once speared a piece of jerky and posted it on top of Kings Peak, making that piece of jerky the highest thing in the state of Utah for as long as it lasted.

Once, looking for dinosaur bones near Vernal, I found the remnants of a cow and packed home a piece of the spine – my parents never told me it wasn’t a dinosaur, and for years the thing sat on my bookshelf.

The RubberBand shot the “Be the One” music video in Roosevelt and Duchene.

Wellington has a park in the middle that I have eaten lunch in more than any other park of any other town I’ve lived in.

I’m very fond of I-70. I think the San Rafael Swell is awesome.

Ah, Moab. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Canyonlands (Needles District), Arches, the Maze, Chesler Park, Little Wildhorse Canyon, Blue Bell Canyon, the Slickrock, Porcupine Rim, Amasaback, the White Rim Trail, Elephant Hill, Poison Spider Mesa, the Pizza Hut, Prophet Bob and your illegal homes blasted out of rock to house your too-many wives, Goblin Valley, the Confluence, Dead Horse Point, etc. etc. There’s no end to the wonder of that little corner of the state.

Reservoir Powell. You are not a lake. You are a giant toilet of refuse and oil-spills. You are the symbol of waste. I want the canyon back. HEYDUKE LIVES!!

I spent a summer dressing like a cowboy and playing mandolin and banjo in a little theater in Kanab. I know an obscene amount of cowboy poetry for a guy my age.

I was “escorted” out of Colorado City once by dudes in big trucks when I was cruising around out of sheer curiosity. Weird town. ‘Nuff said.

I lived in Hurricane for a few years. My wife was born and raised in Toquerville. I worked in St. George for 5 years. I have family in Santa Clara and Ivins. The biggest pot bust in Utah history just happened above Pine Valley.

Which brings me back, more or less, to Eskdale, Utah, and my Rodeo full of bluegrass instruments. I really enjoyed my visit to that Community.

I learned to whistle on a trip to Topaz Mountain, where I visited again this summer. I can still whistle.

My uncle makes targets for the military to blow up in the Dugway Proving Grounds. He has never offered to bring me along and watch stuff get blown up by jets and bombers.

On a trip to the Salt Flats, I set my land-speed record on a motorcycle and discovered the skeleton, saddle, rifle, and hatchet of a mountain man, apparently buried haphazardly by a friend. We reported it to the U of U, but no one seemed to care. Doing our own research, we discovered the journal of a man who survived the Salt Flats by eating his buddy on the same mountain we found our bones.

I got kicked out of the Peppermill Casino once for being under-age while watching a band.

I think that’s pretty much the whole perimeter. To tell the tales of the middle of the state would take hours, and they might not be as interesting. It seems all the interesting people I have met have lived on the fringes.

Well, here’s to fringes. If you’ve never been to Utah, it’s worth your time. If you’re new to Utah, just get in the car and drive around. If you’re a native to Utah but have never left your quaint valley of comfort and niceness, well, I have nothing to say to you.

And I can’t wait to know the rest of the world like this. Everything I’ve seen makes me grateful for a chance to live life and see the world – and as a musician? Even better!

See you down the road.

Bagel Boy, we love you!

Weston's Grandparents wrote him a great bagel song, which is, at the moment, the only food he eats.

BAGEL BOY

I want to be a food star, and eat a nut bar, and yummies in a mason jar.
And worms of gummy to fill my small tummy.
And eat in the kitchen where it's sunny.
With food fuel that will make you drool.
I'll always have a bib cause I'll eat big.
I'll be a food pro, like a Vincent Van Gogh,
The only problem is I eat a bagel.


I'm a nursery time mover, a funkadelic big kid groover,
Cross between Lightening McQueen ,
A go getter but better.
I'll be a star for the way I eat.
I'll be a kitchen time monster with some chickie sticks,
And all the babes will love me, dinner shows,
The only problem is I eat a bagel.

I eat a bagel.

(Chorus:)
Well I eat a bagel,
I eat a bagel.
Eat a bagel.
Eat a bagel.
I eat a bagel.

(Repeat Chorus once.)

I say hear me boys, here my rhyme,
I'm munching on the bagel all the time.
I say hear me boys, here my song,
Munching on the bagel all day long.


I'll be on magazines of exotic cuisine
And everywhere I go my fans will scream,
"Hey bagel boy, we love you,
I wish that we could all eat a bagel too."
And you'll see me on the tv talk show,
With Wolfgang Puck if I can finagle,
The only problem is I eat a bagel.

