Some Shit from an Old Notebook: Ten Years Gone

The following notes describe in oddly meticulous detail and heartwarming naiveté the very first Drogues performance at original drummer John Romero’s 2001-2002 New Years Eve party in Piedmont, Calif.

01.01.2002
All right. We got the first official “gig” out of the way. Not a bad start. It was good to get some experience playing for others before the big February show.¹ Originally, I think John was thinking of doing some acoustic numbers for the party guests. I’m glad that idea fell by the wayside—it was hard enough to get their attention in full racket mode.

As usually seems to happen, one of our band members was flying in from parts unknown the day of the show.² Tue Nam³ came back from San Diego and had to borrow a bass from one of his neighbors as his was in the shop. He wound up with a beautiful (but f’in heavy) Fender P-bass. That thing had great tone, though.

Earlier in the week I decided to change back to using the Epiphone as my main guitar.⁴ I also went back to those D’Addario Chrome flat wounds, although the lightest gauge. The orange sets were durable, but I think a little too high tension for the poor Epi. I remember having to crank the truss rod after a while when I used them in the past. This smaller gauge has the great tone and playability of the others, but, I’m afraid, not the durability.

We sound checked with Dylan’s What Was It You Wanted? and BAM! I popped a B string. I’m pretty sure I had to replace the high E at practice last Sunday, so this doesn’t bode well for this set. I’m going to try and get the Epiphone set up properly before Feb. I think the brass nut may be part of the problem with the thick strings.⁵

After that shaky start, we opened with a decent Foundering. The extra time we put in practicing the ending seemed to pay off and we all hit the marks. We followed up with Frozen Town. I had a little trouble on the first “surf” part and fluffed a few measures before I found the strings (they were right there on the fretboard where I left them). I didn’t bother trying to hit the Octoplus, which even further diminished the impact of that part.

Instead of charging ahead as planned, we broke for a few seconds as more people arrived and started up with a pretty good Winter’s Bed and What Was It You Wanted? After practicing all those verses over and over, I was able to fill them all, although I had to repeat the second half of one. We did hit a groove that got their attention.

Next up: Expatriate and what was going to be the final song, Split. I totally choked the intro, somehow forgetting to remove the capo. Good thing I was trying some volume swells that may have minimized the clash. Note to self: Be aware!

More people were filing in wondering if we were going to play longer since they missed the beginning. Unfortunately, we decided to play The Foundering again. It was a pretty messy display, a disappointment after nailing it the first time.⁶

It would have been a shame to leave it like that, so we discussed what else might be tight enough to follow up with. After a little prodding, Mark agreed to sing Dredged and we did a nice, solid rendition.

All in all, not a bad start to what should be an exciting year of music.⁷

Favorite quote of the night: “What’s a Drogues?⁸
Second favorite quote of the night: “Can you guys play some Green Day?⁹

¹ We had made plans to rent out the Tuva Performance Space by the Ashby BART station in Berkeley with the idea of packing the crowd with friendlies, recording it, and having a decent demo to give to clubs. The best-laid plans of mice and bands … We ended up playing there twice if I recall. It was a fun, funky spot, now gone of course.

² This actually refers to an incident with Squint, the band Mark and I had in college. I was working at the Eureka Times-Standard when the calendar editor called over across the news floor, “Hey, I see your band is playing this week.” It was news to everyone except the drummer who I believe, oddly enough, had gone to San Diego. He flew back just in time to make what still stands as the weirdest gig I have ever played: the in-coming freshman orientation at Humboldt State. Go ’Jacks!

³ Ton, or as I fondly refer to him: TNT. A true gentleman and a better bass player than I’ll ever be.

⁴ Ah, the Epiphone Sheraton II. I used to beat that poor thing like it owed me money, and it just took it. Damn well-constructed guitar. One of my prized possessions, even though I did almost set it on fire playing a backyard Fourth of July gig with lit sparklers jammed between the strings on the headstock. Come to think of it, I almost set myself on fire as well. What an idiot. This was before my on-going love affair with all things bass.

⁵ Yea, the problem was with the break angle on the brass nut and not with my ham-fisted playing. Good thing I got that fixed.

⁶ Note to self: If you get something right the first time, hit it and quit. The Law of Diminishing Returns is a bitch.

