The act of losing, however, can elicit great wisdom.

I finally started thinking about how I'm going to spend 2008. Since I only have the 4 days left, I guess I'm just going to continue eating bodega sandwiches, drinking and wondering if I should gather my GRE stuff together as I convince myself that next year is a good year to apply for grad school.

Things I've learned to enjoy in 2008:

- Anything made out of sweet potatoes
- Drinking beer in the shower
- leaning way dangerously forward while anchored on to something stationary, waiting for the train.
- The Dallas Cowboys
- copious amounts of Chinese food (mainly rice congee, juk)
- Getting e-mails
- Buses
- Hiking...
- New Jersey

Things I've learned not to enjoy in 2008:
- Anything above Central Park, really
- Snow. Snow. Snow
- bar covers or bar specials that aren't really special at all
- Drinking in Manhattan
- Crowds on the L train in the morning
- Yes, we can all hear your ipod
- The Dallas Cowboys

So, as I continue to regale over getting chased out of Chinese restaurants, daytrips upstate (Rockefeller State Park) and trying not to burn my hands cooking (see a much previous post), I'll think of you and yours for the next year. 2009 I think. I hope.

I was fired from VH1, not canceled.

I remember seeing this video somewhere before. I've had it stuck in my head all day. These people, I assume are French for some reason? My boss is French, and this is in an office... so maybe there's a mental connection there.

I'll be in NJ for the rest of the week. Maybe a special guest update from another state? Stay tuned next on Sick Sad World.

I wonder if Madoff would enjoy this..

您知道I' 总是ll爱您

Although I do appreciate the snow, I don't think I'll ever like it. I don't think I'll ever accept it as a possible effect on my life. Not yet at least.
I've always had a soft spot in my heart for snow though. Watching it fall from my apartment window sends a chill through me, not a cold chill, but this chill of normality. This is a normal, plausible thing in life. This is weather. This is something that we know.
Do the oceans get jealous of rain and snow because these things fall on us? The way we're affected by these things we just accept as a precursor to our life. Does the ocean even acknowledge the presence of snow and rain?

Do I acknowledge the presence of the ocean as something that impacts my life as much as snow and rain?

Since I've been on this forced vacation (a labor of love, significantly) I've spent a lot of time just rehashing things. Let me get the record straight: Sometimes it's hard to look myself in the mirror. Not that I don't see myself, it's just hard to look at myself from that perspective at times. I think about the trouble I've caused, the things I've broken that I want to somehow magically unbreak, the things I want to fight for and seem to be doing a horrible job. I see someone that's been rescued and I've seen someone that's done a lot of rescuing. Someone that has no absolute connection, but wants to connect everything.

I dunno. Maybe it's the weather.

If machines could speak we wouldnt need to advertise.

Greetings from Sunny West Orange, New Jersey! Yes, it IS the home of Thomas A. Edison!
Actually, I got back on Friday night. They don't have much on the internet out that way.

Through much elation concerning food, high regards to a Pecan Pie and only one missed train, Thanksgiving came to a close in good cheer. Kudos to everyone who showed, or didn't show, but was thinking about it somewhere else. Thanksgiving is one of the holidays, in my opinion, isn't very biased on religion or belief.
I've never heard anyone that didn't celebrate Thanksgiving on based on a certain lifestyle or religion. Maybe because it's so generalized? It's not associated with anything? I guess it's more like President's Day but with a lot of family and food.

They've been playing Christmas music non-stop over the past two weeks on the radio.

For that special Bowie fan out there:

I may need to do a stake-out over the weekend.

Blip Festival 2008: The Promo from Richard Alexander Caraballo on Vimeo.

I see murals in the radio static and on your blue jeans.

Day.... 3? Day 3 in the throes of West Texas.

A gallant homecoming if anything. I touched down in DFW Friday night, Brian patiently waiting the 1 1/2 hour lateness of my flight. Delta, why do you shun thee? As he said in his e-mail, and once again in person "word is bond."
We sped through the night to get to Denton, where it was nothing but shots and free Shiner abound at RGRS with the skeleton crew of RGRS.
After that I headed out, thouroghly buzzed and using the train tracks as landmarks to get to Lucky Lou's to meet up with everyone else.
Went to a part that was DJ'd by two guys with laptops sitting next to a bonfire.

I met up with Ian the next day for an impromptu session, getting more ink on my arm. It's pretty much finished all the way to my wrist now, so I'm pretty happy. I took a long walk around Denton. There's a lot that's gone, there's a lot that's stayed the same. Most everyone I knew has either relocated to NYC or Portland, Oregon. There's a handful of diehard's left, the music scene has changed considerably (let's give up Centro-matic for bands like Bat Castle).
It was good though. It made me realize why I left and why I don't think I'm ready, if at all, to come back. My life is so on the razor's edge most of the time, merely a gust of wind and I'm gone somewhere else. I moved to NYC on the whim of Amy telling me how great it was and my new luggage. Now coming back, I know that I'd do it again.
What a great respite it is to come from NYC back to...nowhere. Driving along the highway, it really is a vastness that I haven't thought about in some time. The first sip of Shiner is my petite madeline a la Proust.
On seeing the big picture: True, people do look at the big picture only when they're feeling up or down. I think if you're constantly looking at the big picture it'd be hard to live your, or any life. Always having to see everything. It's unfair to the moment, especially when someone else is down in that valley with you or high on that peak. Time and space don't allow you to really always look at the big picture either. If that were true, than everyone would probably be level headed individuals. But that's not being alive should be about. It's about selfishness, time gained, time lost, happiness, love (what is love?) and everything in between. We are not rational creatures, and if we had everything down to a science, there'd be no room for art.
It's been a good break so far. There's definitely a line drawn in the sand in regards to my life.

Brilliantly restrained.

Topsy-Turvy, right?

Last night I went to the Film Forum to see Mijke de Jong's Stages.

Have you ever seen the appropriate movie or heard the appropriate song to fit whatever's happening at that moment? This is was pretty much it. I equate breaking up to reincarnation; or how just have to handle to the world from another viewpoint. I mean, let's say an animal, dog/cat/hamster or whatever sharing the same apartment with a human or another animal. You experience the same surroundings but through a different view. What's big to someone is small to the other. What's black and white is in color. Right now, I'm having to look at things the big picture.
That's what I feel right now, I'm going to be in the same set of circumstances, yet I'm having to look at it from a different point of view. Stages is very relevant to the situation. It's shades of life with two divorced people sharing a son that can't or won't connect with them. It's really a series of peaks and valleys of two peoples emotional states: you want to love or hate this person, you have a hard time distinguishing that. It's a quiet film, at that. De Jong drops the sound a few times to focus on the visual, which is something I wish American filmmakers would use.

I leave for Texas next week, next Friday to be exact. It couldn't come at a better time.
The guy at the lower left hand corner of this picture looks like Devandra Barnhart.

ASTEROIDS (assorted prices, unimportant)

These will be the topics in the following posts:

-The Fruit-basket
-"I AM THE MAN"
-drugs and my friends
-chemistry blunder
-music and lit references

It's not really essay format. I lied. It's sort of a challenge to try and recall each of these topics and correlate it with your life. Some easy ("I AM THE MAN") some harder (The Fruit-basket) but it gives me something better to write. Rather this that write about how I finally threw away that shark fin soup I had in the fridge.

Hey, here's a trivia question: Why would I wanna do that?

\
So, I missed the debate again.

We trucked it out to the Zombie Hut in Gowanus. They had too many distractions: Deluxe Scrabble, $2 PBR's and this thing here on the right, the Scorpion Bowl.

