Yeezus is a dying tractor

The last time I bought a record was December of 2011. Josh and I rode up to Grimey's. He was on his motorcycle, I was on my scooter. I didn't have a motorcycle yet. I bought a Tom Waits record and a Thrice record: "Bad as Me"and "Major/Minor" respectively. I used to buy records all of the time. Well, I used to buy CDs all of the time. Boxes and boxes and boxes of them. They're in my attic. If anyone wants the Pearl Jam discography, let me know.

I listen to the Thrice record much more than the Tom Waits record although the way Tom works "Auld Lang Syne" into "New Year's Eve" at the end of his record is musically genius. I remember leaving a New Year's Eve party shortly after the clock struck twelve and drove around listening to that song for about 45 minutes about two weeks after I bought the record. I later read an article on some terrible music blog about what the song you listen to on New Year's Eve says about you. "The New Year" by Death Cab for Cutie was on that list. So was "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve" by nearly everyone ever but mostly by Ella Fitzgerald. "A Long December" by Counting Crows -- which isn't really a song about a new year at all but was about a girl getting hit by a car -- was also on there. Anyway, some writer called Tom's song, "perfect for the sad bastard." I think I listened to it about 9 times that night.

Here's the thing about Tom Waits: he comes up with these utterly manic moments. Actually, most of his songs where he doesn't play keys (either piano or accordion) sound like a tractor dying. There's this awful crunch. Maybe the tractor ran over some cinder blocks. Maybe like the time Johnny Cash drove his tractor into the lake in Hendersonville. Whatever the death of a tractor sounds like to you, that's what Tom Waits does with his more aggressive songs. And that's what Kanye West did a few months ago but with a more expensive tractor.

I don't buy the Kanye-West-as-a-badass image for even a split second. Unless selling out plain white tshirts at $120 a pop makes one a badass these days. Maybe a badass marketer. Maybe a badass salesman. But not a real badass. He probably doesn't know anything about fascia and soffit repair or about riding an old motorcycle. Selling expensive tshirts, though. He's got that down. So it is with some trepidation that I lavish praise on Yeezus. It's an album full of contradictions.

Sonically, it's so far ahead of anything that I've heard this year. It's like Kanye listened to Tom's "Bad As Me" record and said, "Imagine what this album would feel like with a budget." And that's what he did. Put on a pair of headphones, turn this shit up to 11 and prove me wrong. But as prodigious as the backing on tracks like "Hold My Liquor" and "Black Skinhead" sound (they're both borderline virtuoso) his lyrics stall time and time and time again. Like that dying tractor.

Am I really to believe Kanye's plight about having to "pick the cotton [him]self" he laments in "New Slaves"? I hope not. Actually, if he picked the cotton himself for those $120 tshirts he's selling, then they might be worth it. Am I to believe that God actually co-wrote "I Am A God"? Am I supposed to be able to tell the difference between him whining about the not getting croissants delivered to his table fast enough ("I Am A God") and what actually approaches, well, genuine badassery (all of "On Sight")?

And then there's "Blood on the Leaves" which samples Nina Simone's "Strange Fruit. Easily the most conflicted track on this record. There are a handful of artists who've tried something like this before (Greg Dulli, I'm looking squarely at you here). Two verses of what appears to be genuine longing for someone. Two verses of  love gone wrong. Three verses of drugs. And then a verse about instagram replete with mentions of not one but two hashtags. All with the phrase "swinging in the summer breeze" repetitively droning through the background. "Blood on the Leaves" ends and I think "Does he love this woman? What could have happened if she wouldn't have run naked through the lobby? Drugs killed whatever they could have been. I need to check my instagram feed real quicklike. Oh... That's a cute baby. You get one of those little heart thingies. I like your picture of the sunset. Can I write a snarky comment on your photo of your really cute sister and hope that she sees it because dating at 33 is a weird thing to be doing?" And before I know it, I've stopped paying attention to whatever Kanye was spewing about but I'm still bobbing my head in time with the rhythm.

