Three Things I've Been Meaning To Write About But Time Moves Too Fast:

1. Michael Jackson's Death: I wanted to make my mark and tell everyone how I feel about this ostensibly monumental American milestone, but I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. I don't really care that he's no longer alive, but his music is just the bee's knees. And so is

2. Mark Sanford's Crazy Affair Story: I know this happened first, but this list goes from least interesting to most. There is so much to say and yet so little. The only public matter is that he left his state abandoned to shore up his relationship with his South American mistress. Not many people do that so it seemed really interesting at the time. I'll let South Carolina worry about it. My interest has waned on this because, out of the blue,

3. Sarah Palin Resigned From Office: Can you hear that? It's 20% of America popping a big, ignorant boner. Now that Palin is untethered to any actual responsibility to do anything good for America, she will now be an even more constant media presence, akin to the nagging squeal of a bad timing belt. If there's one thing we've learned about Sarah Palin, it's that she's really high on herself (judging from the self-patting during her resignation speech). She will run for president. She will galvanize the stupid. She will bewilder the educated, confused conservative into believing she really has the chops to lead a country. Buckle up, America. You might've thought that this was the year of Barack Obama, hope, change, universal health care, the end of the Iraq war, the end of "don't ask, don't tell", the end of the Palestine/Israel conflict, the end of the religious right/moral majority, the end of "sanctity of marriage" nonsense, the official end of the cumbersome 20th century, but nay, this will be remembered as the year half term Governor Sarah Palin dropped out, tuned in, and turned on the presidential afterburners. She will bulldoze your assumption that quitters don't deserve anything. She will claim, as will her rabid followers, that she was too big for Alaska, and that she belongs in the White House where she can attempt to turn America into a puritan, 18th century Hell. Beware of the Pitbull, people. She's more dangerous than ever.

Why haven't the polar bears sought their revenge yet? They're our only hope.

That Old College Fail

Whoa, I still get messaged by pornbots on MySpace. Poor things, they don't understand that "mark as spam" means "mark as spam".

Anyway, here is the message I got today, in its entirety (profile name Isabelle):

So....what's happening I'm using a profile that belongs to my friend. To write back, use this address: ojennyjones at yahoo.

I am looking fora man who is ready for a long term relationship I know it takes time, but I want somebody who is at least open to it. I really like movies, walking, basketball, , football, and eating out

That's it. That's the whole thing. No period at the end, either, which leads me to believe that there was more, but Isabelle kicked her off before she could finish, probably so she could upload another photo shoot entitled "Naughty at the Office', or maybe 'My Tits Pt. 3'.

If I believed this was at all real, this would be my sincere response:

Hi, Jenny Jones. Man, it's a bummer that you don't know how to make your own MySpace profile, cause you sound great. All your interests are my interests! Your friend Isabelle must be awful nice to let you use her profile to find a man on the Internet. Aren't you afraid people are gonna get confused and think that's you in the profile and not some other girl named Isabelle? Especially since Isabelle is so distinctly whorish! They're gonna expect you to be whorish too, but I know you're not a whore, Jenny Jones, you are a lady. And is your name really Jenny Jones or is that yahoo account just an homage?

I also noticed that you have one too many commas where you listed your interests. Did you leave something out on purpose? Are you being sexy by leaving that space blank, but leaving the comma, as if to suggest that MY NAME could be there???? I wish you could see me right now, because my eyes are bugging out, and my heart is beating so hard, you can see it coming through my chest and pushing my shirt out. Yes, like in the old cartoons, or the movie The Mask. You said you liked movies, did you like The Mask? If you do, my heart will beat even faster, which could be dangerous!!!

Anyway, I have to break it to you that I just started dating someone new. Her name is Rikki Lake (no relation!), and I met her on here after she emailed me a short, sweet, poorly punctuated note that asked me if I liked to chat, which, fuckin' I do. So, you know, there's hope. Don't stop trying. Hopefully Isabelle is patient with you and all the responses you'll probably be getting in her inbox. I know you included your actual email address, but...c'mon.

Good luck in finding true love on MySpace,
-Seth

Did I Ever Tell You About Buster Schwartz?

