Wednesday, April 30, 2008

A Picture of a Skatepark Beneath a Mountain In Wanaka

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Okay, Toys kind of sucked, but!

Just finished watching a Law & Order: SVU episode featuring Robin Williams as the Creepy But Probably Smarter Than You Bad Guy (henceforth, "CBPSTYBG"). And, wow, he seriously should play more CBPSTYBGs.

I recall, through a glass darkly, seeing One Hour Photo with some Chileans, while drinking jote in a random Santiago neighborhood, and I think this is the type of role Williams should be taking more often.

He's established enough that it could be an analogue to Anthony Hopkins doing Silence of the Lambs. That is, Williams is not going to be typecast as the Weird Smart Evil Dude evermore. He's just good at that character, among others.

Moreover, the rueful, non-comic-book-reading part of me, which wishes I had long ago nerded out on the ability to name heroes and villains at whim, thinks he'd make a great comic-book villain in a major motion picture, but all I can come up with is Batman's The Riddler, and I think there's probably a far better villain out there.

I just don't know who that villain is.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

We're number two! We're number two!

Don't know what the person who searched for this was looking for, but I sure hope he or she found it.

Progress update: We have now taken the number-one spot. Huzzah!

Rumors and the Profligation Thereof

So the rumors that Band A is playing its last show ever are now patently false—huzzah! We had a figurative make-up make-out session.

Good times. We had a great practice last night, too. I continue to change little things in songs, which is always nice. Like the song is still working itself out.

* * *

Meanwhile, Band B is working on a few new covers including:

That last one in particular kind of blows my mind. I mean, I'm willing to suspend judgment about Fall Out Boy and recognize it's simply a well-executed cover. But John Fucking Mayer on that solo? He fucking slays it.

Yeah, I know. John Mayer. Slaying. I'm as shocked as you are.

Sunday, April 20, 2008


Winemaker: Ryan, you're not gaining weight! You're losing it! Your girlfriend is gonna kill me.
Ryan: I'm trying to pack it on, Winemaker. Two meat pies a day! And for brunch! What more can I do?
Winemaker: You're an American. Make it happen. I'll get you a hamburger if it'll help.
Another Winemaker: It's not that Ryan's losing weight, it's that everything around us - the tanks, the barrels, these walls - is getting fatter.
Ryan: Anyway, about that hamburger.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Oh, you flatter me

Conversing with a co-worker:

Me: At college I lived at [residence area established in 1986]...
Co-worker: Oh, wow, you're that young?
Me: Well, I'm twenty-six.
Co-worker: Hmph. I guess you are that young.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

This Is a Long Post for Someone with Nothing to Think About

'Twas a busy weekend, full of lots of driving and being told I'm a bad person (because I think Panera sucks, among other things). So! In the interest of keeping Ryan apprised of the happenings in-town, I will tell him about when I left town and did some stuff (helpful, I know).

* * *

We drove to Lexington, KY, for a "private event" show. Everything is oddly greener in KY than in VA. It was a lovely time of year to drive, although waking up at 8am on a Saturday was almost trauma-inducing.

Luckily, I drink waaaaay too much coffee and was soon regaling my co-travelers with wit and interesting factoids. It's my knack, and I'm sure they would no doubt confirm this fact—and leave out the parts where I told way too many dumb, lame jokes.

* * *

On the way down, I successfully endeared Miley Cyrus' "See You Again" to my travelmates. I'm sure heebie would be proud. We blasted it on the way to the gig. We are big dorks.

* * *

Also on the way, in the truck, we joked about not knowing whose birthday party we were playing. I mean, we knew it was a twenty-first birthday, but maybe it was for someone famous! Or the offspring thereof!

This led to a silly hypothetical featuring Christopher Walken throwing a big bash for his son or daughter. In between songs, Walken would yell "More cowbell!"

After three of four songs, we'd pipe up, "Yeah. We get it, Chris. The cowbell joke. We get it. Chill out, man."

This is the kind of senseless blather that comes from seven hours of driving.

* * *

Oh, yes, the truck. Have you ever almost been in a wreck in a truck pulling a trailer? It's FUCKING TERRIFYING (swervy, swervy, we're gonna die, swervy). Kudos to Boobers who was able to correct enough to save our asses.

After "The Incident" I pulled out a cigarette and we all sat in silence for a bit. Scary shit, that almost-dying thing.

* * *

After setting up at the event site, we had some time to kill and headed to a CVS to get a few supplies (read: liquor, which, by the by, can be bought in CVS in KY; I also bought Q-Tips™).

While ringing us up, the clerk noted that we were four dudes from Virginia, and I explained we were playing a show in town, yadda yadda. Another guy in line took interest and asked us a few questions about the band.

Turns out he used to the be manager of the band Exile, who wrote the #1 hit, "Kiss You All Over" oh these many years ago.

Small world.

Nice guy.

* * *

We made our way to the gig to discover that, as suspected, the Beatles cover band that preceded us was the most schlockly group of asshats ever assembled—so schlocky, in fact, that even each of their asses donned a hat. True story!