So what to make of this record? I've digested it for two months now and while I marvel at it being sonically astute, lyrically it makes about as much sense as Johnny Cash driving his tractor into the lake. It's art. I get it. But at the end of the day all you have is a dead tractor.

Keep Climbing, Delta. And maybe throw me some sky miles along the way.

I flew down to Costa Rica 8 days ago and my luggage was lost (or as Delta Airlines put it "delayed"). They sent me a customer service survey and specifically asked me if I had any additional comments. Here is the feedback that I sent them. And, yes, I already received the automated email reply...


I have been flying on Delta flights for the last 26 years and this is by far the worst experience I have ever had with your airline. The first time I flew, I was 6 years old and headed down to Florida with my family. I got one of those pins with the wings on them and even got to visit the pilots in the cockpit whereupon I was made an honorary captain for the flight. THAT was a good experience. My "delayed" bag experience from my recent trip to Costa Rica, not so much. 

I wouldn't call myself much of an athlete (stay with me in this). I try to run a few nights a week and have completed two half marathons. I'm more built for comfort than I am for speed but that being said if you put a nearly unobtainable goal such as free beer at the end of a race or giving me 39 minutes to make an international connection at Hartsfield airport in Atlanta, you better believe I'm going to do all that I can to reach said goal, as foolish as it may sound. Well, the years of running paid off because I was able to run through the nightmare that is Hartsfield and catch my flight to Costa Rica with about 90 seconds to spare. All because my flight out of Nashville was delayed for no real good reason. 

Upon arriving in San Jose, my bag was nowhere to be found. But I was greeted by a customer service agent who informed me of the situation, assured me that the bag would be delivered that night to anyplace I would be staying, and to call the customer service number in case I had any issues. My bag was not delivered that night, no one answered the customer service phone number I was given, and the only contact that I was able to make with anyone to help get this resolved was through twitter (marking only the second time in my life I have ever found it to be useful). The person answering my twitter inquiries was very nice but was basically full of shit like the rest of your customer service team. I provided the name and location of my hotel and was promised that my bag would be dropped off that night. I knew it had made it to San Jose because I used the luggage tracker. 

I went to bed hopeful and smelling like Dove women's deodorant because of the free toiletry bag you gave me (recommendation: put a fresh pair of socks in those puppies going forward). I speak just enough Spanish (much to my surprise) to inform the hotel's night clerk that my luggage would be arriving that night via courier and asked if they would hold it for me until I stumbled down the stairs to the front desk the following morning. 

The Costa Rican suns appears very early in the morning sky so when the hallway started to illuminate, I awoke, and (just like I promised) stumbled down the stairs to the front desk only to find no luggage of mine. I headed back up to my room and called the customer service number which still wasn't working. My friends woke up a bit later and we decided to make our way back to the airport so that I could actually talk with someone. 

Have you ever been to the San Jose airport? It's quite nice but finding where the lost luggage section is a nightmare. Two information desks, a security screening, rapid fire questions being asked of me in Spanish which had by and large gone unused since I got that B- in Professora Smith's Spanish 103 class in college, and a very confused look on a customer service reps face when I tried to tell her that someone was supposed to come bring my luggage but I think it came out as someone was supposed to eat my luggage ("comir" and "come" are awfully close and I may have jumped back and forth between English and Spanish on that exchange). 

I was lead through the bowels of the airport which was actually pretty fun to another customer service desk and a gentleman who spoke fluent English (you guys were about 1 for 9 on the customer service thing in case you were keeping track). He had me wait at the desk, turned around, disappeared for a few seconds into a broom closet and produced my bag. LORD, IT WAS A MIRACLE!  I then asked the customer service rep if the bag had been scheduled for delivery before I picked it up and he just looked at me and said "No."  So... 1 for 10?

