So I was lying on the edge of the bed. Foot-Foot decided he wanted to climb up onto the bed too for some serious nuzzling and all that shit cats are into. Instead of jumping (I don’t know) over me, he decided it was a good idea to sink his little claws into my rib-meat and climb me. I resisted the urge to fling him across the room (but only because I know he didn’t mean it… if he meant it, that little bitch would be splattered all over my wall right now).
Did I mention I’m allergic to cats? Eve probably got her tats after a similar occasion.
So I was doing some rearranging of the personal blog-eroo, and decided to delete the pages I had made for a few short-lived music projects. Lest we forget, I’m just gonna summarize those pages in a post on this one.
Erika and Zach
The name says it all. We were Erika and Zach. Did we do much? Nope. I decided that Isthmus and the Lisps is definitely a loose enough term to include music projects by small subsets of band members. Therefore, when Erika and Zach record or perform outside of the Isthmus and the Lisps umbrella-ella-ella , we will from now on be referred to as Erika Young and Zach Forsberg-Lary of Isthmus and the Lisps. I feel like Prince (or whatever you call that guy now).
Anyway, here are the recordings that were once posted on the “Erika and Zach” page. They’re nothing special, but they’re genuine so I feel bad letting them die or fade into oblivion.
“Mama Was” (Isthmus and the Lisps)
Hallelujah (Leonard Cohen)
Well that’s that. Next, let’s not forget about this Osmond-esque duet (Osmond-esque without quite the level of corniness and obviously without the weird incest-vibe I always got from those white-toothed creepers). Without further ado:
Czar Tara Choy VII
We played one show. But it was one of those shows that people will wistfully mumble to their progeny about. Okay, maybe not “people” but I probably will. I will definitely at least mention this to my kids some day:
“Hey, you kids know your aunt Vic?”
“Yeah.”
“She and I played a show together once.”
“Yeah dad, you tell us every time we come to visit you.”
“Oh.”
“Aunt Vic died like fifteen years ago, and you’re a senile old coot in an assisted-living home.” Stop telling weird stories that aren’t true. You’re scaring the nurses.”
“No, get me the internet, I’ll show you!”
“The internet? Good one, dad. There’s no such thing as the internet anymore.”
“What?”
“Remember we got you that 5-Dimensional Global-Thought Network Chip for Christmas last year?”
“Yeah, but installing it was too confusing. I couldn’t get the clock to read the right time.”
“We’ll have one of your grandkids stop by and fix it for you, but you’ll have to pay them $10, since they’re at the age where they hate their families and won’t do chores without monetary incentives.”
“Oh okay, thanks.”
And that will be that. Anyway, here are the only recordings Czar Tara Choy VII ever recorded; from a live performance at The Livingroom in Providence RI. Songs recorded by Scotty V.
It was a shitty time to be alive and everybody knew it. Humanity was united in one belief and one belief only: things could be so much better. Seemingly every person had an opinion that they felt they were entitled to, so naturally there was little that could be agreed upon. One thing, however, ran as an undercurrent beneath the complaints of almost everyone:
The present is a joke.
How individuals expressed this belief was displayed in wildly different ways. To be sure, no one could come close to articulating that a fundamental mutual dissatisfaction was at the root of their misery. But it was there, plain as day. You didn’t even have to look that hard.
One large group of people seemed to fixate on the past. After all, if things were bad now, they were better before. The problems of the present simply weren’t there in the past. How else could they have come to be so angry with the way of the world if it wasn’t for a fundamental shift away from the elements that filled their memories with joy and warmth? The present was a cold, unforgiving wraith staring at you from the corner of an empty room that you couldn’t leave. It stared with unblinking eyes filled with spite and dared you bring the material elements of the past into the real world out of your mind. It knew you couldn’t. That’s why it was so confident.
Another large group of people looked towards the future. Everything will be better in the future, they reasoned. Enough time will have gone by to erase the penetrating stain of the present. We’ll no longer be slaves to a master that can’t exist, because the present can’t exist into the future. It’s a fundamental truth, and it’s self-evidence will only come into sharp relief once the future comes.
