I’m at my Engineer’s house. I can finally talk about him and his going-s on more freely. Like that he has a girlfriend who massages stuff. I don’t like to talk about people freely because it’s really none of other people’s business. That’s my philosophy on blogging anyway.

She actually massages people. That sounded really bad. She’s a professional. We’re all professional here.

Anyway, one of his projects is the Disciples of Sound. He’s doing their CD. He asked my opinion after he played a track. I had just gone to see them live at Headhunters a couple days ago. Headhunters is a club that is located right next to Hoboken Pies somewhere downtown. Apparently, my friend says that it’s the sweet kind of New York pie, rather than the salty one. And that the water makes the pizza. Not here in these pies, but in actual New York. I told him to bring pizza water next time he went to New York to visit his parents. I’d tell him to get his parents to bring me some pizza water, but this guy has sent his extremely classy mother my extremely UNCLASSY list of our compiled horrible band names. When they come here, they fly here in a very small plane. They think that I am weird enough.

I have this fantasy of Mike and I tossing perfect pizza in a pristine kitchen that looks like a lab though. I slide down the fireman’s pole from my library into my studio. Then I go into the conservatory (where the piano is) which is of course connected to my little studio (my studio is not very big because although I am an awesome and famous song-writer composer-performer chickie, I am kind of still a dilletante engineer – having no taste for numbers and no attention span for album names or band statistics or gear specifications). I go through the secret passageway in my conservatory into the kitchen. Why yes, it does look like the one in Clue.

The opinion I gave him on the Disciples sucked, and probably didn’t help matters at all. I can’t give a good opinion of harder bands. I’m feeling pretty shitty about my engineering skills lately you might-could-tell, which is probably why I haven’t really been on the ball about setting up my studio. The lack of fireman’s pole or secret passagway or light-filled-conservatory-with-BadAssed floor-which houses-a-Fazioli could also have something to do with this.

… I haven’t really been doing anything about anything other than learning to play jazz piano. I’m not really finishing songs. I’ve started looking at venues, but you kind of have to comit to that intention. It’s a step. People all around me are mounting major video making campaigns. I’m NOT on the band wagon. I’m freaking out about this. Ack!

But it’s good that I’m learning to play jazz piano. It’s turning me into a bad ass piano player. I know though at some point, I’m going to have to crack open Cubase and deal with my damn problems. I’m going to have to book gigs, and take photos of my self, and videotape things. And have a real recording made of myself.  And finish cleaning out those two rooms so I can put up the friggin soundproofing, which has been sitting there like a constant reminder of how I suuuuuucccckkkk.

He’s editing drums now. Not the Disciples of Sound. It’s funny how he talks. Watching him do drummy-druminator thingys (not the technical term for what he is doing, and part of my problem), leads me to understand a few key things:

1. Saying “cockn’balls a lot may turn me into a better engineer, over time.
2. I really can’t give good feedback on stuff that is “heavy  music.” Seriously. I have nothing meaningful to say. I just smile and look like I have the IQ of a champagne grape. This will not turn me into a better engineer, over time.
3. It would be real helpful if I had two large monitors in my life because having everything out on huge-o screens it AWESOME for big, fat editing.
4. I’m happy I’m a Steinberg girl still (even though I know not what I am doing), and ProTools can still suckit.
5. I LOOOOVVVVEEEE Leslie speakers

 

uh-oh

It’s very tenuous, you know.  It could ALL go up in smoke at the drop of a hat.  And it’s VERY, VERY easy to drop hats.  Lots and lots of hats.  I am a fickle creature who is psyched out easily and practically CRAVES distraction.  It’s much like a disease.  

I’m helping a friend out with the performance of another musical.  The facts of it are all a little wonky and make me uncomfortable.  It’s over on Sunday.  I’m hoping that I will not be distracted from my work.  This really has the potential to cause a LOT of problems for me.  My friend says that he really wants to help me with my project on this, but I don’t think that he understands that he could probably help more by … well, I don’t know … I don’t know what would help with this situation other than for it just not to exist.

