Ok, now I remember.
Monday:
On Monday I dropped off Pipkin's gear and caught her room mate playing the banjo in a bathing suit on her roof. I was all like, "hey, that's a pretty strange getup for 'banjy pickin', have you mastered the claw-hammer technique?" and she was all, "nah, I'm just killing time before work," and then I was all, "hey, it smells like weed in here," and then she was all, "hey man, have you ever heard of that Jewish guy who plays reggae?," and I was like, "Sublime?" and then she was all like...
After 40 minutes of wildly inconsistent conversation related to white guys playing Jamaican music, I got a phone call in response to an interview I went on last week at Ice Man's work. Turns out they didn't see the holes in the soles of my boots and decided to give me the position. It is for a lab in Berkeley that does research for a new generation of batteries. I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement upon getting hired because of my grassroots affiliation with the only legitimate government on this stinking, profit-obsessed marble called earth: China. I hope to use this position to pay for parking tickets and a flight back to China. Do work.
After that I made Tandoori Chicken and threatened to blow Ali up with an M-5000. She seemed pretty into it:
Tuesday:
I watched all five "Saw" movies and helped out at the old folks home on Lakeshore.
Wednesday:
Got together with the Awful Lot boys and continued working on new shit. We're setting up a show at Mosswood Park at 40th and Broadway in Oakland on August 23rd. BBQ Bill is going to BBQ all the members of the Arcade Fire. They have been locked in my closet since Valentine's Day. It was an extraordinary plot involving a burning American flag as bait, and a couple animatronic dopple-gangers to fulfill their touring duties. Robots have more personality than Canadians. Fuck all non-believers.
Thursday:
BBQ Bill, Scully, Adam, and Myself took that dance up the 101 toward Guerneville to record at In The Pocket studios. In the Pocket is basically the place musicians talk about when they are fucked up on booze or weed and having insane delusions about getting money to record. Here is a composite of every conversation I've ever heard that went along those lines:
"Mannnnn (five "n's"), when I get a bunch of money to record I'm going to like, spend a bunch of money on, like, this cabin in the middle of a forrest where I can, like, fuck around with synthesizers and, like, record the synthesizers, and, like, take the synthesizers outside and record them while playing in a tree, and like, mic the tree with that one microphone Frank Sinatra use to sing to bitches with, and like, overdub a bunch of tree sounds, and like, a coyote, NO, like, three coyotes, and maybe a cow mooing! FUCK! Can you think of one record that has three coyotes and a cow, and like, a bunch of trees? Oh, oh, oh, and the synthesizer in the tree. And like I'll get all this weed and shroo..."
After that it mostly turns into how they'd blow all the record companies money on drugs and bitches.
Aside from burn out hypotheticals, it lived up to all my expectations of an idyllic recording studio in regards to available gear and environmental comfort.
Adam suggested I record guitar on the front porch for additional ambience and so he could replace snare hits with bullfrogs chirping. I was all like, "hey man, maybe we should use a real snare," and he kept screaming about a write up James and Evander got in the East Bay Express and how everything he touches is, and I quote, "FUCKING GOLD HAMILTON! EVERYTHING I DO IS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLDDDDDDDDDD." Homeboy was hitting the coffee pot pretty hard at that point. Nonetheless, everything went great after a few minor delays on the way up and we may now consider ourselves two tracks richer. Every time I was at my sweatiest and most mountain-man-like, I saw Adam with a Camera, snapping away. Expect photos and gold hits. Good job, us.
Friday:
I got sloppy at the Mind Gaze Hut and listened to two chicks in line for the bathroom yap about Italian furniture. I was going to intervene with a description about this rad bean bag I had when I was nine, but one of them walked away and the other was kind off spaced out, like there was a pack of imaginary butterflies floating around her head, telling her uplifting jokes about shit hippies think is cool. Devandraaaaaaaaa... mystic of the underground... Devandraaaaaaaa... cult-i-vator of bean sprouts... Devandraaaaaaaaaaaaaa... got an arts degree in frisbee... DEVANDRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. I enjoy loud amplifiers.
Saturday:
YOU FUCKING KNOW ITTTTTTTTTTT:
LAUNDRY TIMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Sam asked me why I do all of my music nonsense in the laundry room. I told him it was only place god couldn't see me and steal my ideas. He told me that was why he owned a crossbow.
Sunday:
I'm going to eat chili at Ice Man's house and wash the stank out of my uniform for my first day at work tomorrow. Get wet.
-B. Hamilton
www.myspace.com/theawfullotmusic (The Awful Lot)
www.myspace.com/northernosoutherly (no's)
www.myspace.com/recordedmusic (Land)