⁷ We played a few shows and recorded a demo with Karen Stackpole, so considering we were starting from scratch, I guess it was pretty exciting, i.e., boring, frustrating, pants-shitting terrifying, and exhilarating beyond any other experience. Ah, rock ’n’ roll.

⁸ This question dogged us until the very end. I think the hardest part of being in a band was coming up with a name that everyone could agree on. I recall floating The Savants, which would have reflected our style and abilities pretty well all through the various iterations, i.e., crazy good at what we do, pretty much crap at anything else.

⁹ No.

Lagunitas (sucks) — Holiday Ale/Brown Shugga’ Substitute — 7.85%

flagellant |ˈflajələnt; fləˈjelənt| noun

A person who subjects themselves or others to flogging, either as a religious discipline or for sexual gratification.

The hop fanatics at Lagunitas Brewing Company feel really, really bad about not offering their usual seasonal knock-out punch Brown Shugga’ this year, so bad that they’ve printed “We suck” on the carton and labels of their consolatory offering, a really fine double IPA billed (just in case you didn’t get the message) as Lagunitas Sucks Holiday Ale.

This tasty late-inning substitution pours deceptively like a pilsner, all wheat straw gold and perfunctory tight white head with very little lacing. A light carbonation suffices to lift its volatile dry-hopped aroma.

On first sip, a surprising sweetness reveals itself in the hop profile, possibly Citra closing out its incredible year by gracing yet one more great beer. An artful balance obscures the higher alcohol numbers, yet the beer does finish with some heat, which is nice for a winter seasonal.

As it warms, delicious hints of tangerine and grass develop alongside the requisite Lagunitas pine and grapefruit notes. There is a nice spice hit from the rye in the comprehensive grain bill, which also includes barley, wheat, and oats.

If an ale of this quality drives its brewers to proclaim that they “freaking munch moldy donkey butt,” then what chance to the rest of us have? If it makes them feel better, I didn’t really miss the Shugga’ this year. The Lagunitas brewers, as a rule, always respond well to having to think on their feet. Let’s hope that 2012 throws them a couple more curveballs.

Grade: A

I wish I could …

Buried among my collection of well-worn black T-shirts emblasioned with sardonic sayings, an old favorite surfaced the other day. The shirt has a small graphic of a penguin helplessly flapping its wings while underneath it reads, “I wish I could fly.”

I pulled it on without really thinking about it before heading into town with Dusty. Now, I don’t know what it is about my sartorial sensibility that seems to invite comment, but I seem to encounter a disproportionate number of people who take an intense interest, and/or umbrage, toward what I wear when leaving the shack.

On this trip, I ran into a woman waiting at the ATM who turned to me, looked me up and down, and asked, “Do you?”

Do I? I thought. Well that depends. Primarily on what the hell you are talking about. I might. Then again, I might not.

“Excuse me?” I asked, not entirely sure she was talking to me. It’s hard to tell, what with Blueteeth and schizophrenia both running rampant on the street these days.

“DO you?” OK, now I’m pretty sure I don’t, and if my dog wasn’t currently rolling around at your feet, I’d have her drive you off. “Do you wish you could fly?”

What the … ? Oh, the shirt. “Erm … sure, doesn’t everybody?”

“Hmmmpf.” The woman turned away dismissively and ended the odd little philosophical tête-à-tête. Was that the wrong answer? Do I really wish I could fly?

After walking and ruminating on it, I have to admit that, no, flying isn’t really on my short list of things I wish I could do. Understanding women, for instance, would trump flight in a heartbeat, although I realize that it is slightly less likely to actually happen.

What do you wish you could do?

Sure, if you put it that way!

Just for kicks, I ran the Monkey through one of those “Rate My Blog” widgets. We received an “R” rating “based on the presence of the following words: fuck (1x), rape (1x), balls (1x), death (5x), and shot (1x).”

For the record, the editorial staff at plasticlovemonkey would like to categorically state that these five words, devoid of context, provide at best a skewed picture of what the Monkey’s all about.

Although everyone here at plm headquarters (hidden somewhere in the foothills of the Mt. Tam watershed) certainly does enjoy a good roll in the hay, it should be understood that said hay rolling should only involve consenting adults.

As for balls, while we do theoretically appreciate when someone shows that he (or she) has them, when it comes down to it, our true concern extends no further than our own.