These two groups of people were always fighting each other. One of them wanted to artificially re-create the past, hoping (or at least suspecting) that some of the warmth and joy that they used to feel would be restored. They resented the other group’s determination to drag the entire world forward until it resembled something so completely different that all its negative elements would be erased. The second group mostly hated the first for what they perceived to be a massive grinding-in of the filth that caused the present to stink so badly.
Ironically, these two should have been united against the present. All the rhetorical and physical weapons at their disposal should have been directed at the here and now. And in fact they were, but not in any way that they would ever care to admit to themselves or one another. As a team they cheapened the institutions and creations of everything that was happening now. From one side they pulled, and from the other side they did some more pulling.
Pretty soon, the present was stretched out so thin it was almost translucent. You could barely see it in front of your eyes. Many neutral people were always standing around, trying to grab at the present and complaining that they could almost see through it. These neutral people, those folk who just wanted to sit down and get some work done, god dammit, they wanted nothing to do with the Time Wars. Past and Future: what’s the difference? It’s all imaginary! It’s all in your head! Let’s focus on the present! Golly, so what if it’s a joke!? It’s quite a lovely joke! Why, just the other day, the wife and I were taking a nice walk, and I bent over to pick her some lovely Now that was just spilling out of the crevices of Existence. But gosh darn it if when I picked it up and showed it to her we could the both of us almost see straight plum through the dang stuff!
Calls for moderation went unheeded. Summits were convened. The respective leaders from both sides came forward and were instructed to be pleasant to one another by the Moderator. The Moderator (with help from the live studio audience) gave some suggestions. OK. Things are kind of bad. I get that. Some of you like some things and hate other things, and some more of you hate some things and like other things. But could you quit it with the pulling? Some of us are trying to live here in the present!
Well, the leaders of the respective movements didn’t take too kindly to that. They knew that their ongoing war with each other had only one obstacle between cautious paranoid coexistence and complete, all-out confrontation: the hated Now. As if coordinated, the leaders sent their forces rampaging onto the set of the summit instantaneously. The mission: rip the present to shreds with your bare hands. Take no prisoners. Anyone attempting to just get along goes right out the proverbial window with the proverbial bath-water.
In this metaphor the bath-water is the present.
Soon, there was nothing left. When the dust cleared, Now ceased to exist and only the Past and the Future remained. Staring at each other over the mangled remains of the Present, the leaders of the two sides met for one last time. They sauntered from behind the front lines and smoothed the lapels of their tailored suits. Coming to a stop over the horrifically mutilated body of the neutral Moderator, they shook hands. One lit a cigar. The other a cigarette.
Well, well, well: look what we’ve done here. Looks like we finally got what we wanted. They smirked at one another from behind sidelong glances. You know, they said, if things keep on going the way they’re about to go, things might keep on going the way that they’re about to go. They couldn’t agree more with each other, and after an awkward hug, they put out their respective tobacco and walked back behind the front lines.
Now the name of the game was The Waiting Game. And each one waited for the other to make the first move. I sat there for an eternity and I’m still not bored yet.
Let me begin what may sound like a harsh critique by emphasizing the fact that I consider myself a fan of Deer Tick’s music. Let me also summarize some biases I might have toward the band:
1. I heard (and really loved) some of John’s early stuff in 2003/2004 when hand-scrawled CD-R’s were circulating in Providence.
2. My sister’s boyfriend, Andy T was a short-lived and (in my opinion) under-appreciated guitarist for the band from 2008-2009.
3. I have met all the members of the band on several occasions and Chris, Dennis, and Ian are ALL down-to-earth gentle souls. They seem (from the perspective of a casual acquaintance) like decent guys and pretty talented musicians.
4. I firmly defend my opinion that John is a uniquely talented song-writer and artist.
All of that nonsense aside, let’s get down to brass tacks.
Black Dirt Sessions has already been trashed all over the web for sounding “tired” and “stale”. It has also been praised for the maturity and growth in the songwriting and the sound. Some writers/critics are still fixating on John’s signature voice, while others are pointing out the expert guitar work. Those seem to be the most common perspectives in the online music-critiquing community.
First, let me say I like the album about as much as I liked Born on Flag Day (which I neither loved nor hated). I give it about a 7.5 on an objective scale and my i-tunes play-counts probably give it like a 4 or 5 out of 10. I liked it, but there were plenty of albums that came out over the past couple years that I liked way more. Did it survive countless library purges? Yes. Is it in my top 50 or even 100 albums? No.