So now we’re in the next paragraph.  I have to go mail something unpleasant, or not.  It occurs to me that I might need to protect my intellectual property somehow before I mail out these notes.  I’m a little freaked out about doing this.  As usual, I’m freaked out about standing up for myself, feeling all weasely and shifty.  This is one of those things that I would talk about with a professional friend.  And I don’t have one of those I can get good-and-neuro with yet.

 

fu-fu

I am waiting, with more bait-breath, for some kind of sign about the song-fu thing.  I am impatient.  I have not really finished any kind of solid food today.  I am a freak.  I stayed up FAR too late last night and I should probably consume some blueberries or something.

I have to send in my notes for the musical, because for some bizarre reason they consider them invaluable. I am not sure why this is – since the vibe I was getting in rehearsals was what led me to drop out of the musical in the first place.  We left on good terms, unlike many of my projects – where we have not only burnt bridges, but blown them into dimensions where their fields of reality cease to exist and dangerous event horizon-type things are created and chain reaction horrible-nesses occur all over other galaxies in other people’s alien rock bands.  That didn’t happen with this one.  Things were regretful and polite.  The phrase, perhaps we can work together again, was tossed out by the person I thought I was troubling … and if I remember correctly – I think it was accompanied by looking forward to … I guess if I’m this surpried, this makes me sound like some kind of problem child.

I don’t know, perhaps I am a space cadet.  I do not regret my actions, since I need the time and I don’t have the learning-curve stuff together on the software … I was clear about this.  I don’t know why I’m second-guessing myself.  I talk to the husband about this over-and-over.  And I need to be careful with all future things.  I should be careful with other approaches, even wtih Song Fu, to a certain extent.  If I pour all my energy into songs about lactating weasels (not that I will do this!), this is not really celebrating the strange flower that is myself.

My husband’s homeboy who is my ex-boss is doing some movie about horses and he has mentioned that he wants me to collaborate on some string parts.  I don’t know if this will come to pass or how this will be structured.  I am going to play around with viola noises today, because he brought his guitar into the smoke shop and I listened to his sonic interpretation of horses running in e minor-ishness.  I think I can work with this.  It reminds me of my marine/bro and his playing the theme from ‘Brokeback Mountain.’  I think everyone has a ‘Brokeback Mountain’ story, probably like knowing where where you during this last inauguration or 9-11 or or any other pivotal moment.  Okay – maybe not so much.  Or I don’t know – I think so … it was a fairly large moment in cinema, anyway.

When saying “cinema-anyway” really fast over-and-over becomes recklessly entertaining, you know that you have abused your body … hopefully for the last time.  Perhaps I should shut up and eat my pineapple.

 

anger

So yeah … I thought that it was supposed to slowly ebb away.  Get a little better.  I was going to kind of sit on the front porch of the coffee shop – and obsessively … uh … surf the internet, we’ll just say.  But I’m not doing that.  The website in question will not cooperate with the server here, or something.  So I’m listening to country western pour out of someone’s cab.  It’s reminding me of my marine – which is just making me sad.  I’m wondering if I will have any people who are just mine left – or if they are all going to be absconded with.

I know that I’m just being bitter and absolutist, but I’m starting to freak out a little bit here.

I wanted to do some pro-active audio work today.  Finishing the troubleshooting that I need to do to move on with some of my stuff requires a cool head and concentration.  Neither of which I have.  My engineering buddy called me a day or two ago and told me that he’s going to help me soon – like next week or something.  That’s really good of him – but the fact is that I want to be able to do all the things I need to do and just ask him a few intelligent questions.  I don’t want to bug him with asinine BS.  I would rather just have done with all that.

Maybe there will be better reception for my voyeuring in the humidor.

 

everything falls apart …

It’s all in a complete mess.  There’s no stability, no excuse.  No center.

I try to do the right things.  Try to move on.  I don’t understand why she gets to behave as she does.  Gets to do whatever she pleases.  It’s completely untoward.  God only knows what else she is doing …

Is she trying to reactivate the little social group that got her into trouble in the first place and ruined things for me?  Does she really think that it’s going to all just be fine, fine, fine?  It was bad enough with EXT sending stupid update emails to my husband – but there was really nothing that we could do about that.  I hadn’t decided what to do about his mother’s birthday card.  None of this makes any sense to anyone but me.

