Saturday, July 26, 2003

I just got offered a series of paying gigs for August at Herb's bar in Friday Harbor, WA! I'll play Saturdays and Sundays for a total of $200 each weekend. They'll also buy me a couple lunches and pay for the ferry ride. I could ask for more, but it seems like a good enough way to pay rent and keep practiced until I take off again. Friday Harbor is a tourist town on San Juan Island where I played a couple weeks ago and got a good response. I sure need the money.

My new cd is coming along strong and is now titled 17 17-Year-Olds: A Year in the Life of... Slippery G.. Here's the premise:

It's a concept album that follows a womanizing character named Slippery Goodstuff in his loosely stated quest to bed seventeen seventeen-year-old women in a single night. (It must be stated here that "Slippery" is a victim of complete amnesia and has forgotten his real name.) Though relatively succesful at picking up females, he ultimately hits a wall during an encounter with a rap outlaw named Cindy Wonderful... and her girlfriend, Sarah Adorable. Together they give Slippery an unforgettable reaming.

Shocked and inspired by Cindy and Sarah's fierce sexuality, Slippery has a revelation about the meaning of true sexiness and in a stunning turn-of-events stops lying, not only about his wealth, stamina, and exaggerated penis-size, but also remembers the painful experience which triggered his amnesia in the first place: days after a painful divorce with his third wife he wrecklessly flipped his four-wheeler in a remote Idaho wilderness area and suffered a massive concussion. Upon gaining consciousness he survived off nuts and mushrooms until eventually finding his way into a small mining town and its nearest X-rated video booth. As this is his first contact with humanity since his memory loss he imprints upon the leading male actor on the screen-- an out-of-date 70's porn star named Slim Johnson-- and re-creates himself in that dude's image.

This vivid recollection prompts Slippery to end his unprofitable quest to sex the seventeen seventeen-year-olds and he lets his heart break for the first time in years.

Let me know, anyone, if you find this plot too wordy.

A shorter explanation for the title and a different angle might go something like this:

There has long circulated a legend that Chris "Sandman" Sand, years ago on a mid-Summer's night, deflowered seventeen, horny seventeen-year-old women. How this story began and who started it is unclear, but it of course never happened... or did it? This album attempts to separate fact from fiction in a mildly penetrating song-cycle dealing with sex, drugs, and a mustachioed, heartbreaking anti-hero whom the ladies call "S-l-i-p-p-e-r-y".

Now, I know I'm playing with fire a bit with all this, but I believe that magnifying and making light of sexism will help expose it's idiocy. I guess I'll leave that for the women who hear to decide. I'm not too worried because I'm not really interested in pleasing people. I think all art should be electrifying and boundary pushing. (Aren't I so liberated?)

What else should I blabber about? I could talk about the rape trial that I've been a juror for during the last five days, but that would be illegal until deliberations are over. Even then I may not know the verdict because I'm the 13th juror, which means I'm the alternate. I sat through the whole thing but now I'm only on call until they come to a decision. I earned $10 a day for that and it was actually really interesting and exciting. I have a new appreciation for lawyers-- their brains are like athlete's bodies. The judge was rad, too.

I lost $19 in a poker game on Tuesday. Poker's only once a week now.

Thursday I went to the Brotherhood Tavern and watched Cex perform. After the show he and a few friends and Khaela M. and I snuck into the Ramada Inn and hot-tubbed. I wore red, Hanes underwear; most everyone else had swimming trunks. Last night I watched the country music channel's top forty men of country music countdown. Johnny Cash got #1, Hank Williams, Sr. #2, George Jones #3, Willie Nelson #4, Waylon Jennings #5, Merle Haggard #6, Garth Brooks #7 and then I lost track. George Strait and Conway Twitty were up there somewhere too. Jimmie Rodgers deserved better than #37 in my opinion. As for women, I recall that Tammy Wynette was #1, then Loretta Lynn, and thirdly Dolly Parton. Loretta and Dolly are better than Tammy Wynette don't you think?

I have a lot to do so I'll soon end this blogging, but I also must say that the new cd is coming along splendidly. I recorded a sort of countrified tune, for it, called "White Line Highway" which has Carl Dexter playing a variety of instruments over a programmed hip hop beat (courtesy of Nerviz) and my guitar and vocals. It's a scorcher-- vaguely reminiscent of "Radio Works Fine"!

I want to mention the Heckfest, too. I drove to Anacortes last Saturday, with Alex and Mike, in time to play my dinner show at the Croation Club. I wasn't too prepared but enjoyed myself never-the-less. The highlight was my final song, "Sand vs. Bush", where I asked for a beatboxer and seven-year-old, Louisa Lunsford, volunteered. Her goofiness and unique rhythms worked perfectly and I could barely stop from rolling on the floor throughout the performance. Everyone, it seemed, was hugely entertained... although I learned later that this one dude wasn't but that's boring to write about.

There ya go, fine readers. Sorry it's been so long. More adventures shall ensue soon so stay tuned. Adios!

No comments: