The "Strange Doctrines" Undercroft

It's a Gas, Gas, Gas

Wow, if you need to fill up your tank, y'all better come out to Dahlart (that's the town we're in; sorry, I don't know what state): $2.69 a gallon!

Guess we picked the wrong week to start touring.

In The News...

We've racked up a solid 4,000 miles in the past nine days on our radio tour, along with an inversely proportional share of sleep. (In this business of "music," many are called, few are chosen.)

No time to blog at length, but I thought I'd share the flavor of one of the many news breaks I heard on the radio, somewhere between Elburn, IL and Centerville, IA (it all blurs together):

A motorist collided with a parked car on Oak St. last Tuesday. Frank Johnson was driving west-bound on Oak and apparently did not see the automobile parked there. There were no injuries reported, but it was estimated that the damage to both vehicles could reach $500.

In other news, police issued several citations to underage patrons at [local bar name]. Jefferson High School seniors Cindy Smith, Jackie Freeman, Jon Davis and Katie Winslip were all fined $75 for the offense...

When it comes to what counts as bad news, small-town life definitely has it's advantages.

Ripped Like Stalin

This morning at the gym I'd been hearing some very prominent "AAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGggggghhhhhhhhh!"s emanating from this chap about ten feet away, as he was doing his lying triceps raises.

Presently, he became even more conspicuous when, between sets, he began to chant "Push!"

But he soon breached the bounds of mere peculiarity, during his next set, which went like this:

[Rep]
"Schwarzenegger!"
[Rep]
"Schwarzenegger!"
[Rep]
"SCHWARZENEGGER!"

...and so forth.

He finished off the set with some remarks that were inaudible to me--except for this cadence, which he greatly emphasized: "Like STALIN!"

Oh, and he was wearing a Bush-Cheney t-shirt.

Say this for the guy: He does know how to pick his role models.

In a Legal Jam

My legal training sometimes comes in handy in resolving domestic disputes...

Wife: Don't you eat all my Powidl.
Me: I didn't eat all your Powidl.
Wife: Well, don't.
Me: I didn't. You already had a lot of the Powidl.
Wife: Well, it's my Powidl. My dad brought it for me.
Me: Honey, we're in California. California is a community property state. We obtained the Powidl in the course of our marriage. The Powidl is community property.
Wife: So...that means I can use your guitar then.
Me: Er...

...but not every time.

The Awful German Sense of Humor

Gillian Russell posts on German language mavens.

She closes by recounting the classroom results of her didadactic experiment with Mark Twain's wonderful essay, "The Awful German Language":

What is this passage about?

The man is being very rude about our language. I think it is stupid.

That's interesting. What do the rest of you think? Is Mark Twain trying to insult German?

(silence)

[Another student] I agree with Inga. He is stupid. He writes stupid things.

So, er...no-one thinks it meant to be humourous then?

No, because it is not funny.

45 minutes to go.

Reminds me of two early encounters I had with the German sense of humor (such as it is). The first was a television interview (in English) with a German yuppie who was discussing (what else?) the German sense of humor:

Well, many people say that we do not have a sense of humor. And, you know, maybe that is not such a bad thing.

The second incident involved a dear Bavarian friend of mine who related the following ethnic "joke":

What is the difference between a white cow and a black cow? The white cow says, "Moo," and the black cow says, "Moo man."

Which pretty well backs up the German yuppie's statement, above.

Shake Your Buddha

Interesting NYT review of Pankaj Mishra's new book on Buddhism. (Good audio clip of Mishra expounding, as well.)

Which reminds me of a story...

Sometime last year, on the plane to Sacramento:

Friend (to Mormon lass seated next to him): I used to be into Buddhism, but now I'm a scientologist.¹

Me: That's right, miss--he's a booty-ologist.

¹In fact, my friend was neither. In case you were wondering.

Tissue Spotting

Lance McCord relates a dream about drafting a contract. (Via Eric Muller.)

Speaking of dreaming like a lawyer, I remember my first law-infected dream. It was the finals fortnight of the first semester. I dreamt that I had my civ pro exam. Naturally, I was late.

So I sit and wait for the proctor to say, "Begin." Which she does. Only at that point do I think to open my bag to collect my reference materials. (It's an open-book exam.)

So I reach for my course outline. But it's crumbling, falling apart.

Inspecting the outline more closely, I see why: I'd prepared the outline on a roll of toilet paper.

What could that mean?

Man Cannot Buy Bread Alone

Journal, July 24, 1997

Day before last I placed an ad in the Recycler letting those in my area know that my old May ’84 TV was for sale.