So, in my with my Indiana Jones like furor that I scour NYC for the best Mexican food (many people say you have to head to New Jersey) Owen, Kerrie and I hit up El Cantinero last Saturday. Pricey, yes, good, alright. I had the Burrito and Enchilida Suiza. The rice was killer. Like, killed-me-and-forged-a-suicide-note-and-threw-me-in-The East River-type-killed.

I need a certain list of topics to essay all on.
Give them to me.

They don't have nothin', it's like a flea market threw up in there.

Thank you new Deerhoof album. You've made my week.

Right now I'm listening to Will Sheff (Okkervil River)run through a 44 minute DJ set. I've never really listened to Okkervil River but I've always considered them.

Hey, Sunday morning is not the time to be upset with two homeless guys.
Unless they're digging through the garbage right outside your window and making a mess of the staircase.
Not cool homeless guy with red gloves. Not cool homeless guy with dreadlock in your goatee.

Pitchfork is releasing The Pitchfork 500. The 500 top songs of all time. Pre-order from Insound.

Npr released a
list of recommended books. Some of them I read. I'd really like to read Consider the Lobster.

I'll be your lucky star at the Cafe Wah

One of my favorite novelists, Danica Novgorodoff has a new book coming out,Slow Storm. Right on.

Right now I'm sitting on the floor in my living room watching the sky get darker. I always like fall- the oncoming weather makes me feel more productive. Something Pavlovian? Not sure.

Last night I went to Lobo for $3 crispy iced out Stellas and to watch a couple of guys jab at each other politically. John McCain and Barack Obama. I don't really rely on politics for anything, to me it's like gravity. It's there, I know it's there, I don't really worry about it. I grew up with a photo of Ronald Reagan hanging in the hallway. So, I gave it a shot.
...for about ten minutes. There was an older woman at the bar who ruined the whole thing. Scratch that. Ruined the whole thing for everyone.
Yes, okay, I get it. No one likes McCain or Palin. Good. Great. She's creepy and he's creepy and that baby Trigger is creepy. McCain is like your slow uncle with that far off gaze like he's in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and can't remember where he parked his car. But old lady at the bar, let me hear what he fucking has to say.
Every time he started to speak she would yell "Yeah Right!" and "You're a liar!" and if she had nothing intelligent such as those quips she would just exclaim "ha!" real loud. She would shush everyone while Obama was speaking. I'm sorry. I just can't take ignorance to the opposition. Just let us hear what he has to say. I don't care if you agree or not.

Anyway, Top Blog Secret: I didn't vote in the last election. I admit it. I also admit I get uncomfortable when people turn to me and want me to agree to criticize President Bush with them. I didn't vote, so I don't feel that camaraderie that a lot of people feel.
1: Hey, Bush is doing a bad job! He's a moron!
2: I didn't vote for him!
1: Me neither!
2: Awesome. Let's celeberate!
(high five or reassuring chuckle coupled with head nod)

With all of this I do throw my lot in with Obama. He makes sense.

Why Must I Cry?

Yes. Thanks, now I have this song stuck in my head 24/7.
I finally got around to getting furniture at IKEA. The trek that you have to endure in moving furniture without a car- man, mean city living. I just said screw it and got a car service to car us back. But now I'm surprisingly more productive!

Friday night met up with Kerrie and Cindy at Bedford and headed in to see Chris at Terra Blues. We had seen TMBG right across the street a week before. The place was chill- older, more jazzy (in two ways).
After there I finally went to a Hookah bar. The Luxor Cafe. It just happened to be across from an awesome falafel spot, so we ended up there smoking some tutti-frutti through a pipe that made me feel all regal.

Band practice today. I have to learn 12 songs in about an hour and a half.

Choke on this you dance-a-teria types!

Oh. Yeah. This is a thing. Please make it a thing in your life.

Last night Cindy and I caught A Man for All Seasons at American Airlines Theatre. First off, George Morfogen who played Bob Rebadow on Oz played Thomas Cramner, Archbishop of Canterbury. Anyway, Thomas More was a humanist scholar, head advisor to Henry the VIII during the time he was divorcing Catherine of Aragon and hooking up with Anne Boleyn, wanting to make her the new Queen. Thomas More didn't stand behind it, because of the whole reason of forming the new Church of England. He was still loyal to the Church and was friends with Catherine of Aragon. Instead of protesting it, he just kept quiet. Not answering to any of the allegations brought against him, he was forced to resign and burned at the stake for high treason. He knew it was wrong, and instead of joining up with the rest of the advisors and blindly supporting the King, he was punished for what he felt was right.
It really made me think how many times I've blindly followed when I leaned the other way.

Anyway, I have these next three days off. I'm trying to make the best of things by applying ton of burn cream on my bandaged hands and making Autumn mixtapes. I was supposed to go to Rockaway Beach today, but I had laundry to do.

Anybody want to go to this with me?

Picture opposite..ancestry..shipwreck free.

Le Poisson Rouge is hosting They Might Be Giants for a residency for the next few months. Every last Saturday of the month until January.
Last night opened with a cacaphony of French, sweetly whispered over violin and banjo ukelele in the form of Les Chauds Lapins. Brilliant layered French pop from a lazy day next to a river or something. I just started to like crêpes, so the music was even better.

Someone once bought me an accordian, and for a long time between classes I would practice in our apartment along with the Amélie soundtrack. I only learned two songs ("Soir de fête" and "Sur le fil"), but I don't consider myself well versed in the ways of the accordion. I wish I had it here, because there are many times I'd like to squeeze a lonely E minor out.

Right now I'm listening to and Art Garfunkle recording an epilogue of his time with Simon and Garfunkle. It's sort of a joke- Art in the recording booth referring as himself to his full name, Arthur Ira Garfunkel, and giving a very grave a dire diatribe about their splitting up. Halfway through he keeps getting interrupted by Paul Simon in on the board, telling him that he's not serious enough, that he has to be more dark for people to truly believe that they're no longer. He just keeps painting this bleak world where "Some people follow their God's, some people can't handle the split" with Paul Simon cracking up on the other end.

Being in a band is like dating three or four other people all at the same time. I feel like I dated Camella and Jacob for way too long, way long after the relationship was gone. Through the last three months of the band, we were seriously going through the motions. The last tour- the Midwest tour- lines were already drawn. Camella was going to move to Portland and start playing with Tex Winters and Brian, Jacob, Cam and I had something in the works for a while that eventually became Heartrapers.

All I can really remember about it is lugging a heavy Ampeg bass amp to the roof of the Fox and Hound with Jacob pushing and Camella carrying her snare up the metal fire escape(yeah, the BACK ENTRANCE) and explaining to her that we both wanted to quit.
Funny, that was probably the best we played during that whole tour, probably because Shea (old guitarist from the first tour) filled in for Brian (who ended up refusing to play anymore shows, anyway).
That night Shea and I drove back to Denton, a Morrissey poster for Jane and free of any responsibility to The Pebble That Saved The World.
After being on a week and half long tour of non-stop driving, I went watched Little Miss Sunshine, which, is a movie about being on a roadtrip.

Terrific. I'm about to get killed a million miles fron nowhere with a gung-ho iguana who tells me to relax.

I know it's going to be debuting at the Atlanta Film Festival in Halifax, Nova Scotia next Tuesday, but fuck. America needs this movie.

This week has been one sliding scale of doom. I burned my wrist pretty bad and now I have to keep it wrapped. Cindy let me borrow a Puma sweatband, so know I look like a guy who wears a sweatband around my wrist. It makes me think, if I were to sweat so much that I had to wear a band around my arm to soak it up, I need to cut a lot of salt our something out of my diet. Or I just play sports and this is a normal thing people do.

There's a lot of other stuff, but it's not really worth troubling with it all. I got to eat some Shark Fin soup and some Peking Duck, but that was pretty much all I got out of a fancy dinner. Now I can retire and eat duck and shark and feel like a millionaire instead of a three dollaraire (that's the norm).