(Repeat Chorus 3 times.)

Well I eat a bagel,
I eat a bagel.
Eat a bagel.
Eat a bagel.
I eat a bagel.

High School Reunion

At my high school reunion last week, I was awarded the "Most Interesting Profession" award.
But you have to be present to win, and I was on tour with RS&RB.

Isn't it ironic? Don't you think?

You want a journal? I'll give you a journal....

Day 1:
Got up WAY to early even for normal people standards. 3:30am. Walked a mile to rendevouz point with gear-in-tow, because I didn't want to leave a car in some random parking-lot down by the freeway (van down by the river) for that many days. Arms got tired, but I don't really have huge arms, either.
The new airport hoop-la is lame. Paying $$ to check bags is lame. We are flying drums on this venture, to we have LOTS of extra bags. Wanna guess how much we paid to fly all our gear (seperate from our tickets)? I'll give you a hint: $425.
I read awesome short stories by Steven King all the way to Albany, NY. Steven King is a favorite of mine, and I personally think saying he writes horror is like saying Ryan Shupe plays country. Kinda, but not really, and there's so much more to it than that. So Steven, you rock, and your book "On Writing" is also brilliant. The story from SLC to Baltimore was "The Langoliers", about people who fall asleep on an airplane and wake to find everyone not sleeping has completely vanished. Takes place entirely on planes and airports, so I thought it was a fitting read for this trip. Now I'm in the middle of "Secret Window, Secret Garden" (later a Johnny Depp movie), and it's great, too.
Oh yeah, then the gig:
Lake George summer concert series, on a cool covered pavillion overlooking the lake. IT'S HUMID. We westerners forget. At least I do.
The show rocked - two 50-minute sets, with a great audience that danced and clapped and howled.
And, most recently, we checked into our hotel rooms. There's a little bit of drama envolved in that, which is sad, but when there are enough rooms for someone to get their own there's always a wonderously passive-aggressive struggle to see who can be the kindest while artfully claiming his own room. I'm sharing with Shupe tonight; I'll let that speak for itself.
And now I'm going to shower, becuase of afore-mentioned humidiDOOM. Tomorrow promises to have awesome pancakes, and maybe an impromptu visit to MTD where my bass was built. Sweet.
** OK, no shower yet, but I did cruise ther proverbial 'vard with Shupe and Bart in the mini-van. Got Sun-chips and a grape-fruit juice. We are such rock-stars....

Day 2:
Woke up in Lake George and ate the “Colossal Breakfast”, a feat which sounded like a good idea at the time. Piled in the vans and hit the road, at which point in time Shupe spilled a half-gallon of 2% on the floor of rental van #1. I promptly claimed a permanent position in van #2. Van #1 smells like a dairy-farmers laundry basket on a hot day.
Then we visited Michael Tobias, the owner/builder of MTD basses, one of which I own and play. He lives in upstate New York with his wife and dog Bessie. His shop was off to the side of the house, and was exactly what I wanted it to be: smaller than I expected, filled with dismembered bass-parts, one-offs, experiments, and piles and piles of wood. Michael was a gracious host, and even made several excellent culinary recommendations for our journey to the city.
Let’s see… I drank a soda and ate a milky-way bar (best candy-bar EVER), and then watched tree-world transform magically into brick-world as we entered Manhattan. Then, on the recommendation of Bart’s father-in-law, we GPS’d our way to Ben’s Kosher Deli, where I ate a life-changing pastrami sandwich, some soul-altering corned-beef, and two very fine spicy pickles. (I know, you’re thinking “yeah, right, a sandwich is a sandwich” – I thought it too – but I’m am NOT messing with you. Life changing).
Then: wander around New York City. Load in to the Blender Theater. Sound-check. Wander more. See Chrysler building. Wander. Play awesome show in awesome theater to awesome fans. Load out. Wander. Eat milk-shakes at Big Daddy’s (don’t ask) Burger Emporium. Wander. Find vans. Drive. Write journal entry.
Holy crap, I ate a lot of food today.

DAY 3:
I slept until noon today. We decided to drive until 3:30 in the morning (and by decided, I mean there were no hotels between where we got tired and where we needed to be), and our consolation was that we got to sleep in as long as we wanted, because tonight's show wasn't until late, and we could stay in the same hotel for 2 nights in a row, which is nice.
Or so we thought.
In our dazed stupor, we forgot that we actually had free rooms supplied by the venue, and although I slept until noon, check-out was at noon, and you can imagine the rush with which housekeeping (Housekeepeen?!!) wanted us outta-there.
So we got out, and moved to the next hotel.
Where I put up some pictures of the trip so far, and a couple videos, one of which looks really bad for some reason.
Then, off to MAGIC CITY MUSIC HALL!!!!
Oh, it was magic all right. We were the grand finale event to the Colgate Country Showdown semi-amateur-preliminary-qualifying-test-auditions.
I didn't even take pictures, except of the outside. And one of Craig eating a gargantuan fish for dinner.
And, now, typing, then sleeping.
As a side note, Van #1 is smelling way better now. I might switch tomorrow.

Day… uh… 4?
We’re in Jim Thorpe PA right now. Cooooool city. Like a sister-city to Telluride, but with much smaller mountains, way more humidity, and half as many hippes. Maybe less than half.
Any-who, BEST SHOW EVER. We of the RubberBand often say that phrase, usually to emphasize the not-bestness of the show, but on this particular occasion, we mean it. Best show ever. “Ever?” you say? Well, ever is a hard thing to define, but within the realms of this tour, the best so far, hands down. But don’t take my word for it!! One new RS&RB fan (Crosby, you rock!) was overheard describing the show as (and I quote) “the best-incredible!!” I don’t know if that’s a hyphen or a “/” thingy, or maybe just one word, like “Bestincredible”. Either way, great compliment. We loved it.
What else…. Chicken-curry-pita-thing that was awesome.
In the 1930’s the CCC build most of this town out of rocks and mortar – it’s way cool. Go to Jim Thorpe PA when you get a chance. We can’t wait to come back.

Day 5:
Last night I dreamt I was standing on this frozen lake while some random guy kept jumping into a hole in the ice and swimming around, shouting for me to join him, but I was freezing already and new that jumping into ice-water didn’t make that better.
I woke up to find my room freezing, and shivered my way over to the air-conditioning unit which I discovered was set on “Max Cool” and the temperature knob was all the way to the blue side. I pulled that back a little, and changed “Max” to “Lo”, and went back to bed.
I woke up a little while later, FREEZING. Pulled the extra blanket down and put it on me. Turned the blue knob even more to the red. Went back to bed.
Woke up again FREEEEEEEZING.
Turns out, the knobs on the unit were dummies, and the real control was on the wall, set to 40 degrees. I found that the next morning after taking an insanely hot bath and eating the rest of a bag of Sun-Chips for calories. I know - I’m a moron.
Tonight we did a “fireseide” concert for a church here in Pennsylvania. We played a handful of our more inspirational songs, and each gave a little talk about some element of spirituality in the music business, which I think went well. Then we ate “water-ice”, some sort of philly-style squishee (mine was chocolate – not-so-great), and now I’m staying in the spare bedroom of our gracious hosts, Jeff and Vickie. My thanks to them!

Day 6
Woke up in Vickie's "Garden of Eden" bedroom (for the girl she never had) in "the Easter Bunny House" (That's what her boys call it - every room is painted a different color). Had an awesome breakfast, and talked politics.
Then Craig and I drove to the house where everybody else was staying, and watched an awesome submarine movie in the basement while the rest of them ate and packed. Submarines are sooooooo cool. Except for the depth-charges part. That's crappy.
Then driiiiiiiiiiiiiiive. That part is starting to get old, and I'm not even the one driving. Craig is the man of the van in that regard.
So I'm in Lake Placid now - home to two, count'em, TWO winter Olympics. 30's, I think, and 1980-something. I was little. And I'm pretty lousy at history. But the town is awesome, kind of like a Park City (for you Utahns out there), but with a sweet lake right in the middle. I want to paddle/hike around the lake tomorrow.
After I do my laundry. What is this, day 6? I'm running out of stuff, and the proportions of clean-to-dirty is starting to overwhelm the clean just by being in the same suitcase as the dirty. That's all the detail you get.
Oh, and we're staying in The Pines; the first hotel IN MY LIFE where the hospitality is hospitible - she showed us up to our rooms, told us all about the town, looked up phone numbers for us, and even showed us a funny YouTube video.
Now THAT'S SERVICE!!!

