Tuesday, August 29, 2006

RIP Glenn Hughes

Today I woke up later than usual. I usually wake up without an alarm between 8:30 or 9:30. I woke up around 11:00. This is beginning to sound like Mr. Brownstone. I think it was upping the ante of my usual workout routine coupled with working on a painting until 2:00 a.m.

Anyways, I wake up to my roomate Marc watching season three of the incredible Arrested Development.


I made breakfast and sat down to watch an episode (or five) with him.

David Cross' character Tobias mentions Glenn Hughes. None of the other characters get the reference, and the notoriously closet-gay Tobias pretends not to know what he was ever talking about. The show's narrator, Ron Howard, explains that Glenn Hughes
was the original biker in the Village People.

So the morning turns into the afternoon. I hope that the rain will wane down to overcast but dry skies. No dice.

So I suit up. After much dilemma I go to the dark shadows of my closet.

I suit up and I make the ghost of Glenn Hughes flap his wrists in delight.

I suit up in black leather chaps.

Now you may be asking... or unfortunatley you're probably not asking "why does Hooker own a pair of leather chaps?"

Earlier in the year my band played the WBCN Rumble at the Middle East in Cambridge. We all split up and got lunch after soundcheck and somehow our drummer Phil and I ended up in Hubba Hubba, a leather shop on Mass ave. We joked about how funny it'd be if I wore leather chaps on stage.

After talking the guy behind the counter down from $150 to $100, Phil and I split the cost of the chaps. The other guys didn't know about them until we were about to go on.

So I still have them, and dammit, my legs were dry as I rode in the rain.

So Glenn, I know you're up in that big YMCA in the sky, but I hope I made you proud.


Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Oak Room

Today I got all gussied up in a suit and scrambled up 93N at 80 mph to meet Jenny on time for our 12:30 lunch reservation at the Oak Room in Copley Square. Good ol' restaurant week allowed us to eat at a place that looked like a place that Mortimer and Randolph Duke would dine at for only $20 each.






The place was enormous. Carvings and moldings and animal heads and chandeliers and chippendale furniture and brass and everything else. It had two large rooms up front and a smaller room in the back where they put the restaurant week trash like us. Unfortunately our room didn't have 50 foot ceilings, but fortunately it also wasn't filled with old people
with their wobbly jaws chewing sirloin while gravy pooled up in the cracks in their rich old faces.

Restaurant week lets us bumpkins dine on three course meals and the choices at the Oak room were:

clam chowder or salad
beef sirloin or salmon
and Boston creme pie for dessert.

We both ordered the salad and the salmon. I didn't want to get the beef because of the 8 pounds of Grade F red meat I recently ate at Six Flags.

Salads were fine. Then came the entree. Waiter put salmon down in front of Jenny and the sirloin down in front of me.

A few minutes later he came back and called himself on the error. I didn't want them to just toss the plate, which he said they would, so I kept the sirloin. We ended up getting our Peligrino for free. Two bottles at $8 each made a difference.

So all in all the Oak Room is pretty sweet. Some night I'd like to get a group of us down there all dressed up and looking regal. Then we can scare the blue bloods and blue hairs with wine-fueled banter.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Sorry, I'm a bit hoarse

The weekend started off nicely. Got out of work early on Friday night. Rode home. Worked on a few paintings. Watched a little bit of the first Lord of the Rings, went to bed.

Saturday got up, went down to the beach alone and read for a while. I'm now in the second chapter of A People's History of the United States. It was a nice leisurely read that was kind of tainted by the disturbing subject matter.

Took off and headed to Newton to pick up my van because I had to go grab an old sofa in Plymouth for the the saloon..

Then I went to bed relatively early on a Saturday because I had to be up at 7:00 to meet my uncle, drive into Southie and catch a bus to Six Flags. He got some deal through his work and we had a nice Griswold-esque family trip with cousins and siblings and whatnot.

Now a little back history here. My uncle Joe was barely in his 20's back in 1984. Some time that year he took me to Paragon Park, a now-defunct amusement park in Hull, MA. He put me on a roller coaster. Actually it was a kiddie roller coaster. Actually it was more like an oval track with a couple bumps in it. It was nothing. But I flipped out. Cried my wussy eyes out and the operator actually stopped the ride.

So for about 15 years or so, I was too much of a pussy to go on any rollercoasters. My family would go to amusement parks and my poor friends who'd tag along would spend the day either watching me sulk and ride lame rides, or would ride all sorts of crazy shit with my mom, who loves ridiculous roller coasters.

Then my mother somehow coaxed me onto the Vortex. A stand-up rollercoaster at Carowinds in SC. That sort of broke the curse and I'd ride one every once in a while.

Yesterday morning I woke up and the asscrack of dawn to see a monsoon outside my window. Things didn't look good for the Six Flags trip. I didn't want to bail on uncle Joe however, he told me the night before that his kids both bailed on him.

We met up and drove out to meet the bus. It was raining all the way. The trip was pretty quick, less than two hours, but it was spitting rain and gray the entire time.

We finally got there and got off the bus. Still kind of shitty out. No heavy rain though. Then, as we walked towards the park, a 100-piece women's choir sang a note and the clouds parted. It was glorious.

The day was filled with short lines, bearable heat (I wore jeans like an idiot) and free food and drinks.

Redemption. 22 years in the making. It was time for a baptism of sorts. Uncle Joe and I rode the Superman coaster. First hill... a 221 ft drop. He maintains he saw me welling up after the first few hills. I just couldn't get my damn eyes shut because of the g-force. The second time I rode it it felt like the time I drove a motorcycle with no eyewear. Tears streaming back to my temples.

Who knows. Maybe it was just the g-force, or maybe it was the 4 year old in me exercising his rollercoaster demons. You rule, Uncle Joe.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Odd dreams

Today I woke up around 7am from an odd, vivid dream. I haven't really remembered any dreams in detail in quite some time. Lately I've been waking up feeling really groggy and have had some wacky dreams. Today only one scene really stands out from the dream I had.

I've never been much for horror movies or zombie flicks. Most people I know dig that type of stuff. A friend of mine that I ran into last night named Rot, (nickname) who has worked as an embalmer for the past 13 years is in the process of opening a clothing shop in Allston that will also feature a rare collection of horror dvds. He loves the whole horror culture. I saw the original Night of the Living Dead when I was about 9 one rainy Sunday and it freaked me out so bad I wouldn't really talk for the rest of the day. Christ, I still can't watch the Thriller video without getting freaked out. Yes, I'm a sissy.

So the dream was not really one that sits well. I was in a house with a few other people and it was under zombie attack. We knew this and we were busy preparing for the shuffling, groaning masses that were making their way toward the house.

After a few minutes of watching them scratch at the doors and windows, a knock came to the door. It wasn't frantic or anything. Nothing like another healthy person seeking refuge. I went to the door and saw a couple chubby kids. Probably early 20's. One boy, one girl.

The girl was in worse shape than the dude. She stared off into space and had the black circles and the whole zombie look going. He had some gore on him, but nothing outlandish.

"Mah sister is sick" he muttered.

I let them both in. He told me they need to be put out of their misery. It was clear that he was on his way to zombie land and his sisters was already too far gone.

I ran and grabbed an ax from a tool shed and they had already lied down on the floor.

With a swing I lopped at the kid's head. Missed a clean shot and made a Pez dispenser out of him. No struggle or carotid artery spray though. I finished the job with another whack.

His sister was a better shot and she was beheaded easily.

Then I woke up with the expression on my face that you're probably making.

Maybe it's because before bed I read some of "A Peoples History of the United States". Reading about Columbus, Cortez, Pizzaro, the English colonials in Massachusetts and Virginia slaughtering natives by the thousands.

Either way I need to get a good sword and a hatchet in case of zombie attack. Blades don't need to be reloaded.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Bike Club Pt II

So the other night I cruised around with Marc. I parked outside Bukowski's and waited for him. Odd thing was, I parked next to his bike and he hadn't even left the house yet. There was an identical Triumph T-100 Bonneville next to my bike. Later on after a burger and a couple rounds of water we met the owner of the doppleganger Bonnie.