1. Maturity and growth of song-writing and sound:
Nope. According to insider information, the majority of Black Dirt Sessions was recorded at the same time as Born on Flag Day, so unless the guys got real mature over the course of a few days in the studio, any difference in sound is probably a result of production and post-production. As far as the song-writing, while unarguably coming from a genuine place of artistic integrity, is nothing new. Most (if not all) of the songs on this album predate the formation of the band in 2006, and I have the CD-R’s to prove it. “Sad Sun” and “Hand in My Hand” existed in some form since (at the latest) 2003. So what seems to me to be the case is that John has written probably 50+ songs and he’s slowly recording them all with whatever incarnation of Deer Tick is convenient. While that might sound like a criticism, I don’t mean it as one. I just find it difficult to not be pissed off when I read reviews by people who don’t know what they’re talking about and/or when someone isn’t honest with the public or their fans about the workings of their band. That said, I’m sure if anyone asked John “when did you write these songs?”, he would undoubtedly tell them; despite any character flaws the man may or may not have, he does not strike me as a dishonest guy.
2. Tired and stale?
Yeah… so? I haven’t heard many albums or bands lately that I can’t compare to some other album or band that I’ve heard. So what if Deer Tick isn’t the first or freshest face in americana-roots-country-alt-rock-revival music. I think their fans and critics should approach their music knowing what they’re in for. Are they capable of more unique or interesting music? Probably. Does that obligate them to produce out-of-the box, never-heard-before sound? Hell no. The band (hopefully) is conscious of the degree to which their originality or lack thereof is pushing or padding the limits of the type of music they’re producing. Does it sound like most other bands within the fairly narrow niche-genre I would classify them as? Yeah, pretty much. Does it sound like 90% of the other music on the radio or in the record store? No. Mission accomplished.
3. John’s voice:
We know. Get over it. Love it or hate it, it’s his and it’s probably the most unique thing about the band’s sound. Take it or leave it, but after three albums, even mentioning it feels like beating a dead horse.
4. Guitar work.
Is it good? Yes. Is it the single-handed work of guitarist Ian O’Neal? Not by a long shot. Ian is a capable guitarist (and a nice enough guy), so I do not intend this comment to in any way imply a lack of respect for what he does. Isn’t Ian the guitarist on the album? Yeah, sort of. From anecdotal evidence, John winds up doing quite a bit of the lead guitar work himself (on every album). Andy T is also featured on a few of the songs, but I have yet to see a reference to his contributions anywhere on the web. So if we’re discussing the guitar-work, we need to specify which songs in particular and find out who actually laid down the track that made the album.
Overall, my impression of the album is basically what my impression has been of the band for the past year or so: it’s solid but not super-special. Are the songs good? Most of them, yes. Are the musicians talented? Yes, definitely. Is it groundbreaking? Nope, but I didn’t expect it to be.
SPOILER ALERT: I just comcast-on-demanded Shutter Island because I was bored when I got home from work. I give it a neutral rating. Here’s why:
So has everyone had one of those lovers who does all the right moves, but for some reason you wouldn’t list him/her in your top 10 (or 5 or 3 or 2 or however many your “top” list includes)? Martin Scorsese is that lover.
This movie did all the right things: it wined and dined me, it casually asked me back to its place under some thinly veiled pretext, it set the mood with soft lighting and some Kenny G, it kissed well, it knew just when to pick me up and carry me to the budoir, it even knew the right way to work me downtown (and I’m pretty particular about that shit), hell Martin Scorsese took me just the way I want to be taken; he was respectful, he listened to my needs, and fulfilled my most secret desires. But afterward, I was kind of like: meh.
Sometimes, you can follow a recipe to the letter and your fucking flan collapses (or some saying about baking desserts that involves falling short despite one’s best efforts). Shutter Island was good (don’t get me wrong), but it felt a little uninspired. I want to feel the pulse of the writer/director/actors/grips (at least) when I sit down to watch a movie.