DAY 7:
This journal is epic. If you're still reading, I commend you.
Laundry day. Nothing says soul-less time-suck like sitting in front of your spinning underwear and feeding endless quarters into the antiquated wash-bot. A guy can really start to have strange thoughts while killing time in a laundromat. Really strange thoughts...
Then we went canoe-ing! There are tons of lakes around here, and we rented two canoes and paddled around one of them, even paddling under a road to another lake filled with cool little islands. We basked, we swam, we splashed and giggled - it was a good time. Could not have asked for a better day for it, either.
Then we played in another park overlooking another lake for another appreciative audience. Two sets tonight, with all the standard favorites, and a few extendo-jams (that's what we call them).
I forget to say that last night we watched Hellboy II at the local $6 theater. What a great show. We all gave it two thumbs up.
There's a McDonalds double-cheeseburger in my gut right now, and I'm trying to remember what compelled me to put it there. Hindsight is 20/20. Ugh.....

DAY OK-I’M-READY-TO-GO-HOME-NOW:

The following events are real. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

We left Lake Perfect this morning, and drove a really long time. The person driving (we’ll call him Nhoj), got a speeding ticket. One van stopped at Elvira, NY, to see various religious historical sights. The van I was in stopped at a Sbarro for pizza.
We pulled into Bisonville, and loaded our gear into a bar called “Schlappies”. Even after just loading in, I felt in desperate need of a shower, a change of clothes, and an exorcist. It’s just been a while since I played a bar-bar, and not just a club with a bar in it. This was a bar-bar. For sure.
Then off to see the town. We ate wings, pizza, and saw Lake Eerily. I played Frisbee, and chased “Billy”, who thought it would be funny to spit in my face for some reason. Then on to the gig:
I’ll spare you the details. I could describe the walls and ceiling, but I want you to be able to sleep at night. I could describe the odiferous qualities, but you might never eat again. And I could describe the men’s room, but I can’t have your permanent mental-health on my conscious, no sir.
As is always the case, I was surprised by the handful of die-hard fans that appeared from nowhere and made bizarre requests all night. There was dancing, clapping, and smiles all around. We even broke the 20-minute mark with a super-extendo version of Devil Went Down to Bisonville, which was insanely long and weird. At the end of the night, I dropped my bass face down on the stage. So awesome.
Now we’re driving into the dark night, waiting for a Super Gr8 motel to appear so we can sleep in it. That really will be awesome. My favorite part, in fact, of the whole day.

DAY 9:

We drove all day today. Wait, let me check…

Yup, all day.

Day 10:

Well, last day of gigs on this particular trip. We're in Twin Lakes, Wisconsn (dig the accents!), at COUNTRY THUNDER!!
We did one of these in Arizona this spring, and I did a journal entry on it which I later decided not to post. Maybe someday.....
We opened the main-stage again, early afternoon on a grey dairy day. The first show went great; we play again at 9:30 tonight on a smaller stage. Promises to be a good time.
Right now we're chillin' in the green-room (mobile home) having a meeting about how to do this thing we're calling a career in a way that makes money, is fun, and gets better every year. For the most part, we're on that track.
Tomorrow we get up early to catch a 6am flight, or somewhere in there. As much as I'm not diggin' the early hour, I'm diggin' on the going home part. I'll catch you up on that tomorrow.

DAY DONE:
Sorry for leaving you hanging (Jeremy...), I'll put the button in it now.

Kinda like day one, but in reverse: Got up WAY to early even for normal people standards. 4:30am. Drove to Midway Chicago airport, where we almost missed our flight (what, you never seen a band check 20+ bags before?). But, we made it, and enjoyed an uneventful trip to Denver, where I enjoyed a gourmet piece of $14 pizza. Sheesh! Dropped Shupe off, where his family/car was.
Then on to SLC, where we raced home to change clothes/gear and Craig and I raced back to SLC for a fun little gig with Sam Payne, a dear friend of ours.
I slept like a baby that night. A baby that sleeps through the night without crying. And sleeps in late the next day.
And one that is potty-trained.