The show went well, though.

* * *

The morning after, I sprung from bed before 9am (what the hell?). I had to try the jet-equipped bathtub, which, on the night prior, was dubbed by Boobers to be THE BEST OMG BATHING EXPERIENCE OMFG OF MY LIFE! ZOMFG!

It was nice, but I think the two beers he had prior to tub-time pushed him towards a bit of hyperbole.

Regardless, it's worth noting that I was bathed and dressed and ready to go at 9:30 on a Sunday. The Lord him- or herself fainted.

* * *

So, Panera sucks. It really does. End of story. As does Starbucks and a bunch of other things I hated on this weekend.

Oh, and the fucking Eagles. And Beatles cover bands. Fact.

* * *

Speaking of bands, on the ride home, we were listening to a Cake song, and I commented that, while I find Cake generally okay and agreeable, I can't imagine anyone pronouncing Cake as her or his favorite band.

Boobers and Chico referred to a previous conversation in which they'd determined that there is certainly one band who has never been—and will never be—listed as anyone's favorite band.

And that band is Smashmouth.

I find truth universal in this statement.

* * *

I tend to read a lot of newspapers on the road. You stop at a gas station. You pick up the local newspaper. And you're set for awhile (with a crossword to boot!).

I saw a lovely photo of asparagus in one of the local papers I picked up.

* * *

Almost home, Chico got a call from Dools. Good news; bad news.

Good news! Dools' flight from Asia had made it to the US without crashing!

Bad news: they made an emergency landing on the West Coast. Chico had plans to pick her up after we made it home. Dools' chances of making it home tonight suddenly appeared slimmer.

Fuckin' bummer, Dools. That sucks. Hope it was a good trip nonetheless.

* * *

Another delightful observation was from Beast, whom I was quizzing about raising cattle (his family's in the business, and we were passing lots of cattle farms).

He said something to the effect of "Cows are basically liked stoned humans. They're dumb and easily freaked out. They spot you a field away and think 'HOLY FUCK. SHIT. FUCK. FUCKFUCKFUCK. WHAT DO I DO?!?!' and then they walk away non-chalantly."

I found this comparison wholly amusing.

* * *

Once home, I turned my attention to the grocery store. I was after some asparagus after that lovely photo, but alas, the store had none.

I settled for broccolini, which failed to pass muster, partly, sure, because it was the vegetable after which I was not.

Oh, well. At least my pee won't smell weird tomorrow. (Well, not asparagus-weird.)

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Wherein My Antics Grow Tiresome As Far As My Friends Are Concerned

Driving home from work; the phone rings:

Boobers: Hey, man, what're you doing?
Me: Heading home. What's up?
B: Well if you wanna stop by, I have $200 bucks for you [money from a gig].
M: And if I don't wanna stop by, you don't have $200 bucks for me?
B: If you don't wanna stop by, you're a dick.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

007: The Almost Lucid Dream

In need of a quick nap after work, I laid my pretty little head to rest and was promptly swept into a 007-style chase-scene dream. Woo! Run! Chase the dude! Wait. You're being chased, too. Crap!

We were at some sort of Italian Villa, probably inspired by the fact that we played a gig here recently. Chase, chase, chase!

Then as I scaled some ladder, it occurred to me, "Wait. You're 007. This shit always works out. Settle down, man. It's gonna be just fine."

And then I woke up. Not but a few moments away from—lucid-dream style—pulling out my nifty human-flight-enabling gadget (thanks Q!) and soaring above the scenic countryside surrounding the estate.

Dang. What a let down. I mean, flying dreams are great. James Bond dreams are great. And lucid dreams are, I hear, great. But the chance to experience all three concurrently?

I'm sorry I messed it up by waking. I would have told you all about it.

Friday, April 04, 2008

An Open Letter From Ryan to Stanley (With Editor's Notes in Italics)

Being the guy whose name sounds a lot like "Wry and," and who some might ill-advisedly title the "co-founder" or "Lord of" Wry & Stanley dot blogspot dot com, I have to come clean: these days, I only ever check the blog once per week, on Saturdays, in the early afternoon, from the Internet cafe next to the cafe cafe where I like the short black coffee. (Never went to college, mind you, but not a word of that sentence makes sense. Not a word.) And, as the qoute unqoute co-founder of said blog who not even all that recently left all friends and family to live on a small Island near Australia, of all places, to make wine and jump off bridges and teach breadmaking seminars, I think it is quite understandable that I yearn, if that is the correct spelling of the word - I shiver and shake and tremble and crave in the core of whatever it is that makes me human - for the hot gossip of my motherland of Charlottesville, for the word on the streets, for news of my friends living in the town that I now always have to refer to in the past tense. (Again, nothing.)

So, buddy, as I digest my meat pie (Ernie's makes a good meat pie, mate) and sip my espresso and put a two dollar coin into a slot in the side of the monitor, what I really want from Wry & Stanley is some legitamite news of what's happening in TJ's backyard. Even if it's just for me, old pal. Even if it's just for me.

Love to all my lovers,
(Not a fucking word of that.)