Nothing To See Here

[WARNING: The photos attached to this story contain from-the-waist-up nudity. If you are offended by such things, perhaps you should just go away.]

I was tired of having hair. Driving with the windows rolled down was out of the question and forget about running my fingers through it. Both scenarios would result in a disgusting afro mess. Either I started using product to keep it in line or it was coming off. Those were the two choices. Hair just shouldn’t be so much work. So, it came off.

It’s not that I didn’t think about it. When I was in Kansas last week the humidity overpowered the conditioner that usually calms it down a bit. Visions of shaving my head started entering my thoughts. It became inevitable. Just before I made the final decision, I stared into the bathroom sink in between glances at myself. The face needed a shave as well. It was difficult to picture myself with a shaved head again. I had done it once before.

I went into my office to get some large scissors for the initial cut. There’s was just no way of getting clippers through my hair without giving myself a sloppy chop to begin with. I cut and cut some more. Have you ever grabbed a mass of your own hair and cut it? The sound is somewhat disturbing. It falls somewhere between the ripping of a cotton shirt and fingers down a chalk board.

The top was first. I wanted to at least have a little fun with it. You know, the reverse mohawk and stuff. Hair was all over the place. As much as I tried to get it all in the sink, it ended up on the floor, in my eyes, in my ears, under my finger nails and it clogged my clippers in no time. The amount of hair in the sink was incredible.

I jumped in the shower and did what people do in there. I didn’t need to use much shampoo and the conditioner went untouched. Perhaps I’ll just let it grow out, so I can do it all over again. For the time being, I’m going to enjoy driving with the windows rolled down.

1) …sent a handwritten letter? I wrote my dad a letter for Father’s Day. Other than holidays of that nature, you won’t find me handwriting much of anything. On ocassion I hand write my journal entries or other writing, but most of the time it’s all done on the computer.

2) …baked something from scratch or made something by hand? My defintion of baking is putting something in the micorowave, cooking something pre-packaged on the stove or warming something up in the toaster oven. The last time I cooked something was at least a year ago, if not longer. I honestly don’t even remember.

3) …camped in a tent? The last time I camped in a tent was on New Year’s Eve 2000. I was in Sequoia National Park with my dog and girlfriend at the time. If it wasn’t the best New Year’s I have ever had, then it was at the very least, the most beautiful. We had a fire going and just watched the stars and froze our asses off. It was seventeen degrees when we woke up in the morning.

4) …volunteered your time to church, school, or community? I volunteer my time to you, dear readers, every time I post to this site or the other one. Isn’t that enough? I give money to good causes and email a lot of letters to politicians about issues I care about.

5) …helped a stranger? I’ll just post a journal entry from November 9, 2001 to answer this one.

I had to do something to make me feel a little human…or something. It was actually a friend’s suggestion to take a walk down Hollywood Blvd, which I have never done in the nearly four years that I have lived in Los Angeles. So I drove to Hollywood and Highland, parked and set out walking up and down Hollywood Blvd. to look for some homeless people to give some money to. I didn’t give everything away because I really didn’t run in to that many. As a matter of fact, the first guy that I saw sitting down against a wall with his legs pulled into his chest, I asked, “Can I help you?”

“Are you a cop,” he replied.

I chuckled and shook my head, “no.”

He said he was looking for crack or dope. I said I really couldn’t help him out with that. I even offered him some money, but he didn’t take it.

The next guy I ran in to had just gotten in from Denver via the Greyhound. He was a trashy punk kid that probably hadn’t showered in a while. He said he painted houses and it was getting too cold in Colorado, so he decided to come here. I sat and talked with him for a while. He was a 20 year-old with broken teeth and some crusty blood on his lip.

I sat squated down next to him. I asked him what he was going to do. He said he was going to get a job counselor and get some food stamps while he was here and look for work. I asked if he would be able to find work very easily and he replied with an enthusiastic, “yes.”

“Last time I was in town, I found work in no time,” he explained.

I asked if he wrote or read and he pulled out some science fiction book that was stuffed in his sleeping bag that was attached to his backpack.

“I go to the library during the day and check out some books and magazines, mostly. I also use the Internet.”

I had to wonder what he used the Internet for, but I did’t ask. I didn’t feel sorry for him. I didn’t feel anything really. I spoke to him as a human being and not down to him in any way. I told him to take care, gave him a few bucks and continued on my way.

It was amazing to me what Hollywood Blvd. looked like. I don’t know what I was expecting. It was certainly looking a lot cleaner. They’re building the area up to look like Times Square or something. I saw a lot stars on the sidewalk, of course.