The Danger of Gear Escalation

Escalation is the phenomenon of something getting more intense step by step, for example a quarrel, or, notably, military presence and nuclear armament during the Cold War. (Thanks, wiki)
Only slightly less harmful would be gear escalation, the trend amongst musicians to continually try not only to keep up with the proverbial Jones', but be able to confidently sneer in their faces "nah, nah-nah nah-nah" when you whip out your new piece of gear and toss it casually onto the stage.
In this band it's the never-ending quest to get the most technologically advanced piece of gear into the smallest, lightest form possible. This has its practical applications, however, since we fly with all of our own gear, and that's getting expensive, if you hadn't heard.
There are only a few ways to avoid escalation. One would be to take the "purist" route, which is to say "I don't believe in electronics, wireless technology, and them there 'FX' Processors; all I need is this here gee-tar (and a nice mic and PA system)". The other is the "vintage gear" approach, which is "this piece of gear is from 1973, man, I can't alter it in any way! Blasphemy!".
But RS&RB doesn't really subscribe to either route - so when one of us discovers some new thing that sounds better, weighs less, is smaller, or even just looks cooler, we get it, and for those 6 months or so before our new gear becomes obsolete, we're the envy of all the other guys. Then, 6 months later, well, you get it.
The end result is: We CAN fly with all our own gear. We DO sound pretty good in a lot of situations where me might otherwise not, and when I look down at my feet to see all those blinking lights, I smile more.
And truthfully, I don't think there are any hard feelings amongst us about who is able to have what at any given point in time. But I'm still looking for the atom bomb of gear - the thing that I buy that can never be bested, that just says "Tilby wins; this thing is as awesome as can ever be". Until then, I'm just saying all my gear is "vintage".

10 things I don't want people to know about me.

I've been fascinated lately with my generations need to blog. What sort of attention-starved generation feels compelled to post its every mundane action on the web and invite all their friends to see?
Besides me, that is.
But you see, this page, if you'll notice, is called a journal, not a blog. A subtle difference, but if you'll remember, journals are where people of the past would write their most hidden thoughts and sacred feelings; a place where you could bounce ideas privately off yourself, and laugh at yourself years later. Journals were written for the writer, and the generations to come when the writer is comfortably dead and spared embarrassment.

So here's my journal entry. Not a blog. This is an honest look at how I think today, and I reserve the right to change how I think tomorrow. Here are 10 non-glossy-non-bloggy things about myself.

1. I don’t like the Beatles. I think Crowded House does the same thing, but better.
2. “Meet the Robinsons” makes me cry. Every time.
3. I’m not very interested in getting to know the people in my neighborhood.
4. I don’t like cats.
5. I’m a tree-hugger.
6. I usually vote Democrat.
7. I think most popular country music is nothing more than a marketing campaign.
8. I think Disneyland is more trouble than it’s worth.
9. I can eat Cocoa Puffs all day and night.
10. When I was 11, I lit the Johansons field on fire with homemade black-powder bombs.


There, I think that about covers it.

An Ugly Guitar

I just acquired another guitar. My collection is small, mind you, but nice and more importantly, meaningful. So when the opportunity to trade some banjo playing for this beat-up red-sparkle Fender Stratocaster (Japan) came along, I took it.
But this guitar is ugly.
It's scraped up.
The finish on the fretboard is peeling off, and the dirt is sticking.
The bridge pickup is a different type than the other two.
The bridge was discontinued by Fender in the late 80's.
There's a gash in the bottom of the body.
There's tape on the inside that says "This guitar belongs to Danny. If I catch you with it I'll kick your @&%."
The volume knob and tone knob are in the wrong places.
It has no case.
It has no whammy bar.
And so on, and so on. But here's the thing: the more I look at these things, the more they are what endear me to the beast. I think I'd like other people to love me in spite of my tone knob being in the wrong spot. When I pick up this guitar and plug it in, I play a little differently than I play with my other electrics. This one doesn't care if I try something new and botch it miserably; it seems to say "hey, no worries, I'm the guitar that's not about shiny paint or smooth frets, I'm the guitar that's about playing guitar." And I like that.
I guess I'm saying that having a really ugly strat has humbled me a little, and taught me for the fifth gwazillionth time that it's what's inside that counts, and how I use what I have.

Even so, if you know a good fret guy, let me know.

Country Wonder. Err.... Thunder.