Supposedly there's talk of Lonnie B. and karaoke tonight.

It's a fuck you Friday.

If I see you at The Charleston today, I will buy you a beer. Limited offer only.

My shadow sits down in the snow and shakes his head from side to side.

If you ever get a chance, go to Woorijip. It's really cheap and crowded most of the time, but it's worth it.

So, I think I've mentioned Achewood a thousand times on this thing. Why is that? Do I only check my gmail and discuss Achewood comic strips when I'm online? Would that make me some sort of internet geek? Probably. And yes I do. Between downloading music and google mapping the world to see how far things really are.
Anyway, Achewood is provided me with many a distraction (Yes, work right now is slow) so I had to order this. There has never been a photo of Chris Onsadt, the creator of my diversion to the grave, until now.
He looks a lot like the only professor I really gave a damn about at UNT, Marshall Armintor. This all makes me think in 10 more years, that's what I'm going to look like. t-e-n.

And if you like the sort of stuff that I like (or want to be like me) order things from drawn and quarterly.

Cindy and I have set in motion our trip to Amsterdam. We are accepting donations.

It's a nuclear show and the stars are gone.

I really like that feeling when you actually know where you're and where you're going in NYC without having to look at a map. You automatically become the navigator of the group, knowing cross streets and addresses and good bars and horrible restaurants. You become a regular Phlegyas of the greater metro area.

I finally finished all of Arrested Development. Three seasons in one week. Not since Oz have I watched a DVDTV series so adamantly. I for one though, am against a movie. I don't think it would work. I like how it ended (and so does Michael Cera) so I think it would ruin the whole ambiance. They pretty much wrapped up everything in the end, so what would the movie even be about?

Spent my two days off basically bouncing back and forth. Friday night we went out to
Mr. Biggs all the way in Midtown and then shot down to the LES for Darkroom. Darkroom is pretty chill- cheap drinks in what I think at one point had to be a fallout shelter. Saturday was watching Cindy kill some people at the Knickerbocker courts while trying to edit. It's bad- when I write I can go out every night and stay up and do whatever, but editing I shut myself away. But I rocked the supportive other and clenched my fist when something was going awry.
Gettin' Gussied- Sounds classy right? That has to be the title of blog or an adult movie or a magazine about night life. First off, big downs to Spitzer's Corner for always being crowded and having beers that are like straight from Spuyten Duyvil but without the atmosphere. I think I saw a line of iphones in dangerous lieu of getting beer spilled across them. Anyway, we headed off to Boss Tweed's which is right next to the Delancy-Essex stop and near a McDonald's. What an absolute awesome piece of real estate for a bar. They must make a ton of scrilla.
The big events that all lead up to this was going to Cindy's sister's birthday. She rented out Planet Thailand 212 for the night. I walked around in a daze for a bit because I think I spent my last birthday in a tent or something (reality: in an apartment with blueberry cheesecake) but it was probably the best use of recycled materials put all up in the Srivijaya pagoda style. Green glass bottles and wine glasses all cemented and glue in the right places to make a person feel all in the right mind to eat some Larb Kai and Vegetable rolls without having to think that's 24th street right out there.

This week: Ikea for a desk, what happens when I think about baking my own bread, trying to tell you about how nice it is to run in Prospect Park (mildly) and a guy named Scott who makes all sorts of jellies and jams.

Everyone had something for 9/11 yesterday.

Telephones are ringing in a land called PBS

Drunk and Dead

It's true- I haven't posted anything since the Siren Music Festival. I think I can mentally run down things:
- I started a torrid love affair with a dish called Juk. Rock it with some sliced Century egg and you got yourself something beautiful that a grown man (who is also a tough logger) would cry some.
- Bought Human Highway's Moody Motorcycle. It's that good pop stuff. I really dig Islands, so it's a win-win situation.
- Started to play with some ex-members of Against Me! out in Brooklyn. Our first show was last Thursday. We got paid in pastries and iced coffee.
- Went to my neighborhood Bank of America. Stood in line behind Todd Barry. He seemed okay.

I started the whole applying for Grad School yesterday.

I don't need no car

Thanks to Albert, I know what a Scraper Bike is.

Those guys look so happy about their bicycles.

When she appears blithely unaware of the Dostoyevskian pall of death hanging over New York City, he compliments her on her legs.

It's a good thing I tan and not burn. I have that farmers tan thing because I'm the guy who wears the polo shirt to the beach.
Yesterday we trucked it out to Coney Island for the Siren Music Festival. We trucked it out of the city around 1:30, not really caring to see the first half of the acts. I know it sounds, bad, but I just couldn't hear Parts and Labor or Dragons of Zynth anymore. We stopped by my apartment and thought it'd be nice to actually walk through my neighborhood to the next stop over. The houses there are real nice, set back from the street with huge front yards and wrap around porches. It didn't feel very much like the Brooklyn I was living in. It was very...quiet.
Anyway, we spent some time at the beach. It was the first time I'd ever been to Coney Island, so it was surreal for me. Tons of people. Very very crowded. But now that I live so close I can head down any time I want.
We caught Beach House, Broken Social Scene, Islands(which was awesome when they played Jellybones and I Was Born a Unicorn)and parts of Stephen Malkmus.
I have to spend the rest of today drinking a lot of water and heading to band practice uptown around 4:30. After that I have to finish my Twilight Zone Marathon.

There's still a list of things I need for the new apartment.

The world is quieter now. We just have to listen.

I finally got around to watching I Am Legend. For my love of all things post-apocalyptic, I have to say this was the worst. I mean, the book was great because it dealt more with the fact that Robert Neville was the only survivor, and it was a bit Shaun of the Dead-ish. The movie though was just CGI'd straight to hell. But I did like Will Smith's acting.
My next two days off I'm going to spend watching The Twilight Zone and John Adams.

Moving has been sort of stressful, having to downsize and buy all new things. It's a bit cathartic though, getting rid of all of my things. Starting over with new stuff.

This weekend is The Siren Music Festival. I think I may just show up for the tail end.

I've never felt more alive on a Saturday than updating my Google Earth from 4.1 to 4.3.

I've finalized my moving situation today. After seeing only three and narrowing it down to two, I'm going with the place in Prospect Park South. It's in a house, with a backyard. I'm slowly getting things together to move.
40 38 51.41" N 73 58 10.01W (Google Earth?)

Yesterday I stumbled upon a working Smith-Corona Super 12 Electric Typewriter. After casual deliberation (Erin would've bought it for me if I wouldn't have bought it) It's loud and whirs and clacks. It doesn't have auto correct, so know I have to be more careful. I think it has something to do with changing your muscle memory from a computer keyboard to a set of keys, and I remember I was a B average typist in school. We will see how it turns out.

The Fourth of July was spent with Chris on a rooftop here in Bushwick at the Ollie Dior building. The roof there is huge, and they had a slip and slide and tons of PBR. I know it's where Beirut practices, but I wasn't looking around. The lofts there aren't too bad, and they come completely furnished. It was hard to watch fireworks because they were everywhere. We had to keep spinning around. We saw at least four planes overhead, and wondered it would be like to see fireworks from the window of a plane.

So tell me, what's your secret?

I've always been a big fan of Nick Swardson. For some reason this struck me as great.
Plus, it's inspiring.

In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.

I finally got to leave NYC.
Granted it wasn't too far out, but it was far out enough to remind myself that there is other things to do outside of the city.