The Monkey realizes, as we are still slouching toward enlightenment, we cling to the false ideal that death, as an unavoidable part of life, should be avoided if at all possible. Unless you are a rapist, then fuck you.

Shots, on the other hand, the Monkey endorses wholeheartedly, but usually when someone else is buying, and even then, maybe three and we’re done.

The staff would like to apologize for any delicate sensibilities we may have offended in the past, and would like to look at this rating as an opportunity to revisit our mission statement and make certain that we are still offering the best in smart-assed commentary in a way that is inclusive rather than exclusive … but that’s not very fucking likely.

Jesus wept

During CNN’s Tea Party Republican Debate Monday night, Libertarian Ron Paul was given a hypothetical scenario regarding a man who didn’t have health care yet found himself in a coma and in need of intensive care.

“That’s what freedom is all about, taking your own risks, this whole idea that you have to prepare to take care of everybody … ” Paul clumsily began.

“Congressman,” CNN correspondent Wolf Blitzer broke in, “are you saying that society should just let him die?”

When given a perfect opportunity to defend the true Christ impulse—that is to come to the aid of those in need, especially the sick and defenseless—the crowd cheered. By cheering for death, this group of self-proclaimed God-fearing “Christians” might as well have yelled out, “Give us Barabbas!”

The hypothetical “healthy 30-year-old man who has a good job and makes a good living,” was shown to be a shaky premise on its face the very next day as the Census Bureau reported record level poverty in America.

Blitzer’s straw man who says, “You know what, I’m not going to spend 200 or 300 dollars a month for heath insurance because I’m healthy, I don’t need it,” discounts the 46.2 million of us, and by us, I mean fellow American citizens, who don’t have the opportunity to make that cavalier lifestyle choice.

As a doctor, Paul should have known better. His own Hippocratic Oath points out the hollowness of the Libertarian worldview. Lest Paul need a refresher, the creed taken by all in the medical profession says, “I will remember that I remain a member of society with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.”

Coming the day after the tenth anniversary of the one time in common memory that all Americans could proudly say, “we are one people,” it is sickening to hear that a short decade later, we are cheering for our neighbor’s painful death. They are not Christians. They are not Americans. We don’t act that way.

Detective Comics #1 — Daniel — Nov. ’11/DC Comics

Honored with the job of rebooting DC’s titular title after its run of about three hundred years, a lot was riding on artist/writer/bon vivant Tony Daniel’s head. After Justice League #1 failed to garner the wiz-bang reaction everyone expected of the venerable comic house’s opening gambit, this was to be the make or break book. If Detective sucked, it was going to be a slow, sad slog through the remaining 50 books coming out this month.

Not to worry. As someone who enjoyed Daniel’s various runs on Batman, I was glad to see him back penciling his own story. The opening splash gives us all we need to know: Batman’s on the move and he’s friggin’ pissed off. Who’s got him pissed off? The Joker. Boom.

The book opens six years into their dangerous dance and Daniel’s Joker is off the rails and stab happy from the jump. The writing is tight throughout and Daniel’s pacing is relentless. There’s a nice bit of internal dialogue where we get to get inside of Batman playing the detective and running The Joker to ground.

Not one to go down easy, however, The Joker gets his shots in. While in a temporary position to deliver the killing stroke, he nicely sets up the new run by warning of there’s a bigger problem than himself in Gotham City and scolds Batman for not making out the big picture. Batman, of course, then throws him off a building.

Back in the care of Dr. Arkham, we learn that it was all part and parcel of The Joker’s plan. The final page of Detective Comics #1 delivers the much-needed jolt that signals DC’s shake up just might end up being the fun-filled ride we had hoped for.

Justice League #1 — Johns/Lee — Oct. ’11/DC Comics

I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times the news has reported on the world of comics. It’s usually because one of the two big houses, DC or Marvel, was killing someone off. Of course, in comics, no one ever stays dead. You hear me talkin’, Human Torch?

The first instance I can remember was the death of Robin at the hands of the Joker, then when Bane broke Batman’s back, and then, of course, when Superman died … notice a pattern? From the other side, there was the ill-fated Marvel Universe reboot after the Onslaught mess, but that turned out to be a separate bubble universe … or something.

Marvel threw the last bomb big enough to rattle the mass media with the death of Johnny Storm, which no comic fan really took seriously as Fantastic Four is edging closer to #600, and they ain’t gonna get there with Spider-Man fleshing out the team. Imagine my surprise when DC decided to press the reset button on … well, everything.

