Glass Door, Propped Open

It is with profound joy that I announce that after so many wasted years of missing the boat, my music site is up, live and functional, and that you can now hear some of my music. About damned time.

“Where is it?” you ask? Well, it’s where you would expect to find that great music from the band Glass Door:  glassdoor.net!

I still have a few loose ends to tie up, but there it is. So far, I have two full songs and one “found sound” posted. I’m even going so far as to make cover images for each song I post — in some respects, I’m more proud of the images than the songs, but I love all of it anyway. Call me Pygmalion.

What do you think, sirs?

Nightmeh

Had a dream the other night. Was sitting down to dinner with a group of people. Someone called for a prayer, and the man at the head of the table began the invocation. I did not bow my head or close my eyes. Neither did the praying man; he was staring right at me.

I hate my dreams.

And Now a Message From Our Sponsors From Beyond

So I get this mysterious, spooky voicemail today. It sounded like a mountain lion purring and breathing through a garden hose, or like an alien wraith lurking for its living prey. Deep and breathy. And the vocalizations went on for six minutes. I just knew one of my friends had to be pulling a prank on me, but who?

So tonight I picked up a 2.5mm adapter for my phone’s earphone jack and hooked it up to my studio rig. I clicked record and dialed my voicemail, recording all of the message. It went on and on and on, and was deep and ghostly. And the playback made even less sense. What could this be? What’s it all mean?

And then I attempt to decode the message. Played with the speed and pitch of the playback. It comes together at that point. It’s a human, obviously slowed waaaay down. When I adjust it to near normal speed and pitch, it’s intelligible. And do you know what it was? A telemarketing ad. FROM MY WIRELESS CARRIER. For a music service they’re starting. What the fuck? So now it’s obvious that their robodialer screwed up while playing back the celebrity-voiced pre-recorded ad. And all this work…for that.

So here’s to you, Cricket Wireless. FUCK YOU, Cricket. Fuck you.

Redafted

So I ran into Marketing Girl again at the coffeeshop. She gave me a nod of recognition and stopped at my table to say hello. We talked about Drupal again. I confessed that I took another look at it after our first conversation, found it decent, and blamed her for resetting my viewpoint. She laughed. Drupal makes much more sense now; I could have a functional site in minutes without touching PHP code. She agreed enthusiastically. So, yes, I’ve been doing it wrong the whole time.

I asked her how she does her site designs, and she admitted that she relies on prebuilt themes and does no design work. Fair enough. It looks to me like I’ll have to take a base theme and modify it to my likings, meaning I’ll have to get a little greasy with PHP and CSS. Eh, it’s inevitable, really.

When she showed up, I was actually in preparation to leave for home, so I offered her my table so she wouldn’t have to share one with someone else. I considered the option of staying around to chat but declined it, mostly because I needed dinner, and partly because she needed to actually work on a presentation. Packed up my stuff, we had a few parting words, and I left.

I could’ve asked for her number, or at least her last name so I could find her on Facebook, but didn’t. I just don’t feel right doing that, y’know? Maybe it’s creepy. Certainly feels that way. So, what’s the damn protocol, ladies? First introductions? Third encounter? Moments before she mentions her boyfriend?

Unknown Rockets

In this town, a man is known not by who he is, but by what he does. He is remembered for the final product of his creative output.

It is not enough that you make music. You must make enough of it that people enjoy your work and carry your name banner into the field. But toy with a few tunes here and there, write something on an occasional basis, and there’s no juice, there’s no increase, there’s no gravitas, there’s no elevation. Rockets require a lot of fuel, the right spark, and directed focus of force to leave the ground. Without that direction, you’re just a firecracker, another in a long string of firecrackers, each making your pop before the cherry flame travels down the fuse chain to the next in line.

It’s not enough that I have fire. Not enough that I have fuel. I have the raw materials in hand (music can be made with coconut shells and rubber bands, for chrissakes). What’s left, then? Direction. Direction of force. The drive. The discipline. The dream to rocket off the ground.