I just kept walking. Eventually I made it to La Brea, crossed the street and walked east again. They were blocking a major section of the street off for a film, so I had to turn around and cross to the other side of the street. I peaked in some stores and just watched the sidewalk pass before my feet. It was nice to be out and maybe I was doing something good, if not for me, for a few other people. I stopped at a newsstand on the corner of Cuheanga and picked up a back of smokes. A guy was wheeling himself across the intersecion that I was about to cross. I looked at him.

“Can you help a homeless guy out?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course,” I replied.

“God bless you.”

I smiled,” no, God bless you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we’re all just human, man.”

He stuck out his filthy hand to shake. I stared at the stub left from an amputated leg for a second. I took his hand in mine and shook it. That felt good. Though I didn’t dare do anything with that hand. I found myself afraid of what filth was now on my hand. I crossed the intersection, smoking my cigarette.

As I got close to Highland again I ran into the punk that I gave some money to. He was with a couple of other young punks and a little puppy. They asked if I could spare some change for a burger or something. I gave them a five to split. One of them, a kid with a mohawk, asked if he could buy a smoke off me. I politely said no, but said I would give him some. I pulled out several smokes from my pack and handed them over. He thanked me and I was on my way.

The Monthly Mix for June has been posted. Get to downloading some fine music. Upcoming releases that we think you should know about can now be found on this page as well. Please enjoy and don’t forget to purchase the stuff you like.

I find it a little ironic that days after posting the fact that I placed an online personal, I get the following email:

From: Send A Crush
To: Brad Barrish
Subject: Someone you know has a crush on you!

Click here to find out who likes you!

Who are you? I’m not guessing. I’m sure I already just invited more spam into my inbox by clicking the link. They’re so tricky these days. They pray on whores. You assholes.

No Sleep Till…

When asked about what I would wish for, if I was given a single semi-realistic wish, my answer has been the same for as long as I can remember. I would wish that I never felt the sensation of being tired. It’s not that I mind sleeping. I actually enjoy it, especially when I have amazing dreams or nightmares, but the ability to decide when I sleep would be nothing short of a dream come true.

The possibilities of reading a book in one sitting, driving cross-country or writing a novel are now just a pill away. I would venture to guess that despite it’s good intentions for keeping pilots awake, helping narcoleptics and other people with sleeping disorders and enabling terminally ill patients to enjoy their last few moments awake, Modafinil certainly has the danger of becoming the next party drug. I certainly would try it out, though I can’t help but be a bit skeptical about the damage it could do. I mean we are talking about messing with nature here.

I’m conflicted when it comes to biotechnology. Part of me would want to be the first in line to get implants that would adjust the climate control of a room when I walked in, allowed me to see clearly in pitch-black darkness or gave me other super-human abilities. The other part of me says, ‘don’t fuck with mother nature.’I'm quite certain all of those abilities will become reality during my lifetime, question is, will I be a specimen?

Oh My God

As a child I never thought about the words I was reciting when, with the rest of the classroom, I mumbled, sometimes stumbled, over the words of the Pledge of Allegiance. If you’ve read the news today (oh boy), you’ll have most certainly read about the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals overturned a 1954 decision that put “under God” into the pledge. It went on to say that it violated the separation of church and state, and was, therefore, unconstitutional.

I don’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance. It’s not because I’m ashamed to be American, or anything of the sort. I just don’t feel that my God likes to have his name attached to much of anything, especially something that would alienate people that don’t believe in the Judeo-Christian idea of her. I don’t preach to people about my spiritual beliefs unless prompted to do so. I don’t try and convert people to the Temple of Brad, which is actually the Temple of Everyone. I do, however, have a problem with people using God’s name to hurt other people, and that includes feeling alienated.

I suppose that it’s ultimately up to the individual that may feel alienated to take responsibility for their own emotions. In other words, if you feel alienated by the Pledge of Allegiance, don’t feel alienated. Just because you don’t believe in the God that President Eisenhower or Congress had in mind when they added the words, doesn’t mean you are any less American that someone who does. They are just words. Change the words or keep them the same, but I think there are far more important issues to deal with.

You can argue that the pledge is as American as apple pie, but so what? It’s also American to stuff your face at McDonald’s or drive SUVs in major metropolitan areas. Does it make it right? Not in my book, but again, I do my best not to judge. What is right for me is not right for everyone and that’s fine. The problem lies in people being unaccepting of beliefs that are different from their own, which also happens to be a common American trait.

Truth be told, I kind of hope that I live to see our own demise. If I don’t, perhaps your children will. I’m of the opinion that we’re doomed, and I’m not talking about us all going to pearly gates or the fiery depths. I’m talking about the fact that people do not, and it seems, will not, change to better our time on this planet. For that reason, we will be responsible for our own extinction. Until people wake up, and it’s going to take more than a couple of airplanes flying into buildings and killing three thousand people to do it, we will continue in a downward spiral. It’s not about nationalism, it’s about humanism.