Starting with this week’s Justice League #1, the entire 52-book DC line is starting from scratch, which is kind of a weird read at first. In this opening salvo, we see Batman chasing down some freaky creature at the same time being chased by authorities that don’t really see a difference in the two. Suddenly, Green Lantern appears, having been alerted by his ring to the presence of an extra-terrestrial. Shocked that Batman is real, and “just some guy in a bat suit,” Lantern comes off cocky and self-important until Batman puts him in his place, powers or no.

The unlikely pair head off to Metropolis to seek out Superman, who they’ve never met, because … well, he’s an alien and all, so he’s supposed to know everything about extra-terrestrials … or something. All in all, it’s strange trying to take this universe at face value, having to set aside decades of back-story and established relationships. How well this ultimately comes off will probably depend on how quickly we see the Justice League coalesce and start wailing on somebody.

Jim Lee’s artwork is as cinematic as ever, with special kudos going to colorist Alex Sinclair. The intricate constructs that Green Lantern assembles on the fly really pop.

DC’s reasoning for the re-framing of their house is that it’s too hard to attract new readers while lugging around 70 years of accumulated history. We’ll have to wait and see if the gamble pays off; with such a tentative opening shot, it’s anybody’s guess.

New Avengers #15 — Bendis/Deodato — Sept. ’11/ Marvel Comics

With Fear Itself hijacking the storylines of all major Marvel titles for the time being, it was a nice surprise to read what was essentially a stand-alone, action-driven peek at an over-looked, tertiary character this month. OK, I’ll just come out and say it: Squirrel Girl rocks.

A former Great Lakes Avenger hired a few books back to nanny the baby of Jessica Jones and Luke Cage, Squirrel Girl Doreen Green stuns everyone at Avengers Mansion by handing Wolverine his … erm, pelt, in a backyard throw down.

Green admits that she took the job thinking that once she was in the manse, the Avengers would want to invite her to join the team, however, when the chips are down, she realizes that she has bonded with the child to such an extent that its protection has become her only priority. A battalion of flying Nazi battle tanks between her and her charge only pisses her off.

Not such a good idea. Squirrel Girl 1, Nazis 0

Stupid Nazis.

Fear Itself: FF #1 — Bunn/Grummett — Sept. ’11/ Marvel Comics

No sooner did the Fantastic Four lose the Human Torch—as well as gain Spider-Man, nifty white uniforms, and an official name change to the double eff—did all hell break loose throughout the Marvel Universe with the huge Fear Itself crossover.

Recasting the ever-lovin’ blue-eyed Thing as an Asgardian hammer-powered wrecking machine was a masterstroke, one that preys on Ben Grimm’s worst fear that he may one day become the monster that he sees reflected in the eyes of others.

It seems he was right to be worried. The Thing is a formidable force to be reckoned with on his best day. The Marvel cannon is chock-a-block with Thing/Hulk throw downs that level city blocks at a swipe; give him what looks like a molten lava infusion, a big hammer, and weird talking tentacles that wrap around and goad him into doing what he really shouldn’t, and you’ve got yourself a problem.

The familial make-up of the FF has always given their stories an extra dimension that thrown-together teams of heroes only dream of. After nearly 40 years of reading comics on-and-off, I have to admit that it’s hard to be shocked by the actions of characters I’ve known for decades. Writer Cullen Bunn takes Grimm to a place I would never have imagined he’d go, and it makes for a very captivating read.

John Fante — Ask the Dust

How is it that I never heard of quintessential Los Angeles author John Fante until now? St. Fante, the doomed Catholic romantic who presaged Kerouac as the steady-eyed chronicler among the invisible underclass of his generation. El Fante, the true spirit of LA, sitting up nights that refuse to cool down and typing madly in a white undershirt while his ashtray blooms and the smell of flowers on the hot wind makes the whole city smell like a funeral. Fante the bulldog—Bukowski before Bukowski had thought of it, or had given in to it—his spirit resilient against cops, and beautiful/crazy Mexican girls, and poverty. I mean, what the hell were they teaching us in school? If I had my way, I’d have kids read this book over and over. This is life: mad, frantic, desperate, and ecstatic. Neglect to read this at your own peril.