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August 5, 2008

Writer’s Cock Block

Everyone knows I thrive on conflict, but since Margo forgave me, we’ve entered a new honeymoon phase. She’s nice to me all the time. It’s unsettling.

It has also created problems in the studio. How, exactly, does one write a sexy, futuristic soap opera when the soapy elements in his own life have disappeared? Granted, I have the screenplay Perdida and I wrote available to use as a template, but I like to write music that evokes the feeling, and much like the composer Richard Wagner, I can’t evoke the feeling in music without personally experiencing the emotions as I write. I like to think this is what caused so much drama between myself, Perdida, and Colby. Margo doesn’t, but she forgave me, so who cares?

To some extent, Mikey’s stupidity is creating conflict, but it’s not the right sort of conflict. As I struggle to write various themes at motives for Fuck Machines, he keeps popping up with half-retarded suggestions, like how the robot overlords should be underscored with a bass doubling the melody. I’d consider entertaining such ideas if he were competent enough to replicate it live.

August 9, 2008

Crocodemon Finished

Last night, Perdida called me up, bawling her eyes out. “It’s Vance,” she sobbed. “Rumors are floating around the set that he found out about our affair and wants to shut down production on Crocodemon.”

“That makes no sense,” I said. “Are you sure you aren’t just being retarded?”

After a long, irritated beat, Perdida stated flatly: “Yes, Girth. Vance Sloane hates you and wants to bang me. It’s just a revenge tactic.”

“Man, that guy is so fucked,” I said. “He’d really fuck up his own career—wasting all that money on preproduction and what he’s shot so far, just to get petty revenge on me, and to a lesser extent you.”

“You know him, though,” Perdida sobbed. “It’s not out of line for him.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Girth…” She whispered.

“I’ll take care of it.” I hung up.

August 13, 2008

Conflicted

Beaming, I entered the studio. While Mikey and Carl spoke in low whispers and Riffs noodled around on his guitar, Margo glared in my direction from behind her wall of keyboards.

“Where were you last night?” she asked.

“I told you,” I said condescendingly. “Dean Charleston set up a meeting with Vance Sloane.”

“An all-night meeting? You couldn’t even call?”

“Sorry, baby,” I said. “It slipped my mind. We got into a touch-football tournament with some homos down in Huntington. Which, I’d like to point out, is just about the complete opposite of banging Perdida Cheyenne, so get the puss off.”

“You’re in an awfully cheerful mood for a dude who spent an entire night being groped by fags,” Margo growled.

“That’s because I had a burst of inspiration,” I said. “In the car, on the way over here, I came up with the last three Fuck Machines songs. It’s gonna be awesome!”

Without changing her facial expression at all that I could tell, Margo’s glare somehow darkened, making her seem both angrier and more terrifying. I tried to ignore it.

“Let’s rehearse, guys. Recording starts Monday.”

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 13, 2008 4:00 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

August 15, 2008

Amends

I spent the first two years of my L.A. Life living in a van on Fairfax in Little Ethiopia. I got to know the area pretty well, and although it’s changed a lot in the past 15 years, one thing hasn’t: Hesh Kushi Pacman, a bar that specializes in the expedient, semi-legal sale of hash and vintage arcade games. I used to spend hours there, playing games on one quarter to relieve the stress and depression of my early, fledgling career. Whenever things go badly at home or with the band, I tend to gravitate back there, to get my smoke on and crush the Galaga top score I set in 1996.

I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me when I ran into Colby there last night. I introduced him to the place a few years ago, and what the hell else does he have to do? He’s an unemployed loser obsessed with video games and drugs. The pieces fit.

August 18, 2008

Electronica

“This is turning out like shit,” Carlos Ueberschaer said after we listened to some rough takes of the first Fuck Machines track, “In the Future.”

He was right: per usual, Mikey sucked fucking balls on the bass, and something about the sound just didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Carl volunteered. “I don’t have fucking shit to do on this record. You made the whole thing drum machines to make it sound all futuristic and crappy. Why am I even here?”

“For moral support,” I replied.

August 21, 2008

Bottle Rocket Battles

Last night, Margo and I watched one of her episodes of Black Belt Irish. I’m a big fan of schlocky TV, but this just seems like it’s pandering to nerds who enjoy The A Team ironically. I got bored quickly, so I was sort of happy to get a text message from Perdida halfway through. I was less happy when I read the message: Hay girth I need 2 o shit help sum1 just bust That was it—not even a period.

I rolled my eyes and ignored it until after the show, when I realized the sentence made no sense. I made several attempts at parsing it before realizing it should read as follows: “Hey, Girth, I need to—oh, shit! Help! Someone just bust—” It cut off in mid-sentence and warned that she was in danger. Even though I can’t stand her personally, the bond of sexual congress, combined with my overall desire to help mankind, made me worry about her safety. Was this another ploy, or had she really stumbled into trouble?

How could I find out? Margo had become increasingly suspicious of my behavior, and although she had reinstituted her policy of not reading the blog, she’d decided to keep tabs on me by refusing to let me out of her sight. We did everything together, and to be honest, I didn’t hate it. I’d kind of forgotten about Perdida until she texted me. How could I express these feelings to Margo and make her believe that I’m legitimately concerned and only sort of want to bang her again?

August 28, 2008

Studio Shitty

“Why do you have to be such a raging fucking bitchwhore?” I shouted. “I know it’s not ‘cause you’re on your period, so what’s you’re fucking excuse?!” (By the way, I knew this because Margo doesn’t have any eggs, so her gyno thought it would be best if she went on the pill full-time since she’s not dropping any eggs, anyway.)

“My ‘excuse,’” Margo retorted, “is that I’m fucking sick of being married to a man who can’t keep it in his pants!”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it last night!”

“Are you retarded?! Of course I don’t care if you’re fucking me. It’s every other woman in the world I have a problem with.”

“Well, now,” Carl added, “doesn’t that just about sum up the female gender?”

August 29, 2008

The End of Cheyenne

Perdida had been missing for a week when Margo finally said, “You should look for her.”

“Maybe we should look for her together,” I said, trying to trick her by pretending to be open and honest.

It worked: “No, Girth… If I see her, I’m bound to stab her in the throat. You should do this alone.”

I nodded, gave her an awkward kiss, and drove up to North Hollywood to look for clues in Perdida’s apartment. I didn’t find any suggestion of her whereabouts—just a lot of vibrators and faux-vintage knickknacks. As I prepared to give up and leave, my foot kicked something small across the polished wood floor. I went over to the baseboard and picked it up—a matchbook, bearing the logo and address for the Lunaria Jazz Bar, a club Jam used to frequent before moving in with a number of other disheveled musicians/hobos. It wasn’t much, but I didn’t have anything else I could consider a lead.