I still plan on flying with you, Delta. The cheapest direct daily flights to and from Michigan (where I travel to and from the most) and all those sky miles that I get from my bank are hard to pass up. But if you want to make it up to me aside from having me fill out an online form which, I'm confident, will be followed up with an automated reply thanking me for my time might I suggest the following:
- Free sky miles. However many you'd like to credit my account with would be great. 
- Free food and drinks on my next 10 Delta flights. I'd much rather have this than a first class upgrade. 
- Another one of those pins with the wings on them. It would let everyone on the flight know how important I am. 
- Visit to the cockpit on my next flight. I know there's probably some FAA regulation that outlaws the cockpit visits nowadays but I figured it would be worth asking. 
- In lieu of a cockpit visit, free flying lessons. Not only would that be fun for me but think of all the women I could impress! 

I hope this feedback has been useful and I'm sure I'll be flying Delta again sometime soon. 

One Last Time

I moved to Nashville several years ago. I didn't move here with the intention or desire to ever try to "make it" in the music world. I'm not even sure what that means anymore. I have some friends who have reached various levels of financial and emotional success in the music industry in this town. And, yes, it is an industry. Some incredibly talented friends of mine put out this record last year. Some other incredibly talented friends of mine put out this record a few weeks ago. Another incredibly talented friend of mine released this song a few months ago and is going to be huge by this time next year. I mean HUGE.

But you know what I care about someone being huge? Nothing at all. That's not to say that I don't wish all the success in the world for my friends. I do. I want them to play and play and write and record and play and record and tour and see the world and play and write and play some more. And I want them all to make a decent living while they're doing it. I know I'm not musically talented enough to do that. I know I don't have the drive to do that. I know that I never moved to Music City, USA, with the intent to do any of those things. What I did do, however, was several years ago, fall into something (because really that's all it is... falling into something) that some people liked. This was a band called death comesto matteson.

I remember the first show that I played with the band. It was at Wall Street in Murfreesboro and I remember throwing up in the alley before the show behind the venue because I was that nervous. I remember the first show that I played in Nashville when we opened for Bob Nanna (he of Hey Mercedes and Braid (!) 'fame') when my amp stopped working with a song and a half left in our set and trying to plug in to our keyboard player's AUX input with mixed results just so I could finish the songs. I remember hearing from a girl one night while playing a show when she was dating me only to find out that she was drunk and making out with someone else that very night. I remember getting into a shoving match someone asshole after his set but before ours because he thought I was hitting on his girlfriend. I wasn't hitting on her, by the way. I remember the pure absolutely unadulterated joy of the first time that I ever heard a song of ours on the radio. Sure, it was college radio, but it didn't matter to me. I remember the sinking feeling of playing the last show in New York City and the 20something hour ride back to Nashville when I knew that I wouldn't be playing these songs ever again. I remember all this and so much more.

We all have and, to a finer point, had different expectations of what we want out of something that we create. Some of us wanted to take the world by storm. Some of us wanted to change the world. Some of us just wanted to meet (read: make out) with girls. I was in the latter of the three groups mentioned. And you know, by that measurement, I was a success.

I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir with this post.

During the final days of death comesto matteson, I knew I would never play those songs again. I stopped talking about the band after I stopped playing in the band. I still have no idea how much of an impact the band had. Some people around town still come up to me and ask me "Hey... didn't you used to play guitar for Peter Matteson?" My answer is always a sheepish "yes". Being the narcissist that I am, I googled the band name. Someone once wrote that the band was "the founding fathers of the Nashville indie rock scene". I'm not sure if I was flattered or just felt old when I read that. I suppose I should take that as a compliment.

I never made any money off of being in the band. I didn't mean to. Remember? The girls and the making out? If anything, I lost money. But I didn't care because I was a success. I'm not sure if I am contractually obligated to help pay back Speak Music Media because of the thousands of unsold copies of CDs (remember those) that are hanging out at Billy White's house. I'm sure I'll never make any money off of whatever records end up selling. I just checked amazon.com and the "Ship of Fools or Ship on Fire" LP is up about 400,000 spots from the last time I checked. If it rises another 400,000 spots, I'm gonna be rich. I mean I'm gonna have as least as much money as Adele. And Taylor Swift. Combined.