Plus, I don’t mean to Sixth-Sense anybody, but the “twist” came like a fucking herd of elephants wearing jingle-bells in a china shop (or some less garbled saying about obviousness). I called the “he’s the crazy one” punchline from the first fucking scene where he’s pale as a ghost, puking in a ferry sink, with a weird-ass band-aid on his forehead. Besides, Mark Ruffalo can’t be convincing as anything other than lovable and trustworthy so casting a puppy dog as a sheep in wolf in sheep’s clothing didn’t really tickle my G-spot like Scorsese probably wanted to.
Oh, and Heath Ledger’s widow will probably be type-cast as a crazy lady for the rest of her life… you can’t be married to that suicidal drug-addict hunk without walking away a little traumatized.
I guess I give it four out of five stars. I mean, it did everything right, but it’ll never make any list of mine. It was missing a certain, fucking… je ne sais quoi.
So I know the whole Fox News crew is a pretty easy target for anyone with any sort of commitment to logical argument, so this post is about to fall well within the range of “preaching to the choir”. Obviously, faux-news and commentary (whether conservative or liberal in its slant) always has somebody to whine about or some issue to oversimplify, but the BP oil spill in the gulf? Really?
This is all I’ve seen on TV for the past two months. We get it: it’s really bad.
Is it a disaster? Yes. Has the original problem been solved yet? No. Has any real progress been made to minimize the damage or clean up the aftermath? Not really.
Here’s my problem with the whole shebang: I haven’t heard any of the right questions asked yet (forget answered).
Is a British Petroleum oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico the responsibility of the President of the United States? I’m sure plenty of people think it is. But is it really? The clean-up and/or the minimizing of damage to US interests (i.e. the environment, US businesses, jobs, ecosystems, etc.) surely should be somebody’s responsibility. But whose? Everyone seems to think they know, and they’re pretty sure it’s the federal government’s job. Okay, I’ll bite. So when there’s a forest fire in a national park, it’s up to the federal government to put it out? WRONG. The federal government helps out when the park rangers and local law enforcement and fire departments can’t handle it themselves, but it’s nobody’s fucking responsibility (which is what classifies it as an accident rather than eco-terrorism).
Most natural disasters are handled by public AND private organizations whose purpose is disaster response (FEMA and/or the National Guard tend to step in when it’s beyond the control and capabilities of local/state/private-sector organizations). The problem with blaming any of these groups is fundamental: they did not cause the problem. They can be criticized (a little) for how well they fulfill their roles, but never under any circumstances should the people whose job it is to clean a mess be considered responsible for the mess itself. The extension of blame to include anyone other than British Petroleum (and specifically/only the departments of British petroleum that are directly responsible for any technical errors or failures to comply with international standards for off-shore drilling) is flawed because none of these organizations are equipped or trained to deal with a disaster while it’s slowly happening over the course of fifty-four days. They are trained to prepare for foreseen disasters and respond to disasters that catch us off guard. While this oil spill may or may not have been foreseen by BP, it was not predicted by anyone else, so FEMA and (I’ll play along) the federal government and the President himself cannot justifiably be held accountable for any lack of preparedness. The pipe hasn’t stopped leaking yet, so it may be shortsighted to expend valuable resources/time/energy cleaning up the mess before we know what the mess is and how severe its effects will be. Sure, try to analyze the situation and prevent further complications if possible, but right now, the major effort should be to stop the leak. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry knows the best way to stop this leak (or so it would seem based solely on how outraged faux-news commentators seem to be when re-hashing hour-after-hour the simple fact that it isn’t fixed yet), but the fact is, this oil spill is a cluster-fuck of brilliant engineers trying to figure out the most viable, environmentally-sound ways to deal with a problem that’s only ever previously been solved by nuking the fucking sea-floor.
In my less-than-humble opinion, the best way to handle this natural disaster is to shut the fuck up and let people (whose job it is to be smarter than us) take all the fucking time they want to think up a real and not-nuclear solution to this problem. Is 54 days too long to have crude oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico? Yes. Are there people working on it? Yes. Should they listen to you when you bitch and moan that they haven’t fixed it yet? No. Maybe the fact that it isn’t fixed means it’s harder to fix than your tiny, Fox-News-addled brain thinks it is.