Last week we went to Florence Arizona for COUNTRY THUNDER!!!!!!, which was a lot of fun. I've spent my life going to bluegrass festivals, so I expected a country festival to be similar.
Nope.
Kinda different. In a perfectly good way, don't get me wrong. I think what caught me the most off guard was the instant elevation to stardom performing on the mega-thunder stage would bring me. I made a lot of cool friends.
One such friend was Trisha (no need to change names, I'm not real sure she'll remember this if she reads it). Trisha and her friends will forever embody Country Thunder for me. They were totally ready. They had the wicker-crinkle-cowboy hats. They had the whole-body-tanning-booth tan. They had a couple of bucks to buy beer. They had bikini tops. They were totally amped to see shows.
They didn't have tickets.
But by combining a few of the afore mentioned prepared elements, they were able to get past the gate-guard and see our show. And man, did they rock hard. They danced and screamed and cheered. And when the show was over, they were psyched to meet us and talk. It was cool. This Trisha, however, seemed to think I would be her boyfriend right from the get-go. That was great. Quite flattering, and for a lot of musicians, it might have been a match made in heaven. But I have a slightly different style of socializing, and there were a few other details that may have prevented us from ever really becoming anything too serious. For one, she lived in Arizona, I in Utah. She has a deep love for country music, I'm kind of a jazz guy in my spare time. She seemed kinda extroverted, I'm a little shy. She was kinda drunk, I am kinda married.
But Trisha, if you're reading this, can we still be friends? I'm assuming you didn't make it to our second set because of the whole not-having-a-ticket thing, and I'm sorry about that. But for what it's worth, you and your friends will forever be Country Thunder to me, and no country festival will ever be the same without you there.

Tax-travaganza

I've spent a lot of time lately philosophizing on the class-structure of American society. In other words, I'm tired of renting, and want to buy a house.
I'm getting to where I can estimate a a homes value to within $20k based on the number of cars (and their models) parked in the driveway. For example: An Audi A4 and a Tahoe: $300-$325k. A Subaru and a Tacoma: $240-$275k. A Corolla and a Montero: $180-$210k. An Isuzu Rodeo and a mountain bike: you're renting.
Which is why I get a sick satisfaction out of April. Sometimes it's nice to see everyone you know reduced to the same common denominator: paying taxes. Everybody's got to do it, and for a brief sick moment, all mankind has something in common to talk about. It's like Christmas, but for all Americans.
Now, don't get me wrong; having or not having things does not a person make, nor it is (IMHO) what this life is all about anyway. I'd much rather meet a friend on the street and discuss the happy things of the world than, oh, say, taxes. So maybe this tax season we should all decide to talk about things we have in common that we like rather than dislike.
But all the same, if you see a deal on a house please let me know. I'm the guy in the Isuzu Rodeo. With a bike on the top.

"They all want me; can't have me"

I have a toddler. He's two. He's awesome. Before he goes to bed each night, I sing him a song. We have about five that we choose from, and I usually ending singing the same one or two each night.
Then, a week ago, he decides to start rejecting all my song options with a casual "nope" after each of my standard suggestions. In desperation I started naming completely random songs in hopes that he would say yes to one. He finally did.
The Macarena.
I have just enough Spanish skills to sing the thing, and barely enough dancing skills to get through it without falling down.
He loved it. I've done it five times a night for the last week, and I feel like an idiot. But, when I'm done, he lays down with a smile on his face and goes right to sleep, so I keep on dancin'.
Remember the Macarena? Need a reminder? I'll warn you, there are girls dancing with tight pants on.

http://www.vh1classic.com/view/artist/1165513/55389/Los_Del_Rio/Macarena/index.jhtml

Romney, Bikes, Vivaldi, and Pizza

I voted last week in the Utah version of Super-Tuesday. The Republican party had this stipulation that in order to receive a Republican ballot, you either had to be a registered republican, or become one that instant. I thought that was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. Mitt, we're buddies, but c'mon, I don't see why I should put my name on the Republican list when I only vote republican about half the time anyway.
Remember the Simpson’s episode where the two aliens come down to earth and run for president, one for each party? Moe says to Homer, "It's a two-party system, Homer, you've got to vote for one of them!" He's right.

A Happier World

I believe in a world where Ewoks, Care Bears, and Wookies can live in blissful peace and togetherness. In that world, the inhabitants would spend their time gathering Easter eggs every day, while from the clouds Kenny G descends like a gentle rain of marshmellowy sax goodness.
And maybe the clouds could all be shaped like bunnies, and the Starburst Rainbow could make a cameo appearance, no, be permanently in the sky, every day.
That's the kind of world I believe in.