When my mom thinks something is funny, it's unmistakable. I definitely get my laugh from her. She has a loud, breathy laugh that keeps just keeps going. We even nicknamed her "Rhee-Rhee" after the sound her laugh made. I've never understood people who hold laughter back. Just the other night, I was laughing my ass off at something a comedian on stage said, and someone said "Okay, Seth, get a hold of yourself" and I not only found it insulting to me, but I also took offense on behalf of my mom. She taught me that if you're enjoying life, there really isn't any virtue in getting a hold of yourself.

When I was little, she and I used to go on walks through Lafreniere Park, which was virtually our backyard, and she'd point out an object and make me come up with a word that rhymed with it. Whenever I was bored, my mom was usually helpful in supplying me with pen and paper for whatever I wanted to do with it, which was usually drawing a dinosaur or a truck. My mom once drew me a picture of a dinosaur driving a truck, and I found it to be the most brilliant piece of work I'd ever seen in my four years of existance. That picture changed my life forever, as I proceeded to copy it about a billion times over the next few years. Apparently, I found inner peace as a child drawing a dinosaur driving an 18-wheeler, because it's all I ever really did.

When not doing the flower arrangements for church, my mom's favorite things to do were sing, draw, write, and dress up as her alter ego, K-Mart Katie. K-mart Katie dressed in a lot of polyester and cheap make-up, as you can imagine. The irony is that my mom pretty much only shopped at K-mart, and so K-Mart Katie was basically my regular ol' mom, but with the tackiest outfit she could possibly put together. I remember that Katie was also much more theatrical. This was normal for me. It irked some people in my family, but not me, I was too young to irk. I liked it, but then again I was a little too young to understand that my mom was probably the only one in the neighborhood to sing, write, draw and randomly dress up as anyone but herself simply to amuse her family. Most other kids I knew had a boring, mean, cold mother. How did they live?

We're Going to Hell

The other day I was walking through my parking lot, and my glasses had just broke. I just taped them up with duct tape, and so I had my hand covering the duct tape as I walked, kinda lookin' out one eye. As I was walking toward the dumpster, this lady was walking the opposite way toward me. She was really old-school, with droopy skin and tons of makeup, parachute pants and a giant mole on her cheek. She looked like an out-of-work tarot card reader. I was walking with my hand over my head the whole time, hiding my 'revenge of the nerd' specs as if the old broad was gonna rib me about 'em or something. As she moved a little closer, she goes, "Excuse me, I may just be a little paranoid, but did you see anyone strange-looking walking through the parking lot just now?"

My answer was 'no', but that was false, as the truthful response would've been, "Yes. Us".

Glenn Beck Tries To Make 9-12 Suck As Much As 9-11

Glenn Beck used to wallow in obscurity on CNN. Before his success at Fox News, he spent most of his time claiming Obama was a socialist radical terrorist baby-killer while no one watched. He didn't really deserve a larger audience, but Fox News thought differently. They gave him a great time slot and apparently, when Beck asked what he was allowed to do, Fox told him to "go nuts" and he took it literally.

Anyway, he's started a new "revolution". The 9-12 Project. (Please read their mission statement right now and have some popcorn ready.) He wants America to get back to how "united" they were the day after 9-11 (even though Obama won by a landslide), and to gather together across the country to protest...global currency and gun bans (really, really pressing issues), so I guess it's the same as the Ron Paul revolution, only less inclusive and, scarily enough, more organized.

The name, 9-12 Project, not only refers to the day after the government allowed us to be attacked by a bunch of suicidal Saudis, it also stands for the 9 principles and 12 values, of course! Because, what's a revolution without a bulleted list of propaganda? No fun, that's what.

A little prologue: I was inspired to pay more attention to this asshole because I waited on a table of folks yesterday, a middle aged couple and their super-nerd son, who were talking about the 9-12 project with a frightening level of excitement. They weren't just talking about it, though. They were talking about what they wanted to do for it. They were BRAINSTORMING. Here is a chilling quote from the dad:

"He (Beck) laid out a list of nine principles and twelve values. He said 'if you don't agree with all of them, don't sign up', and whattya know, half a million people have already signed up!"

Now, half a million people isn't that many. Ron Paul had far more people following him than that. But Beck isn't running for president. And because of that, people are getting behind him because they have nothing to lose. It's the evangelist effect. Lots of followers, so he must have credibility... By the way, that's why Fox News thinks they're right all the time. They tell people "just look at our ratings". WWE gets pretty good ratings too, and is about as real.