He’s not allowed to talk to me.  I’m a huge threat.

So what on earth is going on with emailing my husband.  Who does this?  Are the rules just changed somehow.  I just want to write a stupid email or something:

“Dear Clueless Wad of Denial - 

Things are good with me.  Had a birthday.  Yeah, the Denise lot’s actually slowly improving … although one thing that hasn’t changed is that I still talk to my husband all the time, every day … about every little thing.

The All Knowing, All Seeing, 

Not Really.

PS.  What’s in your wallet?

PPS.  If your mail is still being screened, my husband actually comes with baggage; and thusly cannot be an object of nostalgia for anyone …”

Now wouldn’t that be lover-ley? {evil smile}

 

Barton Springs, finally.

This entry has nothing to do with the pool in Austin.

 

A CHICK WITH A STICK, AND A GEE-TAR PICK #1 [rated "R"]

 

Armand Assante, Love, and Donuts [LANGUAGE ADVISORY]

I have an Armand Assante bathroom. I’ve been visiting it a lot this morning, because last night, the beer and cigar fairies came and danced in my forest (no, not in my gutter – so remove your mind from it … even though there is no “you,” because this is my second “blog” and I don’t actually believe anyone is reading this so I can actually go relatively unobserved). Let me tell you, it’s pretty liberating to have Mr. Assante looking down at you (from a large poster on the back of the door) while you do your business; as if to say “you really aren’t living right.” He’s doing it with a kindly attitude, as if he cares about your body, your life, your career. He’s got a cigar in his hand – so he knows how it is. He’s being very zen about the whole thing. He just wishes you’d get some exercise … or go to the doctor more often … but whaddayagonnadoaboutit?

I’m writing in here, but I feel like sometimes I’m only writing in here because I’m trying to keep up with the rest of “blog university.” My husband is looking at other people’s blogs and telling me how much more “me” I could be. I know that’s not what he’s doing, but we both agree that I would be more successful if I had more of a “web presence.”

I was working while shoving donuts in my face. I was actually getting a lot done (besides the fact that it’s rather dubious for a “rock star” – ha, ha – to be shoving donuts in her face) and putting in my stuff from the tiny recorder I have this neat thing that I work with where I put all my “input” … jams, thoughts, sometimes “voice-diaries” down. I might integrate it into the blog if I get brave … I don’t know. I know that on lj you can do voice posts … although I’ve never done one. I’m pretty shy about getting my voice out there.

 

SATAN’S GUITAR (a very long introduction)

I am a songwriter with a blog. There is a blinking cursor in front of me – like you see in so many television shows when you are supposed to be working but you are not because the stakes are high and you’d rather crawl back into bed and eat a Three Musketeers bar.

I have a live journal, but it is private. I am always thinking of perfection when I write … should I post an official link to the Three Musketeers website? – so that my readers can link up to the history of these musketeers ..? then they can learn the history of both the candy bar, and the musketeers themselves … da, da, da.

Part of the problem, the reason that I don’t get any “work” done – is that I have a confession to make. It is why I have been hiding under my little rock for so long.

I am afraid of the internet. I have a phobia of large, uncontrolled spaces. I am afraid of what a lack of discretion might do to me. I’m afraid of all that time. I’m afraid of what a perfectionist might do in such a space, with all those tools.

Of course, if I actually sit in my own studio for any length of time, it takes me forever to get anything done. I’m actually having a huge problem with that, because I can’t work. I use EQ to apologize for my room, reverb to cover up crap. I’m pretty good at it – but I think in the back of my mind, isn’t there something better than this???

I’m inside a room that is on the major bird highway. And lately, by the time it’s the middle of the night (i.e. better for recording) – I’m in this dead-tired place. And we’ve gotten night birds in on the action now, anyway – like they know that there’s soundproof-free recording going on, because our psychopath raccoons have sent out a bulletin so I can have more Animal Kingdom interference in my life.

I feel as though I complain a lot.

Also, I am defining “work” inappropriately. Just to give myself some credit. I am an extremely prolific songwriter. I feel guilty saying this; as if I am not allowed to compliment myself. This seems to be one of those “things” in the music business that I’m not navigating well. You naturally want people to think you’re a bad-ass, but if I actually walk into a room and tell people “I wrote 37 songs last year and I’m actively in the middle of 54 more; I have learned to play the piano while blindfolded; listen to me play these things really, really fast (not that this matters in my specific field – if I was a concert piano player … I would not be cutting the mustard); da, da, da” … well if I tell people all this I sound like what they call in Australia a “show pony.”

I tell people that I can play many instruments, that if someone wanted a specific part done on a drumset I could do that too – and that I can also play a marimba with four mallets. People talk in the humidor that we hang out in (my husband and I) and I’m always thinking done it, done it, done it … This is of course, when I’m not thinking, “oh, my ex-songwriting partner is in a band, schmoozing with that famous person’s little brother …” or, “yes, I know that band … I used to have a friend who doesn’t really call anymore who screwed most of them …” It’s gotten to the point that my claim-to-fame isn’t my shiny piece of expensive UT paper on my wall; but my appearance with my littlest brother’s band (which took approximately 6-8 chords – the importance of their accuracy being heavily emphasized to me). It was literally the coolest thing I got to do. He’s now in two bands that are substantial. This year, he had a Smack-by-Swashbuckling-Wenches wristband. He went as a pirate. I abstained with a surly look on my face (not at him, at the whole concept of the week … I’m really proud of him!); but I still don’t think that people “get it.”

I tried to explain that I actually got shot down at an open mic … but I still don’t think they “get it.” In fact, I know they don’t, because they’ve asked me to go see someone play – at the open mic I got shot down at. Nope. Not clicking.

Brothers. Pathetic connections with ex-s who think that you’re lame and couldn’t give a damn that they actually wrote some of their best (and most prolific) material with you. And your best most amazing performance work with total drooling imbeciles. And some of those were really fun, good, audience pleasing gigs. Don’t even talk about music school – even though I met the most amazing person I ever met there … although she’s gone now, sadly. My stories are all very weird, and kind of tend to quiet rooms – stop all conversation. “It was all going very well, until all communication was cut off / they died / my toenail was ripped off / etc.”

It’s hard to acquire gigs now based on such dubious connections/occurances.

But I have several of these. I’m high on technique and output … low on the people side of things – which actually includes recording and working with other musicians. The list of places I’ve played is actually pretty hefty – but would probably be met with a “nuh-uh … when did you play there???” Never mind, never mind … I’d say, I’m not allowed to talk about it, because this person was sleeping with that person and that’s why I was at the gig … and I didn’t play well because I was on medication that day and blah, blah … but I actually was at your club that day – if you want to get technical …

This also includes the fact that sex and alcohol (which I also enjoy – but in a boring way, being a happily married lightweight … although I’m not judging); these things make these other musicians cooler and smoother than me. So I end up fading into the back of many of these social scenes.

I’m an extremely talented young lady with a severe networking handicap.

Chris Wall, who would probably not recognize me even if we were trapped together in a very small elevator … (and resultingly would not be reading this and would probably not mind being in my silly little blog); once borrowed my guitar from someone else who was also borrowing it. He looked down at it hopelessly and coined it “Satan’s Guitar.”  It is rather … difficult …  But I am not Satan.  Heh, heh, heh …

Have a nice day

FINIS

**********************

TTD: -Go to a nice cafe. WHILE THERE: Get some of that nice Hibiscus Mint tea – which is one of the top 5 reasons to live in South Austin. Revel in the absence of Satan-by-South-Washingmachine. Refine massive “list of things to do” (a work of things in progress)

- BEFORE LEAVING: Do “morning pages” (more on those later). When done, practice for 30 MINUTES [note to moi: NOT SIX HOURS]. While out, stick on earphones and go through songfiles from minirecorder and keep good stuff to work on (so I can finally finish ‘Charlatan.’)

-Come home. Finish Charlatan. this could be after martial arts (more on martial arts and charlatan later). Write about both things in blog.

Let this develop, mellow. See how it goes.

Stop freaking out.