I thought that Peter, Joe, Wayne, Mike and I were done being friends. Fate has a funny way of circling around and kicking my ass. And here we are, 5 years later. Peter, Joe, Wayne, and (to a lesser degree) Mike (who, last I knew, lived in Texas) are friends once again. Joe and Wayne are still full steam ahead with The Protomen. Peter is still wicked talented and is making a living writing and recording. Mike and his wife have a couple of kids but I'm not sure if he is playing music anymore. Every once in a while, I get prodded into doing something musically although Andy Smith and I are eventually going to get the Warfield drone recordings going -- he's got a wife and kid and a job and I work, well, all the time... But back to the point of this paragraph and really the point of this entry...

Yes, death comesto Matteson is doing a reunion show. No, we don't have a date set for it. Yes, I would love to see you there. No, my feelings won't be hurt if you think I'm a shitty guitar player. Yes, Peter, Joe, Wayne, and I are all on board to this. Yes, we really are friends again despite our wildly different views on music, art, the world, life, and everything in between. No, I have no animosity in my heart towards any of those dudes. Yes, if you would like to sit with me and talk about the band sometime, I am finally comfortable enough to talk about it. No, I still have no idea what the band meant to anyone outside of it. Yes, I finally realize what the band meant to me.

In the meantime, if you would like any of the music that the band released, you can get it here. Remember, I'm not making any money off of any of these.

Here we are. One last show. A little older. Maybe a few BPMs slower. One last time. Leave the money on the nightstand on your way out.

Of course I have a date for Valentine's Day. It's February 14th.

By the time that all 3 of you read this, it will be February 1st. Which means that you have less than 2 weeks to do one or more of the following things:
1.) Find a boyfriend / girlfriend so that you can spend Valentine's Day with them -- Might I suggest reservations at Chez White Castle?
2.) If you already have a boyfriend / girlfriend, spending all of your dollars on a gift from A Village of Flowers. Contrary to the picture on the site, yes, I did used to work there. And, on the exceedingly rare occasion, still do.
3.) Saying to yourself "Oh, yeah... This is the day that something happened... Didn't a bunch of people die in Chicago or Rome or something?"
4.) Or, for you single ladies out there, you can ENTER YOURSELF IN THE SOMETHINGTH ANNUAL GIVE FLOWERS TO A SINGLE LADY IN NASHVILLE CONTEST.

Yes, it's that time of year when I forgo [I spelled that right on the first try, thank you very much, 2nd glass of whiskey tonight] all attitude regarding Single Awareness Day Valentine's Day and try to do something nice for a woman who may otherwise not have anything nice done for her that day. Here are the rules. Because what fun is a contest if you can't talk about the rules?

Great... Another list. Don't care. More whiskey!!!

Rule 1.) You can't have a boyfriend. This includes some dude you're making out with / sleeping with / cooking dinner for on a regular basis / whatever constitutes [did not spell that right on the first try something something whiskey] a relationship these days.

Rule 2.) I will deliver said flowers to you wearing a shirt and tie. And fancy pants. Because, as luck would have it, Thursdays are Fancy Pants Thursdays for me at work.

Rule 3.) If you want a Chippendale thing without the shirt, I can probably accommodate you.

Rule 4.) MUST be in the Nashville area. I work in Smyrna so if you live in Murfreesboro, I'm not gonna crunch numbers all day, drive to Nashville, pick up the flowers, and then drive back down to Murfreesboro. Unless of course, you can come up with a really good florist in Murfreesboro and then I guess that would be ok. If you live in California, then you're definitely out.

Rule 5.) I will pick a winner AT RANDOM on Monday, February 11th. This will give me ample time to order the flowers.

Basically that's it.

I'm only doing this because I think it would be nice to make one other person not feel like total crap on a day that is inadvertently designed to make people like me feel like total crap. I have no ulterior motive. And, if you were to ask any lady that I've ever purchased flowers for, they will attest that I can pick out some good ones. Even though you get to pick them out in this contest. Thing. Is my whiskey all gone?