Anyway, let's look at the principles and values that one MUST accept in order to be a 9-12'er for real. (Parenthetical commentary is mine.)

9 Principles

1. America Is Good. (So far, I'm in.)

2. I believe in God and He is the Center of my Life. (Oh well, I'm already out.)

3. I must always try to be a more honest person than I was yesterday. (This one perplexes me. What if you're already 100% honest? This was probably the last one they wrote, but stuck it at number 3 to give it weight.)

4. The family is sacred. My spouse and I are the ultimate authority, not the government. (Wait, I don't remember voting for Beck or his wife.)

5. If you break the law you pay the penalty. Justice is blind and no one is above it. (Anyone besides the last administration against this one?)

6. I have a right to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness, but there is no guarantee of equal results. (And there won't be if the 9-12'ers can help it!!)

7. I work hard for what I have and I will share it with who I want to. Government cannot force me to be charitable. (Unless that charity goes to the spread of paper democracies across the world.)

8. It is not un-American for me to disagree with authority or to share my personal opinion. (However, if you do, a lot of people in the media will call you un-American until they're blue in the face, especially if it's about a military operation, but, just so you know, you're not.)

9. The government works for me. I do not answer to them, they answer to me. (Why did it take eight years for Beck to realize this?)

and now...

12 Values

• Honesty
• Reverence
• Hope
• Thrift
• Humility
• Charity
• Sincerity
• Moderation
• Hard Work
• Courage
• Personal Responsibility
• Gratitude

Did they really need Honesty AND Sincerity? We get it. No lying. With that value, right off the bat, Beck himself is out the door, but I guess since he created this whole thing, he can stay. And his courage is questionable since he's cries about something nearly every single show. I'm also thinking he included Hope and Thrift in an attempt to win over the Obama hipster crowd.

BUT, as Beck himself has said on his show:

"If you take what I say as gospel, you're an idiot."

So there you have it. Idiots everywhere are gathering together to try and "take back" a country which they currently already have. And Glenn Beck and his Humility are getting rich in the process. So...same cult, different leader. Oh well.

Please Pass the Milk, Please

SXSW Bright Spots:

M. Ward @ La Zona Rosa

Ward played the entire show all alone, just him and his guitar, and an empty piano. For his last song, he called upon anyone that could play basic piano to join him on stage. About ten seconds passed, and this girl was pulling her boyfriend through the crowd so he could he nervously take up M. Ward's offer. This kid had about 350 instant fans who wanted nothing more than for him to not fuck up, and to have a good time. The crowd went nuts when Ward pulled him up, sat him at the piano and walked him through his one simple part as quickly as possible, which was only in the chorus of the song (Rollercoaster). Ward started the tune off, and although it was a little bumpy at first, the kid caught on pretty well the second time the chorus came around. At the end, Ward let him jam out with him a little bit, and even kept his looper going as he walked off stage. The kid had no idea Ward had left since he still heard guitar, and so he continued to pound on the keys for a good two minutes, completely oblivious that he was up there all by himself. The audience was smiling and clapping the entire time, as if one of us being up there gave everyone a huge boost of hope and pride. Eventually, Ward came back out, tapped him on the shoulder and the song ended. He shook his hand and gave him a hug, and then the kid probably went home and had sex with his girlfriend for three days straight.

Also,
Phosphorescent @ Ms. Bea's
Beach House @ Auditorium Shores
Andy Kindler @ Coldtowne Theater

Nothing too special happened at those shows, so I won't go into detail what didn't happen there.

I would list the myriad of things I didn't like about this week, but I'd rather forget them. I would like to go on record to say that I wish SXSW was more centralized instead of sprawling all over the city like some ant infestation. This week seems like more an excuse to book a band to play for nobody in the name of conformity than to actually celebrate the diversity and variety of live music that Austin has to offer. What can you really get out of seeing a band play for a half hour in some coffee shop back yard? I feel like everyone is just trying to collect all the bands like Pokemon just so they can talk about it at the next show they go to.

Also, I overheard so many dumb indie rock conversations this week, I was ashamed to be a skinny white guy with glasses. These kids are so full of shit it's painful.

Case in point, two guys who just met, overheard at La Zona Rosa (stuff in italics are commentary, duh):

Guy 1: Have you ever heard M. Ward's stuff before?