I still have hope that humans can change, but not much. None of it really matters anyway. We’re just a drop in the bucket. We don’t matter as much as we would like to think. Life will go on without us. Perhaps the next time around we will not repeat the mistakes. We will not be so self-centered, ignorant, intolerant and hateful to people with different ideas, skin color, sexual preference, etc. Perhaps the next time around we can embrace diversity, for the world would be a better place. Have a nice day.

While the novelty of the show has worn thin, I was incredibly amused by the wonderful South Park Studio. Look at me, I’m a bastard!

And so are you. A few months back I got curious about what would happen if I placed an online personal. My first thought was, “Really lame, you fucking loser. Get out of your apartment.” But then it made sense. I don’t meet people when I go out because I’m usually too busy paying attention to the band. Besides, I don’t know many people that meet a quality person at a bar or club, though there are usually plenty to look at.

So, I’m a whore. I placed an online personal and got responses. I even dated someone for a couple of months. See, the cool thing about online personals is you don’t have to meet anyone and there’s no pressure. You have absolutly nothing to lose. If you don’t like someone, you don’t write back. Admittedly, I take a somewhat passive approach to it all, so there’s not really much effort involved either.

There are a few qualifications for interested parties (this is not a pitch for you to email me, btw):

1) No cat people. When I say cat people, that means people with cats. I’m allergic to them, I don’t like them and most of the people that own cats are freaks, and not in a good way.

2) Have a photo. How long does it take to have someone snap a photo of you? I read a headline that pretty much summed it up, 22 + no photo = fat and ugly. I’d lay down money there’s a reason people don’t post photos, and it’s not because they’re afraid of being recognized walking down Rodeo Drive.

3) No headshots. People that use headshots usually have gained a few since they went to Glamor Shots at the mall or were the subject of some “art project” in high school. Again, just snap a photo an put it up. There’s not much effort involved.

So, there you have it. My rules for the world of online personals. Many won’t admit they do it, but if nothing else, it’s fodder for some interesting stories.

The Modern Age can be counted on for many hours of entertainment, and I mean that in the kindest way possible. I’ve gone on about the site in the past, giving it many props and I even talk to Laura online pretty often. She really should be writing for jeansandatshirt.com. She’s one of the biggest music snobs I know, though some of her rants border on a five year-old throwing a temper tantrum. She has this thing against Moby, who I happen to think is pretty swell and smart. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, so here’s mine:

Laura, chill! The fact that Moby gets your Urban Outfitters panties in a wad is kind of a compliment to him. He tries to stir things up a bit, make people think and apparently he’s done quite a number on you. The fact that it’s starting to “consume [your] life,” is a little sad.

Yeah, I’ve been reading about this “Pearl Jam effect” that he came up with for quite a while too. I actually think he’s on to something when he talks about how the people that bootleg (a.k.a steal, download, rip, post, trade, etc.) Weezer and Pearl Jam outnumber the people that bootleg an artist like Pink. Maybe not by much, but I think he’s correct. Sure, you can use Manhattan as an example to prove your point about the number of Mizunderstood bootlegs showing up on the street versus the number of Maladroit bootlegs, but remember most places don’t have a guy on every corner selling them. It’s a lot easier (and cheaper) to download it online, and need I remind you that Weezer offered their album, in its entirety, before it hit stores, on their own web site? Pink did no such thing. Never mind the fact that Pink sells more records than Weezer.

Weezer (or any other Internet savvy band) post a lot of stuff to their fans via their web site. Rivers even talks to a lot of his fans online. Weezer fans are extremely “techno-savvy,” and I would say quite a bit more so than Pink fans. If for no other reason, Weezer fans gets something extra from the band’s web site.

Celine Dion records sell, not because people are idiots (though I’ll go so far as to say that if I heard someone listening to her I might smack them), but because the people that buy her records don’t have the amount of spare time that Weezer fans do. You’re talking about two different audiences, not to mention age groups, and let’s face it, to download a full album by anyone is a pain in the ass, unless they post it on their site.

I think that if Pink (or another “fluff” artist, as you call it) were to do what Weezer, Pearl Jam or even U2 did, as far as using the Internet to communicate with her fans and give them a little something extra, Moby might have a bad argument. You can only speak for you, and I understand that’s what you’re doing, but I gotta call you on it.

It’s not about saving Moby’s good name. He doesn’t need me for that. It’s about making people think a little more logically before they shoot their mouths off. Moby said in his post, “My concern is the way that the industry looks at the success of a musician or of a record that sells or doesn’t sell. Popular artists traditionally sold a lot of records. In the future that might not be the case. In fact, even now that might not be the case.” I’d say that’s a pretty intelligent thought. There is something seriously wrong with how the industry judges the success of an artist. I don’t think I need to explain that one any further.