Then again, maybe the only reason it hasn’t been fixed yet is that the illuminati, free-masons, skulls, whole new world order are having a secret bidding-war behind closed doors for the vast fortune of Nazi gold and 9/11 memorabilia that was probably uncovered in a sunken pirate ship when they were drilling.
The first thing you have to do is walk around for a few miles until you are lost. Good. Now sit down on a log or a curb or something low to the ground. Find a stick or a rock and draw some dumb pictures in the dirt, sand, etc. These pictures should be dumb. Good. It’s time to look down at the pictures you’ve drawn and wonder why you’ve drawn them. Quickly shift your mind to the right and realize you don’t know anything. Sure, things have happened and will continue to happen, but during these past and future stints you’ve really never known anything. Now get up and look around. Good. Rotating slowly, 360 degrees, pick out the tallest landmark that is visible to you. If you happen to be in the desert, Siberian tundra, or some such barren flat land, you’ll have to pretend there is a large marble tower three miles southeast of you. Do you see it? Good. Turn in the opposite direction and begin sprinting. Do so until you vomit. This step is important. Once you’ve sprinted to the point of vomitting you may have 30 seconds to rest, but do not collect yourself. These 30 seconds are for you body, not for you mind. You’ll need at least some strength in your legs in order to continue. Good. Start rambling aloud to yourself while using whatever available earth you can find to bury your vomit. You can say anything you want, but do not stop rambling until the vomit is completely buried. If at any point you feel that you have to throw up again, do so, but immediately continue on rambling as you bury up the new puke. At this point it can be noted that you should be extremely dizzy and out of breath. If you are not, that’s ok, but maybe it would help to do some quick sprints- really get things spinning. Good. You are getting so close! Yell out, “I am getting so close!” As you stagger around getting dizzier. Good. Now you can start walking aimlessly again. This time really think about how you are walking. What are your legs doing? Your feet? How do your arms move? Think too about how you are breathing. Why? How? Chest swells. Chest goes down. Continue until you see someone. If no one is around, that is, if you are in the desert, Siberian tundra, or some such barren flat land, imagine there is a large marble tower full of people 3 miles southeast of where you’re at. See it? Good. Head for the tower. Or the people. Or both. You are getting so close! There is much to do. Now begin to distrust me. Who am I and how do I know all this? Is this really what you want in your life- to listen to someone else about how to make it better? How do I walk, or breathe? Chest swells. Chest goes down. Good. Next, let the notion that you are lost really settle in. At this point it can be noted that you should begin to cry. This can be for no reason other than a feeling of being lost. Do not let you mind wander to any personal problems you have had in the past. Cry solely for the fact that you are lost. Good. Found anyone yet? If you have, explain to them why you are crying and ask them to go away. Be polite when you tell them. Good. Now it is time to pretend you are someone else. Create a person to be and imagine what their life is like. Really believe you are this new he or her. Think about what they think about when they get up in the morning, when they go to bed at night. Or do they go to bed in the morning? Where do they come from? Where are they going? Keep asking, wondering, imagining, walking until you get to an ATM. This could take a while, but it is a very important step. Good. Withdraw all the money you have- that which you have worked so hard for, or stolen, or laundered- it doesn’t matter, just take it all out. If you are able to overdraft, do that too. You won’t need any money after this. Put the money in a bag and leave it under the rock shaped like a stop sign in the middle of the park off of main street. Good. You are getting so close! Now go home. Sit around or do whatever it is you do until the answer appears to you in a vision. You are on your way to eternal salvation.
Okay, I was literally JUST watching The Colbert Report and Stephen was berating guests Vampire Weekend about a minor lyric “who gives a fuck about an oxford comma.”
1. An Oxford comma is the final comma in any series of three or more terms usually followed by the word “and” or “or” and then the final term.
2. I realize the intention behind the lyric was probably tongue and cheek-iness. The point was probably more to make other moderately intelligent people laugh than to actually point out some weird abhorrence of proper punctuation.
3. I realize Stephen’s outrage was probably for the same reason.
However, the Oxford comma is important. It helps to characterize and categorize items in a list. Sure, it is fairly obvious with a list of simple nouns that all items of the list are separate, but what about more complex lists of pairs or groups, or lists separated by other clauses or punctuation? The logic that this punctuation is superfluous stems from a deeply flawed notion that responsibility for understanding be placed upon the interpreter, the listener, or the reader rather than on the communicator. The whole purpose of effective communication is to make one’s meaning explicit, clear, and unable to be misinterpreted.