Guy 2: Yea, I think I have...like, two....two or three of his early recordings...Transistor something or other. Really great stuff. (Transistor Radio came out quite recently, not anywhere near an early recording)

Guy 1: Oh, so you have Duet for Guitars #2? (aka his earliest recording. Guy 1 seems to know what he's talking about.)

Guy 2: No. I don't think I have that one. I have like...two or three of his early recordings though. Just amazing. I don't know the names of any of em, really. (Guy 2 is creating a lie to impress this kid by saying he was an M. Ward fan from the beginning, as if it mattered, by simply saying he has his early recordings. Extra points for skirting the issue of what their exact names are. I mean, everyone's gonna know what he's talking about anyway, right?)

Guy 1: Have you heard the record he released a couple years ago? Post-War?

Guy 2: Yea, I recognize that name. I think that's the other one I have. I tell ya, the first time I heard him was in my brother's car, and we took a road trip up north. And from the beginning I could tell he really had a great sound. Especially in his early recordings...(Sigh. Again with the "early recordings" line. So to sum up, Guy 2 has admitted to having two M. Ward records, Transistor Radio and Post-War, and both came out quite recently. In all actuality, he has no idea what the early recordings sound like, but knows they must exist [everyone has early recordings at some point], and clings to his imaginary coolness by repeatedly referring to them. The conversation was abruptly stopped since the show was starting, and good thing, too, because it could've gotten ugly, especially if had Guy 1 finally starting punching holes in Guy 2's stack of lies. And no, Guy 1 is not me. I don't talk to strangers.)

So the lesson learned here is don't talk about what you don't know. People can tell when you're pretending, and it's never pretty. No one, unless their in high school, is going to care how long you've been a fan of a band, or if you've heard their first demo, or what weird cover they've done. For example, I've heard Sonic Youth's first album, and it's absolute shit. It enriched my life in absolutely no way. It didn't shed light on what kind of band they are today, and it certainly wasn't very influential on anything else at the time. Not many people heard it upon its release and the ones that did, didn't like it much. It doesn't matter anyway and it's a good thing it doesn't, because if a band's fan base never grew after the first album, most of your favorite bands wouldn't make it very far. Then again, maybe you're the incorrigible type that likes that idea.

Field of Nightmares

SHOCK: I used to play sports.

When I was but a decade old, I really, really loved playing little league baseball and basketball. I also loved watching those sports on TV (heavy on the baseball), but nothing thrilled me more than putting on a uniform and glove and being on the field in the scorching summer sun. I was sure I'd be on the Chicago Cubs roster one day, especially since one of the Miley Playground teams I played for were named after them, and their uniforms were blue, so it was obvious.

Big problem, right off the bat, pun intended: My quality of play was usually rather poor. Like, practice did nothing. I had all the heart and enthusiasm of ten Lucases, but, without a doubt, I sucked. Bad. My older brothers were always split on how to critique me. Some were patient with me and spent time practicing with me, while others thought calling me a pathetic faggot might spark my inner Mark Grace. Sometimes they all did both. Nothing ever took.

I played for the Astros when I was nine. Incidentally, this is where I met my good friend Jack Kennedy, whom I'm still pretty close with. Anyway, the Astros had mustard yellow and orange uniforms, and we almost universally sucked. I played right field (meaning I was the worst player on a bad team) and I couldn't hit a thing, even though they were using a pitching machine (which throws a perfect strike in the exact same place every single time). To nip this issue in the butt, Coach Marvin taught me to bunt. After he did that, I got on base every single at bat, since nine-year-olds can't field a bunt for shit. The best hit I got was a bunted triple, thanks to my speedy legs. However, a few of the kids told me I ran like a duck, which eroded the little confidence I built up from bunting. For the record, yes, I run like a duck. Maybe you'll witness it one day.

The following year, I was ten years old and that's when I played for the Cubs. I think this is probably the happiest I'd ever be as a child. We were a good team from the start. I realized quickly that I absolutely could not suck this year or else I'd be the only other shitty player on the team, and I didn't wanna be one of two. I'd rather be THE bad player. Less damage is done to the team that way. No, this year, I was good and someone else was the really bad player. His name is Greg P., who went on later in life to be a junky. He struck out every at bat. Every. Single. One. Which explains his descent into drugs.