We got lost a couple of times, but it was the good kind of lost, the kind of lost where you don't mind becuase of the company your with and actually getting to do something.
We drove up to Rockefeller State Park Preserve through a lot of historic upstate New York (Sleepy Hollow was most awesome.)
The Preserve for the most part was empty. We passed a few joggers, but other than that it was eerily quiet. We delved off the path here and there, mostly because I wanted to walk through a large field. We talked a lot about living in the city, and about growing up far away from NYC and the whole transition thing. It's weird being up there in the woods and the lake and then the next minute back waiting for the Q train. It was fun though, a good break. I saw a family of Turkey.

Now I'm working overtime practically every day this month in order to move. I found one place in Bushwick, but after looking at the apartment I decide that I could do a lot better. I mean, considering I live in a Yellow House situation right now, I'm always looking. I can't take living with seven people anymore. How could Jacob and Micah do this?

I made pancakes this morning, so I'm going to see if they were worth it.

Did IQs just drop sharply while I was away?

I just slept for 16 hours.
I have to buy Sigur Ros tickets next week.

O Valencia

What a great concept...
What a shitty video.

I'm moving soon. Out of Bushwick (unfortunately). I saw a place in Prospect Heights today that was amazing.

Haaapy Anniversaary, Happy Happy Happy Anniversaaarrrry.

Yesterday was Fountain House's 60th Anniversary Block Party. During the whole thing I could only think of the anniversary song from Welcome To The Dollhouse.
We had crepes, and indian food, and the usual Manhattan block party fare. Oh and the added bonus of sexy Frederick's of Hollywood sexy lingerie booth! Amazing. Truly. Why the hell would you come to a block party to buy satin teddy's. Bizarre.
But overall a good time. Afterwards L'Abri and I walked across the Williamsburg Bridge and then hit up Amy's for a bit. We found tiny furniture on Leonard Street that made me feel bad if there were real Littles living in Brooklyn.

I had no idea you had that much fire in you — skyrockets pinwheels, roman candles.

This makes me feel very Woody Allenish:



It's a student play adapting Haruki Murakami's short story "On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning". It's in Murakami's The Elephant Vanishes.

I just finished watching Doug Benson's documentary Super High Me. 30 days without pot. 3o days of non-stop smoking.
I'm going to S'mac!

Where was the holocaust?

Chris and I bought a couple of 40's last night (King Cobra, Ballantine) and popped in my latest Netflix, Cannibal Holocaust.
There was very little cannibalism and no holocaust at all. Please, do yourself a favor and just go rent a some other grindhouse movie.

I'm almost finished with
The Devil's Highway. It really hits home for me. It's very gruesome, very real. It's propelled me to start collecting information for people who are immigrants and also suffer from mental illness. There's a lot of different organizations here in NYC, there just not really collected anywhere. I got the go ahead from the supervisors, so that's my homework for the next few months. I'll post about my findings as I go along.

What the hell happened to the weather? I was all geared up to go see Vampire Weekend yesterday at Central Park, and after being balls humid all day it just rains all night.

I was blinded by that....Zephyr.

Simultaneously the worst and most "you're gonna love..." movie: The Piano Teacher.



And because I love Mastodon and Bowling...

After a foolish action comes remorse.

I sure said the wrong thing right then. I drank a bottle of wine and rode around the trains for a while, realizing I'm just fucking myself over again.

So, the pesky problem with living in Brooklyn, sometimes, is people breaking into your apartment. Or getting mugged. Or both.
My apartment in Bushwick isn't in the greatest location, but it's quite aways from the hubub of Knickerbocker or Myrtle. I'm sort of positioned between the JMZ and the L. There's a lot of construction on my street, but that's usually during the daylight hours, and they're pretty quick. The sound of grinding metal bothered me at first, but now it's just become background noise.
Well- first earlier this week someone tried to break in by breaking the lock to the back door of my apartment. The upstairs neighbor (Gene) brought it to my attention. Someone had kicked/smashed the lock. It was a pretty good job, real forceful. Gene was more pissed I think (He's been living there since the 1960's... I figured maybe he's dealt with this
before).
Anyway, so the initial wave of shock went over us, we called the landlord, his response: "maybe this week or next. Real busy." While the people above me have been robbed a couple of times already were extremely pissed.
So, we set up a block with some stolen 2x4's from the construction sites and felt a wee bit more secure.
So, fucking last night around 4:30am I hear a banging from the back (my room's near the back) and run out of my room. My roomates and various stragglers from last night's party are in the living room and also run out. There's the burglar (maybe the same guy?) trying to beat the door again! He clearly sees us, and keeps at it. Neal walks to the back door and starts yelling at him, they sort of argue, and then the guy disappears into the shadows of all the abandoned buildings. Fuck.
Be amazed at my paint drawing skills. The red circled area is where the guy keeps on trying to get in. I didn't circle the front door because that's been kicked in for a while now.

So, now I'm looking again for an apartment. I think the guys are going to stay, but I don't want to deal with it. Plus our plumbing is bad. So there. I'm trying to move again.

I have an appointment with someone down in Park Slope tonight. Hope it works out.

This is a man we are talking about, right?

I always wondered what it'd be like to be in a family that had a monthly newsletter. Like those coffee chat pages you get at diners, one side about random family "Did You Know..." trivia and the other with Historical family events. The middle is a few paragraphs of current happenings, where everyone is, new jobs.
Alas, we are not that family.
Last night my Dad inadvertantly told me that my younger brother, the middle one, is getting married. His exact words were "You're brother's getting married... I just hope that you're doing alright."
I'm excited for my brother. I think this is awesome. I think being a brother-in-law affords me to drop it at parties, like a business card. I'll hand someone the subtle off-white card with a flick of my wrist, an in black italics it'll read brother-in-law in fine Impact (I'll request Impact font).
I imagine it was a big decision for him. The men in my family are a bit reserved, so express anything permenance or sentimentality to us is a HUGE step. I think it's a good direction he's going in. I'm very proud of him. Although he's a man of few words, I'm going to try and ring him up and coax something out of him. I've never been the older brother to give advice or steer either one of my brothers in one direction or another, but maybe I should.
Commiting to another person is a battle of blood and glory. It's very fine tuned in my opinion. To be able to get someone, or at least to be able to overlook their faults is a action not unlike the focus of some sixth-century Samurai. I can count the number of major relationships on less than five fingers, and each time the thought has crossed my mind. I'm not sure if I have my brother's conviction, but the times are always changing. I treat the institution of marraige like the a sword of Damoclese type situation.
I've never considered myself a commitmentphobe...

New purchases:
Takk...- Sigur Rós
Here Come the 123's- They Might Be Giants (the song Triops Have Three Eyes is especially hard hitting. I have a history with the prehistoric creatures)

My laptop at home may or may not be out of commission, due to an explosion. More on that later.

3 tbsp. cider vinegar strained through a bag of pipe cleaners

Busy, busy weekend.
I have to buy tickets for both the Sigur Ros and Ween shows this week, which will pretty map out my major shows for the summer schedule. I think I've written about Heima before. You should still watch it.
So yesterday, Erin's poet friends arrived by bus and by train to stay here in Brooklyn. They wanted a typical Brooklyn weekend, so instead of sleeping in and then bitching about trains we went out. Mostly just around the Bedford stop.
Which, a strange occurance came about.
I was in Earwax Records buying some old
dntel records when I noticed a very peculiar tattoo. A tattoo of a red and blue donkey being pitchforked. It was my friend Christian from The Brickhaus years ago. He moved from Denton to London to be a bartender somewhere in 2002, and he's just recently been back here for about six months. More and more Denton people are here.

Today I have to buy another wireless router because ours basically sucked. And then there's a Zombie Walk through Williamsburg (basically drinking and dressing up as Zombies) so I may go to that.

Depends on how much scratch I have.

Juliet, the dice were loaded from the start

Go look at my friend Skip's new blog. He gets to update about his life from the opposite coast.

