Monday, October 11, 2010
Cup of the Kings was the working title for the film The Unearthing of the Grail. Which remains unearthed. And unproduced. I think, maybe, there's some footage. TUOTG was Homemade Productions follow-up to their hit 8mm, Oyster. Not a Raiders of the Lost Ark rip-off, Jeff & Paul, helmsmen, were using Lucas' characters. So it was a sequel, or maybe prequel. Anyway, it never came together. And I doubt I ever even showed the producers my poster. Actually, I probably did, as I was a glutton for punishment in those days. What days? 1982, I guess? '83? Help me out here. The aborted filming did yield a few photos, including the one below.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Earlier today I re-read Qner's highly-articulate recounting of the Gary Cleanberg sessions, which produced the educational CD/Workbook for food service vocational trainees known as Gary's Guided Tours Volume 1: Food Service Safety & Hygiene. Although Dave, the founder of Mind & Pen Imagination Industries, only sold one copy, the project quickly rose to cult status among the handful of friends who got to listen to it. My brother & I provided the music. With due respect to all who worked on the CD, it's freaking nuts. And I can't get enough of it. So here are a few tracks from this legendary audio monstrosity straight outta Piedmont, NY in 1999.
Hand Washing Part 2
Changing Gloves Part 2
Prof. Plympton (Excerpt)
Reformation of Henrietta
Friday, August 13, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The Internets spreads you thin though, doesn't it? I Facebook, Twitter, Blip, Blog; I've got multiple email accounts; I mess around with the phone apps... And that's a full day. It's hard to maintain one voice in one place. It's improbable I ever will again. Still, I hope to give more attention to the Fishworks again. It is, after all, an outlet for my writings. And since I tell everyone, through my teeth, I'm a writer, I might as well back up that semi-falsehood a bit.
So check back and check back often (not too often!!!). And don't forget to visit my Facebook, Twitter, Blip and various other websites and blogs!
Get bored outta yr skull...and beyond!
Monday, May 03, 2010
The blood in our house rose from scraped knees and shaved chins. A week never produced enough to fill a thimble. People use phrases like “buckets of blood.” At the crime scene across the street, it looked like someone kicked the bucket over, refilled it, and heaved it against the wall oven. There was nothing in the oven.
Chances are I was at my dining room table rolling out clay snakes and curling up their green-grey bodies into braided rugs or diving for our wild puppy in the dry backyard and brushing the dead grass off my plaid Tough Skins as the neighbor across the street attempted to murder his wife. Three gunshots broke the dome of that mid-autumn morning silence, but my ears only heard my rustling on the lawn and Sandy yapping. Sandy was our Labrador retriever, named after the color of her coat. If I were naming dogs back in 1973, I’d have called her "Dry Grass On A Mid-Autumn Morning". It’s not the best name for a dog, but it’s better than "Murder Suicide Five Hundred Feet Away". Which is not good no matter how many feet away it happens.
I don’t remember the couple across the street or the slain grandmother of their two kids, although I’m told I occasionally played with the brothers. Certainly, I don’t recall the last time we rolled Tonka trucks on my front walk, but I’ll timestamp this unmemory November 12, 1973, five days before the shooting. My lack of awareness denied that event the title of “My First Encounter With Death.” The neighbors’ boys weren’t lucky enough to own a wild puppy that yapped at small clay hands and drowned out the sounds of gunshots and crying.
There’s no telling why some of us are left alone and others of us never lose anyone but ourselves.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
#1 - Yeah, I wanna hold your hand! Like a revelation! Demur, proper; then, an ecstasy in discovery! I want to hold your hand! Masks are dropped: I can’t hide! The bass is a throbbing swamp. I do!
#2 - For the first time, I hear this song as cocky, instead of love-struck. The sound is so lo-fi; basement drums, railcar guitars.
#3 - If this was the only song they were known for, they’d have fallen in place with the Fleetwoods and Del Vikings.
#4 - Out of the daydream: crack amateurs blast daylight black. Thunder in a funnel; cascading vocals. Made it home by 3!
#5 - Soul song. Purveyor of zombie sound? Humming, “Rockin’ Robin” style.
#6 - One for the fan club! Brown shoulders, brown shadows, but no taming the joy in the treble! The coda takes off down the river.
#1 - The best song on the album, but if this was the hit, they’d have been a different band.
#2 - Light stuff, but fun. A little boogie-woogie thrown into the beat to vex monsignors.
#3 - A necessary aspect of the Beatles success – this sound, this imagery only McCartney can deliver. Why so important? I think it was a tether securing the Beatles in a certain subset of music. The donkey walked us up here. He had a hat.
#4 - Is this even the Beatles? Sounds like a really old session; it sounds like they’re in a tunnel. McCartney sounds like he’s singing for his life; not great desperation in his voice, but a fear.
#5 - A Side 2, Track 5 song if I ever heard one. They tussle during the solo. Ringo is falling across his drums.
#6 - The piano solo is amazingly deliberate, but beautiful. Both the engineering and performance lend that phrase passion. And it ends. Just like that. The song, the album. Sorry, have we met?
2009: 3 in the morning, you awake with a start. No sound. You rustle in your sheets, reaching for your glasses, sitting up, leaning forward towards the bedroom window. No sound. But you heard something outside of your dream. You delicately slip out of bed; you do not want to wake her up. You separate the blinds, seeking a source of no sound. It fades and you hear a circus, certainly, but it’s only a low whine. The moon’s full, the lawn glows silver. The Man is in the Moon. His face is singing. Ice crystal notes spin around his equator. He keens like a calliope; he wails like a Wurlitzer. Christ, he’s a ghost! The biggest ghost in the night sky, and he’s singing, and he sounds like a circus – a glowering, cheerful, mad, comforting circus! The sound lifts you off your feet, moves you, pulls back the covers, and tucks you in bed. You won’t sleep for the rest of the night. You’re a groove in his record. You forget what a circus is: are there witches? Where would I see a circus? a swamp? yes, a swamp! no, the driveway! In the center ring, the Manhattan Swamp Witch eats a tightrope like it was licorice. The Moon is so impressed, he descends. The noise is incredible. The river evaporates and the fish fly into outer space, swallowing the stars until you are in a total darkness only broken by the fading glow of the moon. It dims softly, the music shuts softly. At 6 in the morning, the rooster crows – he sounds like an iceberg on hot asphalt.