I still don't know how I pulled it off, but this is the year I played first and third base. Even better, my batting average hovered around .300. I felt like Ryne Sandberg being on that base that much. I almost never struck out. The coaches really liked me, thought I was a funny kid (I was a very sarastic ten year old), and they really believed in my ability I previously had no idea I had.

Unhappy ending: At the close of the season, at the pool party, is when I found out that I would NOT be chosen for the all-star team. My coaches were notably surprised and upset, especially since I got skipped for one of the league owners' sons, Jeremy G., who could politely be referred to on the team as a crybaby strike-out king. This was pre-League of Their Own, mind you, when there was indeed crying in baseball. Jeremy had been one of my better friends on the team, though, which made things really awkward. I rarely ever talked to Jeremy after that and have not seen him since grade school. It still kinda stings that I didn't make the all-star team. For the first time ever, I felt like I had earned something with ease and had fun doing it, but it never came around. More than that, with an all-star nod, I could've told my brothers to suck it. I think I told them anyway.

The following year, age 11's & 12's, I was on the Dodgers. Fuck the Dodgers. I hated the major league Dodgers, and I really hated my new coach, so I had no confidence that I would enjoy this season one bit. Predictably, my quality of play took a turn for the embarrasing. To add insult to injury, I didn't know a single soul on my team.

This was the year they did away with the pitching machine. Oh man, did I want to pitch. I dreamt about pitching constantly, and saw this as my only opportunity to follow in Rick Sutcliffe's footsteps (or at least Mitch Williams). I begged the coach to let me pitch, but he would have none of it. He let me toss the ball in practice, once, after I wouldn't leave him alone about it, but after seeing my shoddy mound work for all of two minutes, he felt it was best not to give me any pointers whatsoever, but instead just ignore me for the remainder of the season. This did not help my pitching, and so I have to disagree with his methods.

For the record, I struck out nearly every at bat. I was no match for real pitching. Bunting at this age would have just invited a beating. So I swung and usually missed. I felt at the time if they would let me pitch, I'd be happier, and have more fun, and my hitting would turn around. Coach didn't care enough to want to take the risk.

Anyway, Coach didn't need to care because his son Dane (named after his old man), 6'1 and perfect, was the star pitcher of the team. Dane was good, too, and a nice guy to boot, but he was the star pitcher, and basically considered me a (minor) threat, so he'd always try to discourage me from pitching. One day, in a very strange and still unexplained twist, Coach announced to the team after practice that I would be starting pitcher the following game. Well, the following game came around, and much to my dismay, Dane was chosen as the starting pitcher, not me. Coach wouldn't look at me when I asked him what happened. All he said was, "we need to win this game." Furious and ultimately offended, I left the game and walked home.

I never played baseball in a league again. The thrill was gone. I was tired of being overlooked for more popular kids. I was no match for this kind of nepotism, especially since my family wasn't very involved with the league.

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Well...my dad was somewhat involved, in his own little way.

Back in my older siblings day, my dad would attend every game and literally yell for whichever son was playing, from his seat in the stands, using nicknames he'd make up either on the spot, or maybe, more intriguingly, preconceived. The nicknames were always nonsense words. I'm not sure who was who since I was so young at the time, but one I remember is Pockooza, who I'm pretty sure was my brother Josh. I recall him yelling for Josh, in an almost bird-like voice,

"Pock-pock-packoooooza!"

Also, he'd sing my brother Noah's name to the tune of either something popular in his day, or a melody he completely made up just to sing at little league games and embarrass his son while he's trying to concentrate on hitting. To my best memory, the song went,

"Noah Ben Benji, potchagoluka, heeeee's a maaaac-aroni."

My dad would attend my games, but had calmed down by then. He had no nickname or song for me, which might've been a big reason I lost interest in league play. Before, it was a fun family outing, but as I got older, most of my siblings were now busy doing adult things.

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Who knows how different my life would be if I made it to the all-star team? I could have:

1.) told my brothers to suck it
2.) played in the all-star game in front of a huge crowd
3.) built confidence
4.) gotten a girlfriend
5.) become a baseball-obsessed douchebag
6.) enjoyed my life
7.) Pockooza
8.) not ever done comedy



Lesson learned: When life gives you lemons, blog about it twenty years later.