Email / comment / tweet / facebook / whatever if you'd like. I also promise not to announce the winner on any sort of dumdamn social media. Unless you want me to.

2012

The last day of work this year was today. Which means that the last day I will likely contribute much of anything to society of any value this year was, well, today. I'm not quite sure about the verb tenses on that. As such, I am going to take stock of what has happened to me (and the way that I reacted to those things) in 2012.

I came into my own at work at a job that I very much enjoy. The last time I enjoyed working where I do this much, I was in college. And that was a while ago. 

I went to Chicago in February to see The Promise Ring play a reunion show. Highlight? When they played "Stop Playing Guitar" which encapsulates the way I feel (to a large extent) about playing music.

I went to California in April to go Coachella. I don't like outdoor music fests and after Cornerstone 200X, I vowed to never go again. When I found out that REFUSED was playing, I bought my ticket immediately. Here is the video of them playing. They were perfect.

In June, a woman told me that she was in love with me. I was not in love with her. She also told me that she was deleting me. I'm not sure what that means but we haven't spoken since. I guess that's what that means.

In July, I turned 32. Frankly, I'm surprised I've made it this far. 

In September, I went to Iceland. Iceland feels like another planet. Watch this.

In November, a woman flew 1700 miles across the country for me. This was a risk worth taking but (as everything that doesn't end up in death does) didn't end up quite as well as what was hoped for... On the plus side, I didn't end up in the backyard puking by the tree like I did last September. This one hurt.

I went to Michigan for Christmas. I didn't take any pictures of videos. It wasn't the most enjoyable Christmas.

I bought a new car yesterday. It's a 2013 Nissan Altima. I figured it was time to own a car with a heated steering wheel. Here is what it looks like:

Also, I haven't shaved in almost 8 months. I figure I'm gonna keep not shaving until I have to, well, shave. 

I have no idea what's in store for 2013. But I'm hoping it will be as much of an adventure as 2012 has been. There are still three days left. If you would like to join me for what is sure to be an evening that will not be remembered, please join us at Warfield on Monday night for this:

 

Do 2013 better than you did 2012. Do tomorrow better than you did today.

Connect

I have never been to Connecticut. At least, I don't think I have. I've been up since 2:45 this morning (a combination of having to be at work very early and my extreme excitement for The Hobbit this afternoon so my brain is a little bit fried at the moment). I know two people that live there. With the exception of my two friends that live there, it's a spot on a map. I mean, Hartford doesn't even have a hockey team anymore or a single notable brewery. How much of a state can it be?

I came home from work with the full intent of taking a nap before going to see the movie but since all I can think about is what happened in Connecticut that probably isn't going to happen. The nap part, not the movie part.

Those of you who know me know that I value my freedom and I value my independence. My nearest family members are 500 miles away. I far too infrequently ask for help and when I do, I try to make it as private as possible. Unless it involves a ride to and/or from the airport. I need one next Friday by the way as I am going to be flying to see said family members if anyone would like to help me out. This post is not about me.

All I've seen on the social media sites, the internet, and the TV, for the past few hours has been the coverage of the shootings in Connecticut. Everyone seems to have an opinion: it's the government's fault for not having tougher gun control laws; the gunman/men clearly had a mental condition; how could someone just walk right in and do this? The answer isn't having tougher gun laws. [Since when do those who want to commit actions which are called "crimes" ever care about "laws"?] The answer isn't publicizing about improved medical care for those with mental health conditions. [There's no need to fount over what condition someone may or may not have.] The answer isn't more or less coverage in the media. [These are the same organizations that cover the death of Khloimalamadingdong Kardashian's pet.] The answer is that there is no answer that can be legislated. There is no comfort in that.

I'm not a parent. I can't imagine losing a child because I don't have one to lose. There is no comfort in that, either.

