Noq: i sent you some songs this morning
The Taco Prophet: Yay!
Noq: theyre both by a band called Ten Masked Men, who apparently just do death metal versions of pop songs
The Taco Prophet: <3
Noq: i sent you their versions of Sledgehammer and Livin la Vida Loca
The Taco Prophet: I am downloadifying now
Noq: yay!
The Taco Prophet: This music makes me humid in the britches.
Noq: everything makes your britches humid. it's a temperate zone
Noq: it's the Tropic of Taco
Monday, October 29, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Toldja I was a prophet.
And like any good prophet, nobody fucking listens to what I predict.
The natives were restless a week ago, and raised all manner of hell at work. Management got cornered and had to listen to a laundry list of gripes and complaints. And things went more or less as I predicted they would when they asked me to participate and I declined:
One of my coworkers called me last week to say he's going to take it back up with management, and I gave my "You're wasting your fucking time, you're just going to end up pissed, it's mental masturbation" speech again. He hit me with "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. You've got to either fight here or look for another job."
That second one's the row I'm gonna hoe, I think. Six years here and not a god damn thing has ever changed.
The natives were restless a week ago, and raised all manner of hell at work. Management got cornered and had to listen to a laundry list of gripes and complaints. And things went more or less as I predicted they would when they asked me to participate and I declined:
- Management denied the issue existed.
- Management made sympathetic noises at them until they shut up.
- There was a great big hullabaloo about addressing the issues.
- Nothing changed.
One of my coworkers called me last week to say he's going to take it back up with management, and I gave my "You're wasting your fucking time, you're just going to end up pissed, it's mental masturbation" speech again. He hit me with "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. You've got to either fight here or look for another job."
That second one's the row I'm gonna hoe, I think. Six years here and not a god damn thing has ever changed.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Play the Moment
So I've been working on this song for the past few weeks. It's a blues guitar solo by Robben Ford, and it's fucking badass.
It's also the hardest damn thing I've ever played.
I've worked my ass off on it, and broken more than a few sets of strings practicing it. I've developed a brand new callous on one of my fingers because one of the techniques I had to learn to play it places my fingers down on the fretboard a different way. Awesome.
This week, I got worse at the song instead of better. Shitballs. I haven't worked on anything new for a week, because I've been reworking all the stuff I already nailed down. Playing it slow. Working out the movements.
It's not that I'm playing it badly (though sometimes I do completely fall apart on one of the phrases currently giving me trouble). I'm actually playing it pretty well for a spare time musician. But I'm not playing it as well as I did last week, and it pisses me off. Teach says nobody'd be able to tell the difference listening to it, and I guess he's right, but my hands feel clumsier. The movements were smooth and confident last week.
Working the parts that are troubling me is the right thing to do. I need to nail them down again before moving on. But I think getting frustrated because I moved backwards a bit is screwing me up. Fuck it. Last week I played it better. That was last week. This is how I play it this week. I need to work on it. It's got nothing to do with last week. Work on -- and with -- what you've got now.
Play the moment.
It's also the hardest damn thing I've ever played.
I've worked my ass off on it, and broken more than a few sets of strings practicing it. I've developed a brand new callous on one of my fingers because one of the techniques I had to learn to play it places my fingers down on the fretboard a different way. Awesome.
This week, I got worse at the song instead of better. Shitballs. I haven't worked on anything new for a week, because I've been reworking all the stuff I already nailed down. Playing it slow. Working out the movements.
It's not that I'm playing it badly (though sometimes I do completely fall apart on one of the phrases currently giving me trouble). I'm actually playing it pretty well for a spare time musician. But I'm not playing it as well as I did last week, and it pisses me off. Teach says nobody'd be able to tell the difference listening to it, and I guess he's right, but my hands feel clumsier. The movements were smooth and confident last week.
Working the parts that are troubling me is the right thing to do. I need to nail them down again before moving on. But I think getting frustrated because I moved backwards a bit is screwing me up. Fuck it. Last week I played it better. That was last week. This is how I play it this week. I need to work on it. It's got nothing to do with last week. Work on -- and with -- what you've got now.
Play the moment.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Parenting is hard to do...
...with a straight face.
So last night, we hit Sears to buy kidzookie a suit for Emu's wedding on Saturday. After a painful round of trying on dozens of suits while one kid whined that she was bored and the other that he was tired of trying shit on, we got him squared away, and headed back out into the mall. Wifezilla brought out a gift card to Victoria's Secret and said she'd like to go pick some stuff up if I didn't mind.
Mind? Pffft.
So we all pile into Vicki's, Wifezilla's digging through piles of stuff and having a grand old time, and the kids are bored shitless. My daughter asks me to spin her around and get her dizzy, and I look down to tell her no, this really isn't the place to play that kind of game.
Then I look up.
My son is wearing a thong on his head.
I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out exactly how best to approach this situation, and he takes the opportunity to inform me, "It's a superhero mask, dad."
Hrk.
So last night, we hit Sears to buy kidzookie a suit for Emu's wedding on Saturday. After a painful round of trying on dozens of suits while one kid whined that she was bored and the other that he was tired of trying shit on, we got him squared away, and headed back out into the mall. Wifezilla brought out a gift card to Victoria's Secret and said she'd like to go pick some stuff up if I didn't mind.
Mind? Pffft.
So we all pile into Vicki's, Wifezilla's digging through piles of stuff and having a grand old time, and the kids are bored shitless. My daughter asks me to spin her around and get her dizzy, and I look down to tell her no, this really isn't the place to play that kind of game.
Then I look up.
My son is wearing a thong on his head.
I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out exactly how best to approach this situation, and he takes the opportunity to inform me, "It's a superhero mask, dad."
Hrk.
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