I got a job last summer. I have it again this summer. It's from last year, but I still have a sweet nametag. People ask me what I do; I refer them to the nametag. Hint: it involves some bored time behind a computer, hence, blog.
That last post was White Stripes heavy. Probably because I've been thinking of them all day. Neil and I went to try out a new record store, Spoonful, a cool, new hangout / acoustic venue / record store that just opened downtown.
The place is in a sort of sketch part of town, and was a little tough to find, but well, well worth it. The walls are lined with racks of vinyl albums, and the racks are on wheels so they can be moved to facilitate crowds for shows he plans on having in the store for small bands and other artists. To keep the retro vibe alive, he's also got many 50s tabletops, 45 Players and a few pinball machines. Spoonful looks awesome inside to say the least; a gem of vinyl and vintage.
Just opened up Saturday, and you can tell it needs a lived in feel, but the owner, who I got to meet, is a super cool dude with an even cooler story. I asked him where he got his collection from, why the store:
"I've been collecting since the 80s...I even opened up my own label for local bands at one point...I worked at the Art Museum for awhile, and when I got laid off, really, I had nothing left to lose."
It's a sweet place, and I think it's going to do real well. Look for an interview on WOBN, I got his info and plan on chatting him up on NAME THAT SHOW. I'm going to challenge this quote that stuck with me, because he does have something to lose:
an unopened original pressing of The White Stripes' "White Blood Cells."
Special Guest DJ Downtown Neil Brown playing "What Tony Likes" on WOBN...
"Sleepyhead" Passion Pit "Untouched and Intact" The Honorary Title "Die By The Drop" The Dead Weather "American Slang" The Gaslight Anthem "(If You're Wondering) I Want You To" Weezer "Grapevine Fires" Death Cab for Cutie "Stacey's Mom" Fountains of Wayne "The Cave" Mumford and Sons "The Hand That Feeds" Nine Inch Nails "Cousins" Vampire Weekend "Chips Ahoy!" The Hold Steady "Mothers(?)" Lux
Some awful song the system threw in to cap the ten oclock hour. Took three tries for Neil to pull it out. Lol.
"Breakneck Speed" Tokyo Police Club "Tiny Dancer" Elton John "Mykonos" Fleet Foxes "Treat Me Like Your Mother" The Dead Weather "The Sons of Cain" Ted Leo "My Girls" Animal Collective
and that is where I leave the office and join Neil at WOBN
If I was ever going to devote a post to bitching, this would be it. Things just haven't been connecting recently for me, and it's getting absurdly frustrating. For starters, work's been awful; secondly, it's been a bajillion degrees around town, and finally, I miss Krista bad.
Jack White says that we should pick apart our problems, one by one, and stow them away like little acorns. Why not.
Okay, so really I only have two problems: work and separation anxiety.
Work has been crazy because of many, many reasons. Primarily, two of our six person staff is on vacation, and I cannot wait to get them back in the weeks to come. To make matters worse, we had three football camps in and out this week, and a young girl's basketball clinic on campus this week.
This means many things, like: very, very early breakfasts; insanely disorganized check-in's; rude players; people leaving trash heaps of plates and garbage in the cafeteria; football men hitting on basketball girls; and worst of all, moron coaches. At least our Otterbein Football coach contact, the hilariously doppelganger named Alan Moore (ours has no hair, Watchmen's has too much) has been totally awesome.
So here is the play by play highlight reel of this week's tasks that we have had to take on, exhaustion amplified by the lack of support and early mornings for all of us still here:
-Getting up at seven for Lorain's football camp check in, only to have them arrive at 9:15. Then to find out that I missed Maddie DeVelvis' guest appearance by a matter of minutes. Great.
-Having to un-loft or un-bunk EVERY bed in 25 W Home, so the children don't get hurt fooling around in bed.
-Working extra shifts in the Campus Center Office. Yes, sitting and doing nothing gets old. Even when you're on the clock.
-Being called a queer while working by disgusting, dirty, sweat covered overly testosterone boys whose hobbies include taking group showers and dog piling on their muscular peers.
-Walking across campus at 12:30 after a really long day to go to bed in an un-air conditioned Hanby, only to find the 'gentlemen athletes' of Lorain have stolen both your mattress, and the mattress from the nearest convenient room to take from.
Did I mention it has been at least 90 degrees outside every day this week? Because that for sure does not help.
What else can I bitch about?
Oh that's right, I miss Krista so much I don't know what to do with myself...
only a few more weeks, and she's back. we're together again.
Other then play with font justification; luckily, I'm going up to visit tomorrow, so if I can just get through tonight the better days will be more then just a blurry picture from finals week.
I used to abuse a phrase: "That's so punk rock," was the phrase, and for awhile, it was appropriate: someone would get told off, somebody stuck it to the man, I figured out how to open a tightly sealed CD, those events would all earn a shout: "That's so punk rock!" Earlier this summer, the phrase found itself number one in my encyclopedia of overused expressions. So I cut it out. But friends, it's back. You see, last week, for me,
was so punk rock.
So, due to a snafu with scheduling, I had to cancel Neil and I's tickets for Tokyo Police Club at the Grog Shop on July 25th. Instead, because the show was my birthday present to beardo, I had to get tickets (via Ticketmaster, yuck) for the Tokyo Police Club show in Columbus, at The Basement. Now, I love this venue, I've seen many shows (including TPC) there before, but, this move meant no more Gaslight Anthem at the LC. It would have been my fourth Gaslight show, and I was looking forward to taking my good friend Jeremy "Never Has Any Fun" Kuhn, as he loves him some Gaslight Anthem.
To tease myself, I searched for GA shows near Ohio, and found one hell of a solution: "The Hold Steady with special guests Gaslight Anthem and The Whigs." Neil was down to drive and Kuhn was in, so we immediately purchased our three tickets for what we could assume, would be a rude, loud night of rock and roll in Detroit Rock City! Of course we were down!
But I'll get back to that.
For my birthday, Jonathan hooked me up with tickets to see another band I was done making excuses for, The Hold Steady. They were playing a show in Columbus reasonablly close to my birthday (July 14) so why not? To make matters better, on the bill as a supporting band were The Whigs, a nice bluesy-Southern Rock outfit from Georgia.
So, it's me, Matt Porter and Dan Axmacher from Wooster (pleasant surprise) Pat, Jonathan and myself. The local band to open up was this really killer group called "Two Cow Garage." They sounded a lot like a more punky version of The Hold Steady, so it was a great fit; and dropped one of my favorite stage talk lines ever: "We're from Columbus, well, small towns around it." Bassist says: I'm from Columbus, f***ing Clintonville, I don't give a s**t." Then The Whigs came on, who I had seen opening for The Kooks way back when, and they killed. Only played one song I knew, but I did really dig their new music. Finally, nothing between the Hold Steady and us but a few roadies.
So finally, they come out and just kill it. Crazy good set. The play everything I want to hear expect Chips Ahoy, but we'll get to that tomorrow. "Southtown Girls" clearly stole the show, see:
All in all, the Hold Steady play a mad show, and at around the time we're back at Otterbein with Hound Dogs, I realize: I'm going to see them tomorrow. The idea hits Pat and Jon and suddenly it's a two car, five man road trip up to Michigan for another crazy rock show.
All night I think of this, and how excited I am to upgrade from The Newport, which is a fantastic venue, to the world famous Fillmore, where I will see The Dead Weather in a few weeks.
So, we drive up, Neil, Jeremy and I, with Jon and Pat bringing up the rear. It's a fairly easy drive, full of Lady Gaga and Red Vines. Finally we get there, and the venue is crazy awesome. I told Pat and Jon it was like Powers Auditorium without the bad shows and failure: beautiful theater stage set, the show takes no time getting started. Tim Barry, The Gaslight Anthem's supporter is awful. Some dreamer with an acoustic and too many bad words, he plays a quick set. Then The Whigs play another crazy good set, minus the volume being a little too loud. And then, Gaslight.
They come out and blister into a set, opening with their title track "American Slang," which is delicious live. Unfortunately, when they rip into their louder and harder tracks, we find ourselves stuck behind a bunch of slow, there to get drunk types, and it takes a few songs to get around them, but we do. Well, I do.
Brian was kind enough to pose for my camera:
They play an amazing set, the fourth time for me seeing them, and totally the best. The new album translates live so damn well it's crazy. The fans weren't too wild either, which surprised me considering we were in Detroit Rock City. During the last few songs of the set ("Great Expectations," "Here's Looking at You Kid," and "The Backseat") all the fans jumped and swung together, screaming, or gently whispering depending on which track, lyrics back at the band and each other. It was an awesome, community driven pit.
The Gaslight Anthem finished up and asserted themselves as one of my favorite bands. An easy decision, to watch them play, I can see how devoted to their fans and their music they really are, and it's energizing to be around them and the fans who all feel the same way.
This was all good. Then The Hold Steady came out. Neil, Kuhn and I were all sort of bummed that they had the headlining spot; we were there for Gaslight, but no big. Kuhn looked miserable, but Neil, Pat, Jon and I all jumped and partied straight through an amazing set that included "Chips Ahoy!" That moment sold the deal on our 6 hour car ride, 3:30 AM arrival time before a 7AM orientation day to come completely worth it.
We grabbed some merch, stole some killer posters off the Fillmore's walls and cruised home.
Two shows, six bands, two days; my friends, that's so punk rock.
Ted Leo & The Pharmacists played a bar gig at Skully's downtown in Columbus. Pat and Jonathan carpooled down with Jim for the road trip, because as you will know, Jim was in town for far better reasons. So, en route to the Arena District (you know, Neil Ave, best part of town?) we dropped Pat and Jon off at Skully's to waste an hour or so while Jim and I sped off to BD's (a Columbus tradition that Jim seems to always pay for...) and then "Weird Al." Well, around the same time Jim and I were finding seats on the grass, probably an hour and a half from when we left the boys off in the Short North, Pat texts us and the long and short of his message is:
Ted Leo doesn't really start playing until 11 or 12, you'll probably be able to make it.
Now, I've always liked Ted Leo, he was one of those bands that I picked up via proxy from Pat, Jon, Jim and Porter (see Hold Steady post to come). In fact, I'd go as far as to say, I really liked Ted Leo. Not as much as the others, who have crossed state lines more than once to see him play in Pittsburgh, or Philly for that matter. But I'd always been wanting to tag along. With no excuse, Jim and I finished up at "Weird Al," and crossed town to see The Pharmacists.
We were two or three songs late, but it was cool, the dude at the door let us in for half of the cover charge, and proceeded to get rocked. Old school punk kind of rocked. It was absolutely awesome; the sound was operated awfully, Ted Leo's guitar had broke earlier, and, well, so what? It was a dirty, bar, rock and roll kind of show, and that's what mattered.
Most of the fans were sort of boring, or bored maybe, but there were a few guys in the middle, including myself, who let the music carry them, fists towards the grungy roof jumping and shouting out the occasional lyric and just going crazy. It was awesome; it had been a long time since a good old fashion rock show for me, and it was totally worth it. And when the band ripped into "Colleen," my favorite Ted Leo track, off of the album one before "The Brutalist Bricks," I went nuts. Ted was shouting lyrics, the crowd was shouting back, and the whole place was a big explosion of sound.
People often ask me why I spend so much money on concerts. That is in no way true, but if they did, I would try to give them this kind of feeling: loud, unquestionable moments of complete perfection, where the audience and the bands, the vocals and the guitars are fist-fighting with the amps, it's just too good to pass up.
And the only way to know how that feels is to see some shows.
I'm tired of being out of shape, out of breath from climbing a flight of steps. I feel occasionally inadequate, and for that, I must take matters into my own hands. I'm going to cut some new and bad habits, and adapt some good old ones. Maybe this revival of my cross country glory days will do more then help me shred a few pounds, a good way to clear my often troubled mind.
I'm also going to start a diet, of what, I am not sure. But now more then ever, as I start to use my own kitchen, I'm going to use healthy eating habits. Start now, I suppose. My band t-shirts are too expensive to not fit in...
I think my greatest motivation comes from some of the people closest to me: Krista, for her always support of me, Mum, for her constant love, my friends: Neil, my new personal trainer; Brent, who I will complete my goal just to spite; but the person who I think my new pursuit of health I owe the most thanks to, is my Dad.
He's done amazing things for himself this year, and I'd like to imitate. I had McDonald's tonight. Won't happen for a while I'm speculating.
Spoiler Alert: Jim and I went to see "Weird Al" Yankovic in concert.
In our lives, we all surround ourselves with people we call friends. It is a rare person, to encounter a friend as good as Jim. Anyone that knows me will instantly know I throw around the phrase "best friend" pretty quickly; in fact, odds are good that at one point I'd of said the same of you. And it's hard not to: putting a definition on the coveted spot of "best friend" is next to impossible. See an earlier entry about Father's Day weekend and a reflection on Wagon and I's friendship, longest running friendship I've had baring only family. So as I let people get close to me I struggle to define what makes who closest to me.
I still don't have an answer, so, multitudes of best friends, sorry.
With all that shit being said, Jim Somerville is indeed one of my best friends. He's the guy tagging along in the back, haphazardly making sure everything is glued together, keeping sentimental roots thick in the past, while blazing new horizons for adventures to come. I think it is the nostalgia Jim has for the hodgepodge of crazy stuff we've gotten into that I tend to enjoy him so much: not many would have as patient and fond memories of Mega Tokyo on his grandmother's computer, waiting out a heat wave or rain shower only to jump into the swimming pool of our unlimited summer fun resource, or that illegal viewing of Kill Bill Jim made possible sneaking the Netflix dvd sleeve into my basement to watch one day after school; of keeping tracks of the numerous bands we discovered over various online cartoon websites (Lodger and Tally Hall, to name a few). And of course. Mopey Fro, the most ill-advised attempt at, well, anything.
Yes, we have lots of good history, but my favorite piece of Jim-cannon I like the most is the circumstance of how he and I met. Somehow, Jim and I both mistakenly joined up with the drama kids in high school and tried out for a play. At one of the first meetings for the ill dubbed "Poland Players," (Giant ***holes would have been more accurate) I saw a large, afro'ed Samoan looking dude wearing none other than a "Weird Al" Yankovic Touring With Scissors shirt picturing Al in his Obi-Wan costume, with shadow dancing on the walls of Mos Espa and tour dates on the back.
I was hard pressed for friends here; I had just transferred over from the Catholic school, and took this as a sign. If this kid liked Weird Al, he would probably like me. I mean, "Running With Scissors" was the first CD I ever bough with my own money, so, why not.
It's entirely possible that the first thing I ever said to Jim was: "Hey, I like your shirt." Knowing what I do now, Jim held back an insult about my trying-too-hard-to-be-cool shirt, and instead, most likely said, "Thanks, you like Al?"
To quote Yankovic himself, "we were inseparable, we did everything together." The school year went on, and I quickly had made myself a good, reliable friend at the high school. Onwards to the summer, I still remember the first time hanging out at Jim's, was actually his Grandma's house, with a pool, a PS2 and a copy of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. This hang-out was mostly filled with the smut of a gangster's rise to the top as shown by Rockstar Games.
I even remember getting yelled at for coming home a few minutes late for lunch, which, and this is the strangest detail, was fried bologna sandwiches.
So, six years later, I am faced with an adult adaptation of our former selves. No, there are no more aimless days spent in the pool, wandering around Poland, but, there is still lots of aimlessness. Grown up aimlessness. I'm glad Jim's stuck around for the ride since we all started changing so much. How do I know I can rely on Jim's constant friendship? The full circle.
That's why this Weird Al concert meant so much to me; not only was it awesome (and an awesome birthday present) but it also showed, that two friends can grow so differently and apart yet still, find themselves celebrating the same traditions from years, literally more than half a decades past.
So what else is to say? The show was awesome, every second of it. Great concert, Al, despite being 51, is a fantastic entertainer, and you can bet I was singing every single word (of the old stuff bawww snobbery.).
It's been almost ten days, and what a week and a half it has been since I posted last. The way things were when we last met was a travel weary and heavy hearted voice, quietly whispering submissively into the usual routine of a summer's longing.
At any rate, I've gotten into quite a bit since: road trips, visits home, tales of the Orient, concerts oh the concerts, and Freshman Orientation, too. So. Non-sequential catch up posts soon to come.
We had Monday off and I was just beside myself trying to find something to do. I slept in, and, well, that was all.
I'll use this space to wrap up a loose end from earlier last week. I had been playing Heavy Rain, a brilliant film noir style murder mystery game with an amazing spin on both storytelling and gaming. Watch:
To the untrained eye, or casual gamer, this peice will look like a movie, not a game; it'll play like one too. The gist of the whole thing is not how you play the game, it's how you think for the characters. Heavy Rain is sort of tough to explain: it is a narrative expereince, you control several different characters all in some way (most of which don't meet until the end or subtly cross paths at various midpoints in the game) surrounding the insidious murders of the serial "Origami Killer," known for taking young children as his victims and leaving a folded piece of orgiami and an orchid on their bodies.
However, the approach to solving this mystery is not straight forward gaming: mostly, you just have to be quick witted and press various button combinations when the pop up on the screen in order to react accordingly. Example: during the prologue to the game, you are playing Ethan, father of two and loving husband. He has just lost his son in a mall and is trying to run through the crowd to catch him before he stumbles out into the street. During this tense part of the early game, players learn how simple button strokes literally can mean life and death for these characters.
And as it goes on, the game gets more and more exciting. There are portions of gameplay that put the entire body of a character in gamers' hands, and those tense moments lead to nervous waiting for when something will happen, triggering another quick-time event.
This game is clever and new, a great little package that does a big thing: reinvent narrative gaming. I've always joked that when I run the school at where ever I become a professor, I'll teach a class on Video Game Narrative. This will for sure be on my list for that class.
From start to finish, I was completely immersed, invested in the characters, trying to help them solve their flaws, and right up until the end was completely wrong about who I speculated the killer was. We need more games like this, and I need more days off to play them.
Readers will notice I have not mentioned Krista much in this blog, which is in fact, about my summer work. The majority of my summer work is spent complaining and bemoaning the fact that Krista, a major part of my life, is not with me here.
Off in Huron, Ohio working with the theater fellows from BGSU at the Lake Huron Playhouse, putting on five shows in a grueling six weeks. We used to have a joke, a very piggish and sexist joke, that last summer while I was working (you know, "working") I would say she was sitting at home twiddling her thumbs until I called. Shoes on the other foot this time, and I gotta tell you guys, it sucks. A lot.
This is where someone will chime in, "yeah, but she's around all school year, why complain?" And to them I say, get off my blog and stop being my friend.
Long story short, I miss Krista a great deal. Not in like, a suffocating, overly needy way; more like, a nice, I'm really proud of you and excited that you're getting one foot in the door to a successful acting career, BUT, I miss you anyway.
Luckily, the feeling's mutual.
Long story short, I went to see Krista this weekend!!!
Luckily, she's not the only Otterbein-er that works at the Playhouse. Jake Robinson, Adam Shalter and Julie Koenig also find themseleves two hours away from campus. Even more lucky, Julie's totally awesome boyfriend, Kyle Harper, works at Otterbein for the summer. Are you feeling the equation work out here folks?
So Kyle and I road trip up to Huron listening to Weird Al and talking about movies. Finally, we are arrived outside the Playhouse, Krista is waiting for me. It's like a movie, so I'll spare you the details of the most fantastic hug ever.
From there Krista showed me around the very groovy historic McCormic Elementary School, where the theater is held. I was introduced to many, many people, cast crew, the works. Then we sat in the box office and helped sell tickets until it was time for me to take my seat (c-1) and wait for the show.
The group put on "The Melody Lingers On," which was a musical review of Irving Berlin's tunes. I had never realized just how impressive his resume was, so it was a pleasure and a surprise to be hearing songs from Annie Get Your Gun, or "Stepping out With my Baby," and of course, the timely preformance of "God Bless America." The show was awesome, I had a really good time, and get to claim a staticstic I never thought I would: to be surrounded by more people on oxygen, then people not on oxygen.
Afterwords, the cast and crew had to do strike on the set, so I was treated to a second show: "Strike: The Musical." Then, the four of us piled into Kyle's car and drove to the very prestegious, very elite, Huron / Milan Motel 6. I said goodnight to new friends and Krista, and checked out my lodgings: rough. Not really, a nice big queen size bed, a TV that was broadcasting "A New Hope" on Spike (no complaints) and an air conditioner; all the essentials. I climbed into bed and fell asleep, looking forward to the coming morning.
So, after a nice morning sleeping in, I meet up with Krista again and we shoot over to the lakeside for a picnik with her friends. Three words: take notes Otterbein. I hadn't had burgers that good in a long time, so I had to eat a lot. I also got to see Jake, another Otterbeiner at the playhouse being his usual goofy self. We also shared good stories and watermellon so juicy, water was not necessary despite temeptures reaching the 90s.