The last few days have been very dreary. Very fucking dreary. Everyone complains about the weather in Texas, how quick it changes, but sorry, Texas has nothing on the condundrum of cloudy days here in NYC.

I'm finishing up Watership Down, the Richard Adams novel, not the lackluster British animated-for-TV-movie they had in the 1970's. I also ordered A Hilarious Comedy and A Wonderful Tale both from Achewood.

Here's a list of Stuff White People Like.

It's not exactly danger, it's... oh, I don't know. Something oppressive... like thunder.

Right now on NPR they're playing every cover of Louie Louie.
It just make me think of the Home Movies episode where Louis Braille meets Louis Pastuer.
This weekend the other half of the duo was in Washington, D.C. at Savor, so I've been left to my own devices.
Which pretty much meant Kennedy's Fried Chicken time. I don't know what it is about their food, it's not quite addictive because to actual sit and think about it is stomach churning. I cut of hood Chinese from my diet (too many risks) so Kennedy's is probably the only unhealthy vice in our neighborhood.
Today is the second half of the 9th Street International Food Festival. I'm going to get fucking Overeaters Anonymous on the Texas chili tent. I saw them setting up this morning, and the gleam in the chef's eye from Good and Plenty To Go made me feel confident.

hour later update: The Good and Plenty guy was swamped. I totally got a Crepe. I hate Crepes, but this one is banging like an West L.A. late afternoon BBQ where the meat is about to run out and people are getting together for some backyard party elsewhere.

Apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.

Sunday's have been regulation days for me to get coffee at Amy's Bread and spend an hour reading The Village Voice.

Erin and I spent a rapid fire week were where we only spent a total of ten hours home. After work I spent the afternoon in line to see Ironman with Jacob and Rob. That took a while since it was sold out every time we tried to go. It was awesome. I'm glad Marvel has a real dick of a character and that they're not P.C. about dumbing down Tony Stark at all.

I've been traveling back and forth to Bed-Stuy (Amy's old neighborhood!) to feed Rob and Diana's cats. This has given me a chance to play Grand Theft Auto IV and mess around on their Wii. Actually, I just watched cable tv for about thirty minutes. Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom was on. I couldn't help myself.
Bed-Stuy, their area at least, is really quaint and postcard-ish. It's a nice trip (30 minutes, tops) so it's not bad. Get to see a lot of far off Brooklyn.
Yesterday we partcipated in the NAMI Walk to raise awareness on mental illness in NYC. It was a short jaunt from South Street Seaport halfway up the Brooklyn Bridge and back. A good stroll for a Saturday morning. We then trucked it out to Astoria to the Bohemian Hall and Beer Garden, but we were all to tired to get tanked.

Today is laundry day and going to watch West 47th Street, a documentary about where I work. Fountain House is a radical offshoot of typical nental health services in the U.S. It was and still is a very controversial place. I suggest everyone check it out.

Oh yeah, go here if you're in Bushwick.

Damn you Tad.

Finally had my two days off from work.
Friday was spent sleeping-in and cleaning the kitchen/microbrewery. Had dinner at S'Mac. There are a number of Macaroni and Cheese themed restaurants throughout Manhattan, but this place is still the best.
Saturday was probably one of the instances you do as a couple that really defines your status together.
We went wedding shopping for a friend.
Not MY friend or coworker (I don't have many of those getting married) but for someone at Skyhorse. We went to Bed Bath and Beyond and milled around with other packs of twentysomethings, wide eyed and frightened that someday they may be getting something from that home emporium.
It wasn't bad at all, but owning that stuff...all that stuff...knowing that you have...stuff. I dunno. I've never been a person that really thought about owning a food processor or products with that little outline of a chef guy. I prefer to stay not attached to things like that. It means you have to go home to that stuff, just sitting there.
Good things that came out of the Saturday outing include a trip to Skyline Books and chatting with an older man and his daughter about an $11,000 refridgerator. We were deemed creative types because of our shoes.
Saturday night left me with bad chinese food sickness and a gem of a bar, The Wreck Room.
It doesn't have the ambience of Ft. Worth's Wreck Room.

I'm about to buy Maps and Legends.

More on Warcrafting. Later. Damn you Tad.

My Chevy painted tropical, a wima way, a wima way

Thanks Young Dro for bringing back that African melody that everyone enjoyed on oldies radio stations all across America.
Song is wiggled it's way into my psych.

So, I watch a lot of Frasier, and jointly Erin and I own a couple of seasons on DVD. So, yesterday I was leaving Amy's Bread and heading back to work across the street when I say David Hyde Pierce. Dr Niles Crane.


We tried to go bowling after work, at Port Authority Bus Terminal. First, Port Authority is the worst fucking place in NYC. Even the Dallas Greyhound station is better. But apparently they have a great bowling alley. So great it has a bouncer and if you're not on a reserve list, you can't get in. That was our situation.
So we went to Rudy's and a shit ton of free hot dogs and drank.

Today:
St. Marks and Beard Papa.

The Count of Monte FISTO

I've never really listened to the radio here in NYC.
In the windowsill of our office sits the tinniest speaker hooked to a stereo (who's original speakers stopped working sometime during the Bush/Gore presidential debates) that blasts people with names like Tweety and Dannity Kane.
I think I know that Dannity Kane was something that involved P.Diddy.
I think.
So far today's work festivities included me reading about this story. And playing with the office mascot, an orange tabby named Daisy.
Erin has a blog now, and she's a much better blogger than I am. You can read it here.

here's some links for your weekend:
The Natural Gourmet School
Muxtape.com

Turntables In Her Eyes

I wonder if that pregnant man on Oprah the other day hears a lot of Junior jokes. Because that's the first thing I thought of.
But it's cool because she's a cool dude now with a baby, and living granola style up in Bend, Oregon.

A lot of good birthday stuff. Sort of just really waiting for my mom to be here this weekend and to deliver a lot of my DVD's and other accoutrement. It'll be nice to see her too.
Erin and I rang in me turning 27 with the best Indian food in Brooklyn (great Naan) and a blueberry cheesecake from D'Aiuto's in Chelsea. Fucking delicious.

I finally got around to seeing Devil's Playground. I've been reading Eric Brende's Better-Off: Flipping The Switch on Technology.

Now, leaving for LaGuardia.

Concentrated energy...The longer it is built up, the more devestating it becomes!

I made this weekend a thing.

Since Erin's been out in Indiana doing it up Hoosier style and the like, and me being tired of waking up and listening to the construction people yell at each other in Spanish, I set out to make Saturday/Sunday a thing.

First, called up Fish to discuss Belgian Fries (which are just regular fries, but you get to put whatever you want on them). So, not to get gussied up or anything, we head to this place across the street from Tompkins Square Park. We ate in silence because there was just too much fries to be had for conversation. I watched a man put on a fake mustache and chase a girl around chess tables.

Feeling the need to see Amy before she left for Amsterdam, we rendezvoused at Barcade where I got tens times of all imbibed on something called Old Crustacean. I played the hell out a game called Tapper.

Woke up with a massive headache and in mid AIM argument about what is the smallest character on a keyboard. I don't know what we decided on, but I said it was (`).
Anyway, Neal locked himself out of the apt. and called me eight times. A good friend (and current housemate) took us out to eat soul food. He tried to explain to a German tourist girl there that she was the definition of fine and she just laughed at him and kept texting and wearing weird Soccer Adidas.

I'm a cleaning dervish though, I got Erin's apartment spic and span so's my mom doesn't have to bunk with the dregs of Brooklyn.

All of the true things that I am about to tell you are shameless lies.

So, after much bellyaching I found a new job.
Still here in NYC, a few blocks away from Borders in Hell's Kitchen.
Fountainhouse NYC.

A very certain thing I'm interested in getting.