What this is about is tonight. No, not about "The Hobbit". But about you and me and everyone you can think of. It's about giving someone a big damn hug. It's about talking it out. It's about taking the biggest risk you can possibly take and even if it blows up in your face, you knew you took that risk. It's about connecting. Go make a connection. Find that lonely person at the party tonight and invite them to the conversation. Call a friend in another state and tell them that you miss them. Call your mom and tell her that you love her and can't wait to see her next week. Go buy a glass of scotch for your roommate. You never know whose life you could save; the life you save could be your own.

As much as this tragedy (which is a word that has become far too commonplace in our world) has affected all of us on whatever scale you'd like to believe that it has, the only thing it makes me want to do is connect. With you. With all of you. Throw down your guard. Go. Connect.

That's it.

Juan Valdez, Shakira, Coffee and other stuff from Mexico

For the past three months, I have been working on a software implementation project at work. I am by no means a project manager. I am also by no means a software implementor. I just happen to have those skill sets. I'm just some dude who is pretty good at spreadsheets and really good at human resources. As such, I have had many early mornings at work over these past three months -- some days arriving as 3:00 in the morning.

Read that last part again. 3:00 in the morning.

I haven't had much time to blog lately as the 6 (six) of you who read this thing can tell. I'm usually pretty exhausted and my brain is pretty fried by the time that I get home from work that I eat dinner, drink a beer, and fall asleep watching hockey. It's like I'm married but without the companionship or sex. Actually... it IS like I'm married.

You may be reading this and thinking, "Wait... It's 8 something in the morning on a Thursday. Why is peanutisawesome blogging? Did he lose his job?" The answer is no, I did not. I am off for vacation for the next few days and my laundry takes time to dry. I tried to use magic on it but it didn't work.

Anyway, for the past 6 1/2 years, I haven't drank caffeine. Well, I take that back. I can count on one hand the number of times that I have drank caffeine in the past 6 1/2 years. And none of these 3:00am starts at work were among those times that I drank caffeine. I know I'm impressive.

In the world of dating (so I'm told), men often take women out for coffee as a first date. Coffee and all of those machiattoespressolattezombiemutantlibertarianintellegnsia drinks all seem to have caffeine in them. So now I'm double screwed. But what really grinds my gears is the baristas.

Wait. What?

Yes, the baristas.

Now, since I know nothing about the world of hot caffeinated beverages, I am going to make some broad, wildly sweeping generalizations across the board that are based on nothing but pure emotion and entertainment.

First of all: Look at this asshat.

Secondly, when in the hell did barista become a respected and honored occupation? I'm certainly not trying to belittle a person who has that position, I'm simply trying to belittle the position itself. And, yes, based on the list of jobs that I have held (in either a part- or full-time capacity) that I am about to list, I feel that I am fully capable of passing judgment:

- HRIS Analyst

- Freelance Sticker and Bookmark Cutter Outer

- Executive Recruiter

- Employee Resource Specialist

- Flower Delivery Driver

- Bar Trivia Question Writer & Host

- Pizza Delivery Driver

- Window Washer

- HR Administrator

- Shoe Salesman

- Taco Bell Crew Member (Employee of the Month, September 1997, Howell, Michigan)

- Pizza Restaurant Cook and Dishwasher (unrelated to the Pizza Delivery Driver position mentioned above)

I think that covers it. My point here is none of these positions has ever been revered and as well thought of as a barista. Some of them have even paid pretty well. Some of them even allowed me to, if I could afford it and if I could make it happen, take a girl out for a cup of coffee to be served to us by the aforementioned barista.

Third. Dude. It's coffee. Mexico has a shit ton of it. I know because dudes with mustaches and donkeys pick the beans and then gringos are like, "Hey, I won a contest! Give me all of the coffee beans!"Colombia is part of Mexico, right? Oh, shit! Colombia is where Shakira is from! I'm an idiot. To make it up to you, here is a picture of Shakira holding an apple while being attacked by a BabyTree.

Maybe, though, that I just don't get it. And that's usually the case.