Post picnik, we ran a few errands: laundry mostly, checked into getting Krista a new phone, looked at some shoes at the Sandusky Mall (good thing the kids have Cedar Point to go to...) and then it was back to the Playhouse before I knew it.
All day Krista had been appologetic that we didn't get to do anything, just her chores. I couldn't reassure her enough that it was fine. And it was. I've grown to love and even be excited by the monotonous, the mundane, when these tasks are shared with her. I think, how similar is a laundramat in Huron to where perhaps in the East Village we will do laundry until I make tenure and we can get a house outside of the city? Wishful thinking, but nice.
And it was somewhere after losing to several games of Spit and half the ride home, that I realized how much I was missing Krista already, and how I could only look forward to a not too far from now time, where we can share each other's company passing time washing dishes, cleaning clothes or moving furnature.
It was good to see her, and even though my iPod played a cruel trick on me walking back from Kyle's house to my apartment (First Day of My Life) I have nothing but happy and warm, lovely memories from last weekend.
Apparently, I have a new addiction. MTV programming has never been anything other then campy and horrid, but, I believe that one decade deep into the 21st century, things are worse then ever. Somewhere in the 90s, America decided that it wanted a new, bold and fascinating new form of entertainment: reality tv. Unsure how to react, most of us fell into the hype, attached to one of the many subgenres: dating shows, Survivor-contest games, Big Brother house shows; and the all were terrible, but for some reason, we couldn't stop watching some slicked hair dip***t in the Real World struggling to understand why after fifteen shots of Patron, he wasn't feeling his chipper-est.
So, why, after such blatant dislike, would I endure what ten years of trial and error has done to hybrid some of the worst half hours on syndicated television? Two reasons. The first, I was dog sitting on Wedensday for my friend Alice Mack, and didn't want to read because I was busy playing with the very radical and excellent Mr Scrappy (see figure 1), and didn't want to crack into a movie, because, again, see figure 1.
So, I had no chocie other then to tune into MTV for my favorite guilty pleasure game show: "Silent Library."
"Silent Library"
This is Silent Library. Silent Library is a Westernized version of an apparent Asian classic, the premise is simple: you and your chums must pull of goofy and mostly gross stunts (see video) without making too much noise to win cash. If you and your chums can't keep your pie holes shut, a mean looking Asian guy and librarian shouts mean things at you. Simple and sweet. The problem: the morons on the show always have the most eclectic collection of jack ass and idiot friends that no matter how the competetor taking on any number of absurd tasks on the show, who cannot help but laugh as their friends take on the challenges. Point: nobody ever wins, and it's because of the peanut gallery. With that being said, it's fun to watch stupid people doing stupid things. Silent Library gets a pass in my book.
I honestly don't remember what was on next, because I was too busy laughing at Silent Library to remember the rest. I think I took Scraps for a walk around campus and stopped compulsively watching MTV. So that was the first encounter: a program so bad it's good for a laugh or two. I start to wonder if I am being too harsh on MTV, and then my second encounter comes.
I am not sleeping, because I do not have to work until 4 pm. This is what I go into last night saying. I didn't do too much yesterday either, so I'm in that in-between tired and wide awake kind of mindset. I occupy my time going for a bike ride, returning some movies to the library, moving a chair with a shopping cart, and dropping in to see Neil. Most of the errands are good for a few songs on the iPod each, but the stop back to Garst, well, that carries me well into the 3:30 am range.
What was it that was keeping the attention of the two college students? The worst, most horrible, no hyperbole here folks, the most disgusting offensive show I have ever had the misfortune of not being blind during television ever. MTV's Super Sweet Sixteen: a show case of the brattiest, most offensive, spoiled young ladies and boys in the world; parading their parents' bank accounts like its' their toy poodles.
Words cannot describe, but I yelled lots of mean things at these children.
This lovely BBC video does all the work for me.
Moral of the story: friends, occupy your time better then I have recently, or you'll two be sucked into watching this horrible television. I'm going to purge myself, and watch nothing but Casablanca and Undeclared until I have detoxed all MTV programming out of my eyes and mind. Enjoy your afternoons, I'll be regretting the last week's tv viewing choices all night.
What to say? I like writing poetry and playing with the English language. I have several projects going at once, usually involving either a screenplay and accompanying film I'm direction, or some goofy music project I'm mixing for. I'm a royal riot. A big slice of humble pie.