Best label ever.

You're about to meet a hypochondriac. Witness Mr. Walter Bedeker, age forty-four, afraid of the following: death, disease, other people, germs, draft,

Egads.
Fucking around on Gothamist I found this: How To Dress Like Brooklyn.

Bummed around Park Slope most of Saturday, dropped by Brooklyn Hero Supply Co. to see my friend Matt. Spent the day with Jared and Jen planning a game day next week with Bocci(?) in the park.

I watched Palindromes as well.

Humdrum?

I got a lot of sleep.

The way that she moved, well, I was aroused.

McKibbin Lofts is the new new hotness.
I've never been anywhere that the floor was always about to give way to the weight of the people there. We were told to "tread lightly" by someone named Baghdad.
Anyway, got to see Slasher Risk and a few other bands out of Cleveland. Got a keepsake (Japanese Keroppi glass) from Dawn. I came in my room this morning and it's still full of red wine. Good sign.

I'm going to drink this wine, find some more wine and watch the Sigur Ros film, Heima.
Trailer:

Down here, this is our time

Go read Marvel: 1602.
Neil Gaiman wrote it, and I don't think I've enjoyed anything as much by him besides his work with Terry Pratchett on Good Omens.

Temporal Funk as of late. Subsiding with a fierce quickness. I tend to let things get to me at times, and I can't control how they affect my mood. Dwelling is a better way to put it. Too many "What If's?" in my mind at one time.

One thing I've really learned living here is that small things matter in big ways. I count on a lot of little things to really make my day. Say, getting to cook for or with Erin. That's a major plus. Hanging out with Amy, another plus. Going to The P.I.T is always a guarantee. Things like that really make my life here better, and I don't think about how much struggle there is. I mean, I'm coming from a place where my rent was less than $200 and I always had enough money to do anything I wanted. It's weird to see how some people live by filling their shows. Watch the movie The Super, see what I mean.

In a ray of sunshine news, there's a Kennedy Fried Chicken in my neighborhood. Cheap ass fried Chicken 24/7, prepared behind bullet-proof glass.

A sable coat, maybe a hat, how I wish I could be like that

The show was spectacular.
fucking spectacular at that.

It was held at 123 W. 43rd, NYC Town Hall. Theater seating, large crowds, dummy pipes. The opening act was a group of men who recreated a sci-fi short story, a throwback to old radio shows. It was great, a seemingly haunting and staccato-ed accordion to build suspense, a man with plungers and a narrator who was spot on.
Lights fall, and the The Magnetic Fields.
I can't remember the set list as it goes, but they played a lot off Distortion and 69 Love Songs.
It was terrifyingly emotional for me. I can honestly say I was moved, and that doesn't happen often (except for when Erin told me she bought the tickets while standing in front of a Polish liquor store, I was quite struck with her).

Now tonight, the agenda goes as this:
1. Write Battery Recharger review for their MySpace.
2. Continue to work on the mass of short stories accumulated on my desktop (once their finished I move them to My Documents) so it's fucking cluttered right now.
3. Check job posts.

I feel phenomenal right now.

The blog in where I try to break down my love with The Magnetic Fields

Really, I remember the day I got to hear 69 Love Songs.

Spring, afternoon, I remember because in Denton the Crepe Myrtle were rubbing their branches together to wake up.
I was walking with Chris, and we were talking about how we both liked Knapsack and Karate, trying to out-obscure indie rock with one another by asking each other if we had it on vinyl or CD, scoffing at the other for not really "owning" the music.
He roomed along with Ktrey and Candace in the one apartment where so much had happened in Denton. George O'Neal getting scurvy, the Pointy Shoe Factory forming (and then later, breaking up) and of course Mikey Sweets' shrinking room.
Due to poor architecture-ing, the farthest room from the street tapered off in the corner, an optical illusion that forced you to have all of your furniture pushed against one wall, uncomfortable for some company, quite alluring for others.

I've digressed.

Yet, background is important when talking about life changing events, and this one still rings out in me.
Reno Dakota was the very first song I heard. Vocals- Claudia Gonson, Music- Stephin Merritt.

Since then I've associated every aspect of my life with Stephin Merritt's music as best as a depraved indie rock schlub can. It's all in there, every emotion that I feel I always connect it with lyrics or a song from the entire catalog.

It's blissful, it's painful, it's full. And tomorrow night I'll finally get a chance to see Stephin Merritt & Co., courtesy of Erin.

You may think you do but don't you?

Nothing but drinking.

Friday for Raven's birthday and then yesterday just because. Erin's friends from when she lived in Dublin. Great apartments on the west side (actually near Rudy's).

Today is laundry/cleaning apartment day. Work doesn't start until 9am now, and I feel like I've been given a golden ticket.

Looks like a roadmap to infection

David Byrne's Survival Strategies for Emerging Artists — and Megastars

Full disclosure: I used to own a record label. That label, Luaka Bop, still exists, though I'm no longer involved in running it. My last record came out through Nonesuch, a subsidiary of the Warner Music Group empire. I have also released music through indie labels like Thrill Jockey, and I have pressed up CDs and sold them on tour. I tour every few years, and I don't see it as simply a loss leader for CD sales. So I have seen this business from both sides. I've made money, and I've been ripped off. I've had creative freedom, and I've been pressured to make hits. I have dealt with diva behavior from crazy musicians, and I have seen genius records by wonderful artists get completely ignored. I love music. I always will. It saved my life, and I bet I'm not the only one who can say that.

What is called the music business today, however, is not the business of producing music. At some point it became the business of selling CDs in plastic cases, and that business will soon be over. But that's not bad news for music, and it's certainly not bad news for musicians. Indeed, with all the ways to reach an audience, there have never been more opportunities for artists.

Where are things going? Well, some people's charts look like this:

Some see this picture as a dire trend. The fact that Radiohead debuted its latest album online and Madonna defected from Warner Bros. to Live Nation, a concert promoter, is held to signal the end of the music business as we know it. Actually, these are just two examples of how musicians are increasingly able to work outside of the traditional label relationship. There is no one single way of doing business these days. There are, in fact, six viable models by my count. That variety is good for artists; it gives them more ways to get paid and make a living. And it's good for audiences, too, who will have more — and more interesting — music to listen to. Let's step back and get some perspective.

What is music?
First, a definition of terms. What is it we're talking about here? What exactly is being bought and sold? In the past, music was something you heard and experienced — it was as much a social event as a purely musical one. Before recording technology existed, you could not separate music from its social context. Epic songs and ballads, troubadours, courtly entertainments, church music, shamanic chants, pub sing-alongs, ceremonial music, military music, dance music — it was pretty much all tied to specific social functions. It was communal and often utilitarian. You couldn't take it home, copy it, sell it as a commodity (except as sheet music, but that's not music), or even hear it again. Music was an experience, intimately married to your life. You could pay to hear music, but after you did, it was over, gone — a memory.

Technology changed all that in the 20th century. Music — or its recorded artifact, at least — became a product, a thing that could be bought, sold, traded, and replayed endlessly in any context. This upended the economics of music, but our human instincts remained intact. I spend plenty of time with buds in my ears listening to recorded music, but I still get out to stand in a crowd with an audience. I sing to myself, and, yes, I play an instrument (not always well).

We'll always want to use music as part of our social fabric: to congregate at concerts and in bars, even if the sound sucks; to pass music from hand to hand (or via the Internet) as a form of social currency; to build temples where only "our kind of people" can hear music (opera houses and symphony halls); to want to know more about our favorite bards — their love lives, their clothes, their political beliefs. This betrays an eternal urge to have a larger context beyond a piece of plastic. One might say this urge is part of our genetic makeup.

All this is what we talk about when we talk about music.

All of it.