I am not a stickler for grammar and punctuation in an informal arena (i.e. conversations between friends, a casual e-mail, etc.), but when one’s meaning is essential to his/her intent, one must be as clear as possible. If the purpose of writing is to make oneself understood or to lead another to one’s own conclusions, a writer cannot afford any discrepancy within his/her power between intent and outcome. Once words are written, one has no control over how they are understood; why not take every precaution available to ensure one’s clarity of purpose.
It is this same mindset (throwing the Oxford comma to the wayside) that has led to shorthand, instant messaging, texting and Twitter. It represents a retardation (both in denotation and connotation) of language. What we’re saying is no longer important, it’s the fact that we’re saying something is all that matters:
Jerry’s facebook status: my friend died.
John: aw that sux man. (how sincere can one seem in all lowercase unpunctuated phrases?)
Jerry: thx.
Susan: what friend?
Jerry: you dont kno him.
Susan: maybe I do tho.
Jerry: nah it was my friend from ohio, I met him at that concert a few years ago.
John: oh
Susan: did you guys see each other after that?
Jerry: not rly. y?
John: be the change you want to see in the world.
Jerry: doesn’t rly apply, but thx anyway
Susan: so u didn’t even kno him that well then.
Jerry: he was still my friend and it still sux that he died. I been listening to cure all night cuz the whole thing just makes me down. u kno?
John: old cure or new cure?
Jerry: like perfect as cats cure.
Susan: rly? perfect as cats?
John: gay.
Jerry: whatever. like to see you have a friend die and see how much cure you prolly listen to after.
I spent all of today indulging in myself. I took a nostalgia day. I perused the web and view all of my previous accomplishments: songs, cover songs, movies, etc.
Conclusion: I’m very proud of some of it, very embarrassed of some of it.
Not to distract from Alex’s recent post by moving it down the page here with my soon-to-be rant, but I just wanted to share what happened tonight.
A fire alarm went off in my apartment, while Erika and I were sitting in the living room. We turned off the stove, put our cat in his carrier, and went downstairs where we found thick pungent smoke billowing through the hallways. After making sure a few of the neighbors were alright, I walked outside to find two couch-pillows on fire near the side of the building. Wondering who had put them there to burn and risk catching the entire building on fire instead of smothering them out, I moved them several yards away and stomped them out in the grass.
Most of the residents were milling around talking about what seemed to have happened: Diane (my crack-head neighbor in the basement apartment) had set her couch on fire, presumably by being careless with her crack-pipe or falling asleep with a lit cigarette or something equally as fucking retarded and irresponsible. Next, I realized (to my shock and dismay) that I seemed to be the only resident who was concerned enough by the unfolding events to call maintenance or the fire department. Needless to say, I promptly did so. Several minutes later (just the amount of time a real fire would have taken to engulf and destroy all of our homes and belongings), the fire department arrived to examine the damage and blow the smoke out with a large fan. Our friendly 24-hour maintenance man arrived (presumably awoken from a deep sleep) to turn off the alarm that had been caused by a fucking crack-head’s negligence, and the other residents seemed content to redirect their frustrations from the fucking crack-head who set fire to her own couch and could have killed us all and destroyed our lives toward a man who took 15 minutes to turn off a bell (a task which he is presumably only allowed to do AFTER the fire department tells him the situation is safe).
Fuck people. Fuck stupid crack-heads who can’t remember to put out their cigarettes before falling asleep. Fuck idiots who would rather mill around outside in the rain complaining about a bell than call the fucking fire department. And most importantly, fuck people who are too fucking irrational to get pissed off at the irresponsible waste-of-life who almost killed 20 people and instead bitch about a kind man who has a shitty job that involves putting up with stupid shit like this at 11:30 at night. Fuck these stupid fucks.
If you have interest in using any of our works for any reason, or you would like to commission a song/audio recording for a multimedia project of any sort, please contact us at isthmusandthelisps@gmail.com We're generally pretty cool about that sort of thing. Powered by WordPress & the Atahualpa Theme by BytesForAll. Discuss on our WP Forum