I’m not going to even bother commenting on your stereotyping of Weezer fans, except to say that it made me laugh quite a bit. Moby’s album is selling quite well and the fact that he uses his site to communicate with fans is awesome. There are not that many artists doing that. The fact that he uses his celebrity as a pulpit to make people think is commendable, at the very least. By saying that, I’m not trying to take anything away from you or your site at all. Like I said, I enjoy it and I visit every day.

Now, give me my Ritalin back.

I’m sitting here listening to the Paul Westerberg in-store from Chicago. I currently own copies of all the in-stores except New York, Boston and Philadelphia. All three of those are currently en route to me.

Yes, I’m obsessed.

I’ve listened to them all repeatedly. Portland was my favorite, but right now Chicago’s about to knock that out of the running. Portland seemed small and not very well attended, and Paul was very chatty. He started the evening by asking if anyone knew who had died that day 11 years ago, and then went into “Another Girl, Another Planet”. (The answer being, of course, Johnny Thunders.)

Seattle, the only in-store I actually physically attended, was wonderful but it was Paul’s first show in six years. I don’t know who was more nervous, him or us. I’m lucky I didn’t break down in tears standing in the front row, when the ‘curtain’ (a metal store shutter) went up and there was Paul, sitting on a couch. I got all sentimental during “Waiting For Somebody,” a song I almost totally forgot about. When 600 voices strong were singing along to the American Indie Rock Anthem of 1985, “I Will Dare,” it was equal parts wonderful and overwhelming.

I did not expect this kind of emotional reaction. I worshipped The Replacements and it was one of my all time biggest musical disappointments that Paul did not become the great American songwriter of the 90s.

San Francisco was a little rougher. By all accounts, attendance was sparse, and it’s most notable for the heckler that Paul ended up dealing with by going out in the audience and slapping him in the face. (He’d make a note of this at the Chicago show, by joking that they’d hired security “for YOUR protection”.)

Los Angeles: Winona Ryder, and “Unsatisfied”. I groveled mercilessly for the L.A. show because, as I told a fan I was trading with, I thought I would die without hearing him sing that song. It’s a gem of a moment, but overall the performance and setlist put it pretty low on the list.

So now I’m listening to Chicago (which came in over the weekend, along with Philadelphia) and once again I am this little puddle of mush. It’s not even because of The Replacements songs, although the audience sing-along to “First Glimmer” is something you absolutely have to hear if you give a damn. I can’t claim nostalgia or memories of days gone by as the culprit, it’s the entire body of work that is affecting me. It’s the same things that grabbed me about The Replacements: simple, insightful, straight-ahead songs about thoughts and feelings we’ve all had, set to timeless, poppy, wonderful melodies. Now, combine that with a performance that’s raw, honest, sometimes heart wrenching, and always self-effacing.

I started this article because I wanted to talk about Paul’s performance on Leno the other week. He’d been on Letterman and surprised us all by rocking out as his alter-ego Grandpaboy. We had no idea what to expect on Leno. There were confirmed reports that he’d chatted with Cheap Trick about being his backing band, but no matter what might have been planned in advance, we knew that we’d never know what was actually going to happen until it did.

So the appointed evening arrives and I’ve got it on in the background while I do some writing. I then hear the magic words: “Paul Westerberg” and I rush to turn up the volume and watch. It was just him and that beat up blonde Tele, in one of those spray painted suits he was wearing on the in-store tour. At first you think: he’s playing it straight. It was Paul, not Grandpaboy. While I was standing there, transfixed, watching, thinking about how powerful he was, just him and that guitar and that voice… he got to the ‘Showin’ baby home’ line in “Let The Bad Times Roll,” he sang ‘Joey and Dee Dee home’ (twice, because he kind of stumbled a bit the first time) and I was utterly overcome with sudden emotion. My eyes just filled up with tears. I could not believe he did that. I mean, I believe it, it’s Paul Westerberg and if anyone knew how to monkeywrench a situation it was The Replacements, but he did it on national TV!. He did it on fucking Jay Leno, of all things, right to the heart of Middle America! He played it straight BUT — he didn’t. It was still 100% pure Paul Westerberg, totally his way, zero compromise whatso-fucking-ever. It was nothing short of incredible.

So I’m thinking about all those in-stores, all those people who waited in line and drove for hours in some cases, all those voices singing along. Why the fuck is this man not a star? Why is he not a national treasure? Why are all these third-rate songwriters having people fawn all over them, while Paul languished for so many years? I don’t know, but I think his time is finally here. He’s playing three theater shows in Minneapolis at the end of June, and Vagrant keeps making noises about a tour. Maybe the Rock and Roll Goddess is finally going to mete out some justice. Hope to see you there.