What do record companies do?
Or, more precisely, what did they do?

· Fund recording sessions

· Manufacture product

· Distribute product

· Market product

· Loan and advance money for expenses (tours, videos, hair and makeup)

· Advise and guide artists on their careers and recordings

· Handle the accounting

This was the system that evolved over the past century to market the product, which is to say the container — vinyl, tape, or disc — that carried the music. (Calling the product music is like selling a shopping cart and calling it groceries.) But many things have changed in the past decade that reduce the value of these services to artists.

For example:

Recording costs have declined to almost zero. Artists used to need the labels to bankroll their recordings. Most simply didn't have the $15,000 (minimum) necessary to rent a professional studio and pay an engineer and a producer. For many artists — maybe even most — this is no longer the case. Now an album can be made on the same laptop you use to check email.

Manufacturing and distribution costs are approaching zero. There used to be a break-even point below which it was impractical to distribute a recording. With LPs and CDs, there were base manufacturing costs, printing costs, shipping, and so on. It paid — in fact, it was essential — to sell in volume, because that's how many of those costs got amortized. No more: Digital distribution is pretty much free. It's no cheaper per unit to distribute a million copies than a hundred.

Touring is not just promotion. Live performances used to be seen as essentially a way to publicize a new release — a means to an end, not an end in itself. Bands would go into debt in order to tour, anticipating that they'd recover their losses later through increased record sales. This, to be blunt, is all wrong. It's backward. Performing is a thing in itself, a distinct skill, different from making recordings. And for those who can do it, it's a way to make a living.

So with all these changes, what happens to the labels? Some will survive. Nonesuch, where I've done several albums, has thrived under Warner Music Group ownership by operating with a lean staff of 12 and staying focused on talent. "Artists like Wilco, Philip Glass, k.d. lang, and others have sold more here than when they were at so-called major labels," Bob Hurwitz, president of Nonesuch, told me, "even during a time of decline."

But some labels will disappear, as the roles they used to play get chopped up and delivered by more thrifty services. In a recent conversation I had with Brian Eno (who is producing the next Coldplay album and writing with U2), he was enthusiastic about I Think Music — an online network of indie bands, fans, and stores — and pessimistic about the future of traditional labels. "Structurally, they're much too large," Eno said. "And they're entirely on the defensive now. The only idea they have is that they can give you a big advance — which is still attractive to a lot of young bands just starting out. But that's all they represent now: capital."

So where do artists fit into this changing landscape? We find new options, new models.

The six possibilities

Where there was one, now there are six: Six possible music distribution models, ranging from one in which the artist is pretty much hands-off to one where the artist does nearly everything. Not surprisingly, the more involved the artist is, the more he or she can often make per unit sold. The totally DIY model is certainly not for everyone — but that's the point. Now there's choice.

1. At one end of the scale is the 360, or equity, deal, where every aspect of the artist's career is handled by producers, promoters, marketing people, and managers. The idea is that you can achieve wide saturation and sales, boosted by a hardworking machine that stands to benefit from everything you do. The artist becomes a brand, owned and operated by the label, and in theory this gives the company a long-term perspective and interest in nurturing that artist's career.

Pussycat Dolls, Korn, and Robbie Williams have made arrangements like this, selling equity in everything they touch. The T-shirts, the records, the concerts, the videos, the BBQ sauce. The artist often gets a lot of money up front. But I doubt that creative decisions will be left in the artist's hands. As a general rule, as the cash comes in, creative control goes out. The equity partner simply has too much at stake.

This is the kind of deal Madonna just made with Live Nation. For a reported $120 million, the company — which until now has mainly produced and promoted concerts — will get a piece of both her concert revenue and her music sales. I, for one, would not want to be beholden to Live Nation — a spinoff of Clear Channel, the radio conglomerate that turned the US airwaves into pabulum. But Madge is a smart cookie; she's always been adept at controlling her own stuff, so we'll see.

2. Next is what I'll call the standard distribution deal. This is more or less what I lived with for many years as a member of the Talking Heads. The record company bankrolls the recording and handles the manufacturing, distribution, press, and promotion. The artist gets a royalty percentage after all those other costs are repaid. The label, in this scenario, owns the copyright to the recording. Forever.

There's another catch with this kind of arrangement: The typical pop star often lives in debt to their record company and a host of other entities, and if they hit a dry spell they can go broke. Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, TLC — the danger of debt and overextension is an old story.

Obviously, the cost of these services, along with the record company's overhead, accounts for a big part of CD prices. You, the buyer, are paying for all those trucks, those CD plants, those warehouses, and all that plastic. Theoretically, as many of these costs go away, they should no longer be charged to the consumer — or the artist.

Sure, many of the services traditionally provided by record labels under the standard deal are now being farmed out. Press and publicity, digital marketing, graphic design — all are often handled by smaller, independent firms. But he who pays the piper calls the tune. If the record company pays the subcontractors, then the record company ultimately decides who or what has priority. If they "don't hear a single," they can tell you your record isn't coming out.

So what happens when online sales eliminate many of these expenses? Look at iTunes: $10 for a "CD" download reflects the cost savings of digital distribution, which seems fair — at first. It's certainly better for consumers. But after Apple takes its 30 percent, the royalty percentage is applied and the artist — surprise! — is no better off.

Not coincidentally, the issues here are similar to those in the recent Hollywood writers' strike. Will recording artists band together and go on strike?

3. The license deal is similar to the standard deal, except in this case the artist retains the copyrights and ownership of the master recording. The right to exploit that property is granted to a label for a limited period of time — usually seven years. After that, the rights to license to TV shows, commercials, and the like revert to the artist. If the members of the Talking Heads held the master rights to our catalog today, we'd earn twice as much in licensing as we do now — and that's where artists like me derive much of our income. If a band has made a record itself and doesn't need creative or financial help, this model is worth looking at. It allows for a little more creative freedom, since you get less interference from the guys in the big suits. The flip side is that because the label doesn't own the master, it may invest less in making the release a success.

But with the right label, the license deal can be a great way to go. This is the relationship Arcade Fire has with Merge Records, an indie label that's done great for its band by avoiding the big-spending, big-label approach. "Part of it is just being realistic and not putting yourself in the hole," Merge cofounder Mac McCaughan says. "The bands we work with, we never recommend that they make videos. I like videos, but they don't sell a lot of records. What really sells records is touring — and artists can actually make money on the tour itself if they keep their budgets down."

4. Then there's the profit-sharing deal. I did something like this with my album Lead Us Not Into Temptation in 2003. I got a minimal advance from the label, Thrill Jockey, since the recording costs were covered by a movie soundtrack budget, and we shared the profits from day one. I retained ownership of the master. Thrill Jockey does some marketing and press. I may or may not have sold as many records as I would have with a larger company, but in the end I took home a greater share of each unit sold.

5. In the manufacturing and distribution deal, the artist does everything except, well, manufacture and distribute the product. Often the companies that do these kinds of deals also offer other services, like marketing. But given the numbers, they don't stand to make as much, so their incentive here is limited. Big record labels traditionally don't make M&D deals.

In this scenario, the artist gets absolute creative control, but it's a bigger gamble. Aimee Mann does this, and it works really well for her. "A lot of artists don't realize how much more money they could make by retaining ownership and licensing directly," Mann's manager, Michael Hausman, told me. "If it's done properly, you get paid quickly, and you get paid again and again. That's a great source of income."

6. Finally, at the far end of the scale, is the self-distribution model, where the music is self-produced, self-written, self-played, and self-marketed. CDs are sold at gigs and through a Web site. Promotion is a MySpace page. The band buys or leases a server to handle download sales. Within the limits of what they can afford, the artists have complete creative control. In practice, especially for emerging artists, that can mean freedom without resources — a pretty abstract sort of independence. For those who plan to take their material on the road and play it live, the financial constraints cut even deeper. Backup orchestras, massive video screens and sets, and weird high tech lights don't come cheap.