This morning I received a call from Jim, who inquired as to the year, make and model of said TV. Satisfied that it was close enough to what he was looking for, he informed me he’d be setting out for my apartment presently.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived in a small, beige, early model sedan. The buzz at my intercom informed me of his arrival, and I buzzed the gate in return, then went out to meet him.

He seemed a friendly sort. He was of slight build and attenuated stature, dark-complected with friendly brown eyes. As he neared, I caught wind of a certain unsubtle acridity in the air, one not nearly so friendly as his eyes.

We went inside. I showed him the television. He commented that the picture was somewhat grainy, and asked if I’d take $15 (I had asked for $20 in the ad). I said, Sure. He asked if I had anything else to sell. I mentioned our microwave. He asked if I’d help him to his car, and then perhaps we could come back to demo the microwave.

We went out to his car. He opened his trunk, which, in addition to spare tire and tools, contained a peculiar assortment of hopelessly irreconcilable items: plates; old newspaper; a discombobulated VCR; old, empty plastic grocery bags‑-and now my TV.

As we turned back toward the apartment, it started. He began to relate to me the history of Muhammad.

He was born 1500 years ago, Jim told me, and he is the one true prophet. Allah is the one true God, and we must come to Him before our time is up.

Jim then inquired as to my religious affiliation, guessing at first I was a Christian (n0), then Catholic (no), then Protestant (no), then Jewish (no); then he guessed right: atheist. But I espoused an interest in the matter, if only to make Jim happy. And so he continued on in his epistle, as I readied the microwave to test warm the body of Christ (i.e., an old heel of bread, long since interred in the back of our fridge).

Curiously, Jim never looked at me while he recited the litany of his chosen faith. Instead, he maintained a constant visual deflection at some 30°. I tested the constancy of this angle by moving further into his field of vision, whereupon he averted his eyes correspondingly. There were moments when those once friendly eyes seemed like they were going to turn my way again, but then the lids would close over them in paroxysm, foiling any attempt at making brief contact. But then, all of a sudden, they were right on me, unblinking, and they wouldn’t leave.

Yeah, a little weird.

I managed to get him outside for the oven demo. I laid the bread inside the microwave, closed the door, and heated it for ten seconds or so. I removed it. Jim asked me if the bread was warm, apparently not seeing the steam rising in the cool morning air. I said that indeed it was, and handed it over to him as proof. He seemed satisfied, and said he’d take the oven.

As I started inside, he asked me if he could take the piece of bread I’d just heated. I guess that constituted some sort of a package deal for him. I said, Sure, why not?

So he folded the bread in two, and placed it in his breast pocket.

Allah be praised!

Mrs. Potato Head

STRANGE DOCTRINES (to his wife, now peeling a vaguely familiar root vegetable): Are you making sweet potatoes?

MRS. DOCTRINES: I yam.

Dispatches from the Road, Pt. II

NASHVILLE, TN--We did a show last night to see if we could drum up some major label interest in our project (we're doing an indie deal, but would love to secure distribution through a major). It went great. Every president from every major label in town was there, and (by all accounts) we destroyed.

This is gratifying, because in these kinds of situations, little stuff beyond your control can kill you. An amp blows, the singer gets sick, the guitar player gets pied because of remarks in his blog, etc.

But no such hitches last night. We delivered the package on time and in good condition. Another day at the office...

. . .

Fun story about how our indie record deal came about. We had just finished our first forray into Nashville to play for the labels, and though there had been some interest among the majors, it was pretty clear that none were going to bite at that time. (This is eminently understandable: the industry is in a slump, and a signing at a major usually entails an initial commitment of well over a million bucks for advances, production, promotion, etc. That's a lot of money to test out an unproven act. Plus, there's the fact that we're really not very good.)

So we head to the airport and sit down in the B line at the Southwest terminal to await our flight back to L.A., and seated right next to us is Famous Nashville Songwriter and Publishing Company President. We proceed to colloquy. PCP tells us that PC is launching Record Label, and that RL might be interested in our group.

The deal pretty much gets done there on the flight.

Side Story 1: Some weeks later, this time waiting in the C line for the Southwest flight back to L.A. from Nashville, and I start chatting with Nice Chap in line A. Nice Chap turns out to be another remarkably successful songwriter (I'm pretty sure one of his songs is in the Billboard Top 10 right now). He emails me the songs. And wouldn't you know it--we're doing one of his songs on the album.

Side Story 2: Some weeks later still, and we've signed with Big Management Company. BMC's VP flies out to Nashville for a recon mission and starts up a conversation with Nice Guy sitting next to him. They talk for a few minutes, only to find that Nice Guy is our main day-to-day man at RL. They proceed to have the most productive four-hour meeting.

Oh--and they were flying Southwest.

In light of the above, we've developed a new business model: Fly Southwest Airlines to Nashville often.