Ache, ache, ache... I am sitting writing this entry techniocally two days after a gruelling TWENTY-TWO-HOUR slog of nonstop activity.
On Tuesday morning I got out of bed at 5 am, got cleaned up, groomed and clothed, walked twenty minutes to Tenley Station and got on the train to school. Rush hour in D.C. is alot worse than I remember it being, say, one year ago. You are forced to be intimately closed in with the rest of the ratrace retards until you reach your destination. It is truly a violating feeling. Like being in a mosh pit, only people get offended if you start thrashing around. You truly get a sense of how disgustingly overpopulated the world is and how humans REALLY need to stop breeding.
I got to class, still feeling all the bodies pressed against me as if I never got off the train, and took out my aggressions on heavy steel, hammering and welding and drilling like I was fighting something> I completed an entire sculpture project in one day. I put it in my backpack, rode the overpacked train and walked the twenty minutes home again with fifty pounds of steel plus all my books hanging from my shoulders.
I walked into my apartment feeling every muscle in my body alive with pain. I laid flat on my back on the floor, and without missing a beat, called my bandmate Pete, at work, then at home... no answer. We were to rehearse tonight like every Tuesday.
I continued to lay on my back for twenty minutes or so, then got up to make a tape recording of my new sculpture... a set of chimes I constructed from strips of steel. I got the chimes set up so they would hang proper, turned on the tape recorder and pounded away, occasionally distorting the tape so it would sound real crazy. Pete called somewhere in the middle of all this and told me he'd soon be on his way I went back to my banging and clanging until the phone rang again. The bartender from work was calling to see if I could come in. I told him I'd come at around ten after rehearsals, knowing I'd regret it but I'd make some much-needed extra cash. I hung up the phone and dozed off until he paged me from the front door of my building.
I quickly got up, every joint in my body going snap crackle pop. I packed all my music gear, all my tapes and so forth, a setup that has gotten progressively smaller and ran down the stairs to the lobby.
Pete and I rode to the studio in a hurry, knowing these sessions set us back forty bucks a week. These studio sessions have made us much more disciplined about things, as we've needed to make the best use of our short two hours as possible.
Our sound has gotten alot heavier, more abrasive, and more challenging. I've returned almost entirely to tape scratching, hardly ever using my digital stuff for performances. A tape recorder is the one instrument I can be most unique and original with. A few rehearsals ago, when I had brought along my sampler, my keyboard, and my computer, Pete got frustrated and told me to focus on tape scratching and nothing but. I can fit my entire setup into a lunchbox now and I sound alot better because of it.
Afterwards, I had Pete drop me off at Zebra lounge and I took over in the kitchen I now run. "I am now head chef at his place", I thought to myself. I run something now. For the first time in elevne years of foodservice, I have control over something. It will mean more responsibility and more bullshit, to some extent, but only if I am lacking in my responsibility. I will be making more money and soon I will be able to quit the dayshift there working wtih the same two bitches who have made my life miserable for over two years now. From here on, I will be working with and serving beautiful girls who never give me a hard time because I am a genuinely nice man.
When I beagn this job I completely fucking hated it. I took nothing but daytime hours becaue I wanted my nights free. As usual in foodservice, I was the only cracker working there, everyone hated me and I was treated like shit. I would see the mess that was left from the night before and spend most of the day shift cleaning up until the nighttime people arrived to fuck it up again. This went on for the entirety of the first six months I worked there until the nighttime chef needed time off and I began filling in for him.
I have been doing a better job than the guy who makes five bucks more than me nightly for a year now. Finally it has paid off and I'm going to be working harder. Funny how that works, huh?
On Tuesday morning I got out of bed at 5 am, got cleaned up, groomed and clothed, walked twenty minutes to Tenley Station and got on the train to school. Rush hour in D.C. is alot worse than I remember it being, say, one year ago. You are forced to be intimately closed in with the rest of the ratrace retards until you reach your destination. It is truly a violating feeling. Like being in a mosh pit, only people get offended if you start thrashing around. You truly get a sense of how disgustingly overpopulated the world is and how humans REALLY need to stop breeding.
I got to class, still feeling all the bodies pressed against me as if I never got off the train, and took out my aggressions on heavy steel, hammering and welding and drilling like I was fighting something> I completed an entire sculpture project in one day. I put it in my backpack, rode the overpacked train and walked the twenty minutes home again with fifty pounds of steel plus all my books hanging from my shoulders.
I walked into my apartment feeling every muscle in my body alive with pain. I laid flat on my back on the floor, and without missing a beat, called my bandmate Pete, at work, then at home... no answer. We were to rehearse tonight like every Tuesday.
I continued to lay on my back for twenty minutes or so, then got up to make a tape recording of my new sculpture... a set of chimes I constructed from strips of steel. I got the chimes set up so they would hang proper, turned on the tape recorder and pounded away, occasionally distorting the tape so it would sound real crazy. Pete called somewhere in the middle of all this and told me he'd soon be on his way I went back to my banging and clanging until the phone rang again. The bartender from work was calling to see if I could come in. I told him I'd come at around ten after rehearsals, knowing I'd regret it but I'd make some much-needed extra cash. I hung up the phone and dozed off until he paged me from the front door of my building.
I quickly got up, every joint in my body going snap crackle pop. I packed all my music gear, all my tapes and so forth, a setup that has gotten progressively smaller and ran down the stairs to the lobby.
Pete and I rode to the studio in a hurry, knowing these sessions set us back forty bucks a week. These studio sessions have made us much more disciplined about things, as we've needed to make the best use of our short two hours as possible.
Our sound has gotten alot heavier, more abrasive, and more challenging. I've returned almost entirely to tape scratching, hardly ever using my digital stuff for performances. A tape recorder is the one instrument I can be most unique and original with. A few rehearsals ago, when I had brought along my sampler, my keyboard, and my computer, Pete got frustrated and told me to focus on tape scratching and nothing but. I can fit my entire setup into a lunchbox now and I sound alot better because of it.
Afterwards, I had Pete drop me off at Zebra lounge and I took over in the kitchen I now run. "I am now head chef at his place", I thought to myself. I run something now. For the first time in elevne years of foodservice, I have control over something. It will mean more responsibility and more bullshit, to some extent, but only if I am lacking in my responsibility. I will be making more money and soon I will be able to quit the dayshift there working wtih the same two bitches who have made my life miserable for over two years now. From here on, I will be working with and serving beautiful girls who never give me a hard time because I am a genuinely nice man.
When I beagn this job I completely fucking hated it. I took nothing but daytime hours becaue I wanted my nights free. As usual in foodservice, I was the only cracker working there, everyone hated me and I was treated like shit. I would see the mess that was left from the night before and spend most of the day shift cleaning up until the nighttime people arrived to fuck it up again. This went on for the entirety of the first six months I worked there until the nighttime chef needed time off and I began filling in for him.
I have been doing a better job than the guy who makes five bucks more than me nightly for a year now. Finally it has paid off and I'm going to be working harder. Funny how that works, huh?