Radiohead adopted this DIY model to sell In Rainbows online — and then went a step further by letting fans name their own price for the download. They weren't the first to do this — Issa (formerly known as Jane Siberry) pioneered the pay-what-you-will model a few years ago — but Radiohead's move was much higher profile. It may be less risky for them, but it's a clear sign of real changes afoot. As one of Radiohead's managers, Bryce Edge, told me, "The industry reacted like the end was nigh. They've devalued music, giving it away for nothing.' Which wasn't true: We asked people to value it, which is very different semantics to me."

At this end of the spectrum, the artist stands to receive the largest percentage of income from sales per unit — sales of anything. A larger percentage of fewer sales, most likely, but not always. Artists doing it for themselves can actually make more money than the massive pop star, even though the sales numbers may seem minuscule by comparison. Of course, not everyone is as smart as those nerdy Radiohead boys. Pete Doherty probably should not be handed the steering wheel.

Freedom versus pragmatism
These models are not absolute. They can morph and evolve. Hausman and Mann took the total DIY route at first, getting money orders and sending out CDs in Express Mail envelopes; later on they licensed the records to distributors. And things change over time. In the future, we will see more artists take up these various models or mix and match versions of them. For existing and emerging artists — who read about the music business going down the drain — this is actually a great time, full of options and possibilities. The future of music as a career is wide open.

Many who take the cash up front will never know that long-range thinking might have been wiser. Mega pop artists will still need that mighty push and marketing effort for a new release that only traditional record companies can provide. For others, what we now call a record label could be replaced by a small company that funnels income and invoices from the various entities and keeps the accounts in order. A consortium of midlevel artists could make this model work. United Musicians, the company that Hausman founded, is one such example.

I would personally advise artists to hold on to their publishing rights (well, as much of them as they can). Publishing royalties are how you get paid if someone covers, samples, or licenses your song for a movie or commercial. This, for a songwriter, is your pension plan.

Increasingly, it's possible for artists to hold on to the copyrights for their recordings as well. This guarantees them another lucrative piece of the licensing pie and also gives them the right to exploit their work in mediums to be invented in the future — musical brain implants and the like.

No single model will work for everyone. There's room for all of us. Some artists are the Coke and Pepsi of music, while others are the fine wine — or the funky home-brewed moonshine. And that's fine. I like Rihanna's "Umbrella" and Christina Aguilera's "Ain't No Other Man." Sometimes a corporate soft drink is what you want — just not at the expense of the other thing. In the recent past, it often seemed like all or nothing, but maybe now we won't be forced to choose.

Ultimately, all these scenarios have to satisfy the same human urges: What do we need music to do? How do we visit the land in our head and the place in our heart that music takes us to? Can I get a round-trip ticket?

Really, isn't that what we want to buy, sell, trade, or download?

David Byrne is currently collaborating with Fatboy Slim and Brian Eno. Separately.

Chart Sources: Jupiter Research, Recording Industry Association of America, Almighty Institute of Music Retail, Wired Research



Two things arose from me reading over this:
Do you think that the same thing can be said for writers? Do you think that it eventually could lean to more and more writers going DIY over trying to seek out major publishers?

and...

Brian Eno's real name is Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno.

I don't want to know about it.

Denzel Washington is going to take over Walter Matthau's role as Agent Z and John Travolta will be Mr. Blue.



Plus, hell in the form of snow and rain has descended upon the east coast.

Because He's Living In Some B-Movie

Where the lines are so clearly drawn.

I fell asleep after work earlier, and somehow woke up browsing at Good Records and listening to traffic outside. I remember thinking this is the exact time of day I fell asleep in New York as it is here right now.
Pangs upon waking.
Right now I'm listening to Camper Van Beethoven, something I would do on any long car trip between home and Denton. It was during my stint of learning that I was going to call Denton home more than Big Spring that I feel in love with Key Lime Pie(1989) and Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart(1988).
I pine. I know I do. People around me know I do.

And that makes me think of all the things going on in Denton right now, with Fry Street basically being mowed over and the inevitable waves of commercialism that are rolling in. For a long time Denton was that beaming star of independence, forget Austin. You could buy the same records there, eat at the same restaurants (The Green House) and go to the same parties that were happening down there.
With Alter Ego Vintage becoming the next husk, along with Kharma Cafe, Mr. Chopsticks TJ's, Uncommon Grounds and The Tomato, it seems that my home has left me, not the other way around.
Not to say I wouldn't move back to Denton. It's a thought that pops into my head quite often.
I dunno. It's an off night.

The one where I talk about beer.

Tonight I'm going to my first Brewpub. Now, gone are the days of smoky, standing room only dirty toilet drinkeries, and welcome are the days of soft leather chairs, British delicacies and beer with enough hops that it could kill you.

Wostyntje...

Fantome Saison...

Hansje Drinker Tripel...

These are the new beers that are entering my life. I'm not going to lie, I'm totally ok with Shiner, Kronenburgs and Stella Artois. Especially Stellas. Very cold, crispy Stella Artois (a great memory is sitting in a darkened theater, The Inwood, and watching Stella Artois advertisements).
Now, I will try beers in which I can't pronounce, but taste amazing. This is coupled with Erin and Ryan turning the apartment in Bushwick into a microbrewery so much that the smell lingers. Their beer is very tasty though, and I'd drink a lot of it. Wait, I drink a lot of it anyway. Free beer in NYC? Doesn't matter what it is. FREE BEER.

This is where I am going tonight.

Local Booksellers Union 582

Fucking cold weather. I can't feel my hands as I walk down the street.
I left my gloves somewhere, or they fell out of my pocket in Penn Station, or they're just missing. Fuck.

So, the contest with Erin is holding up well. I've gotten through three novels so far:

Paul Auster- Moon Palace
Upton Sinclair- Oil! (basis for There Will Be Blood- the newest PTA film)
Patrick McCabe- Breakfast on Pluto
and currently reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

The roomates are practicing and it sounds fucking amazing. Heartrapers would be jealous.

At work we've been listening to the Dethalbum (Dethklok) nearly everyday, at least twice a day. I think I need to make a grindcore/death metal mix, and I need suggestions.

And since Netflix is still my best friend forever (sorry Jacob.) This is my current queue:
Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991)
Swampthing (1982)
Freaked (1993)
Critters (1986)
The Gate (1987)
Tapeheads (1988)

It's very Proustian for me to watch these.

Tastes like New York.

As I type this from my penthouse view of Central Park, watching women push strollers down the large, clean sidewalk and the multitude of joggers as they weave in and out of the foot traffic, I think to myself, "How lucky can one guy be?"
I return to my living room, set my tumbler of some expensive scotch I've never even heard of but tastes like paint and admire my TV. So fucking big, and it has channels they don't show in America. Channels where I can watch people compete for household items, or television shows in Moroccan French, about saucy young people who's lives rival mine as they sit and complain about the increasing prices of muffins.
And then I think of my expensive sports car parked somewhere in Midtown, probably between 5th and 6th avenue, and the doorman downstairs that always calls a my favorite cab for me to drive me to my car. Dinner tonight is probably going to be Goat Cheese and Wild Mushroom Blinchiki or Braised Rabbit Pelmeni downed with an expensive glass of Chardonnay as I nonchalantly fall in and out of consciousness with whatever my date is talking about.
Afterwards, I'll return to my penthouse, check my e-mail, my blackberry, my Venus phone and my regular mail that's been presorted into corresponding piles (thank you to Lisa, my personal assistant) before retiring to bed so In the morning I can do 5,000 situps and stare at my thinning hairline.