While eating we figured it'd be best not to meet the dude who owned the other Bonnie. It'd be like Timecop or something. Something bad would happen to the universe.


But we met her. Cheryl, the owner of the bike, was a nice attractive woman, maybe in her early 40's-ish. We're going to go hang out with her and other Triumph and BMW riders tonight in Cambridge.

So last night on the way to pick up a six pack Marc and I were talking about more names for the bike club.

Tom, the Five Mile ______ thing has stuck with us, just to let you know. We may still use that in conjunction with some animal or something. Five Mile Condors?

One of us blurted "Flying Spiders?" and we both cracked up and pictured a kickass logo. Screaming Spiders?

A spider with it's eight legs spread out in mid-flight... two huge eagle wings spreading far and wide.

It's not final, but it sort of fits what we want. Campy, not really tough, cool logo opportunity, etc.

We also thought about "The Screaming Hand" because we're both big Jim Phillips fans.

If you get a chance, look up some Victorian slang websites. That's where I looked for possible names. There's some funny shit on there.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

"Would you eat lunch with a stranger?"

This was the question my friend Tony asked on his message board
earlier today.



Said he was at a Papa Ginos recently and some dude didn't know how the whole "we'll call your number when it's ready" thing worked.

So Tony, being the nice guy he is helped the dude out. "That's your food."

I guess the dude was from ... El Salvador? Something. Foreign. So he asked if Tony would mind eating lunch with him. Sitting across from him and eating and talking. Doesn't sound abnormal or anything. Sounds fine.

However, if I was in that situation, and he asked me that same question "Would you mind if I ate lunch with you?" I'm sure my head would immediately start burning and my tongue would morph into a second scrotum, rendering itself useless when it came time for me to answer.

It sounds terrible, and as some people on the board see it very "American" of me.

I dunno, man. I'm just really not good with small talk. It bothers me that shooting the shit with a perfectly nice stranger usually feels as Herculean a task as driving a nail with my forehead.

I've said it before, I'll say it again, I'm a social retard... and I'm not proud of it.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Bike gang

The first dirt bike I had was when I was in 8th grade. It was an MX80. An ancient, extinct little Yamaha that I drove into the ground as a kid in North Carolina (Literally and figuratively). After I was done doing my time in NC (from ages 9 to 15) I moved back up to Boston.

Bought a Suzuki Savage a couple years ago and drove that until some douche from NH veered across three lanes of traffic and I ended up pretty much sitting on his hood.

I still own the "Purple Dragon" and am trying to sell it's old ass.

I recently bought a VN800, dubbed "the Admiral" and now that is my pride and joy. I was excited as all hell when my roomate Marc up and bought a 2005 Triumph T-100 Bonneville.

We ride any weekdays we can since we have odd schedules and can get some nice riding in while the nine to fivers are at their desks.



Our initial thought of course is "dude we need a bike club" but 1. as of now there are only two of us, and 2. we have no idea what to call ourselves.

Something non-tough. We're not tough guys. Something that conjures up imagery from 60's B-movies. Something cryptic. Like the Amboy Dukes or the Green Emeralds.

Any ideas? Any recruits?

Monday, August 14, 2006

Photography + Painting =

I dig photography. It, like most things is 98% bad, 2% great. Some people I have acquainted myself with recently are pretty phenominal photographers. I dig their stuff so much that I decided to put one of their pieces through the ringer and paint them.

The first is Mark Keraly out in Southern California. His painting is not done yet, but of course it will be posted when it is.

The other is Rena Coen. She lives here in Boston.




I haven't painted with acrylics since highschool. I decided to give it another shot. So here is my interpretation of one of Rena's photos.

Here's the original photo.

Other photographers on my wish list are Jenny Frazier and Karl Harrison. Stay tuned.

Allergies?

I don't believe in allergies. I just can't get into the idea of tiny little invisible things taking me out of commission. It's a ridiculous bull-headed stance, but I feel that sometimes, being a psychosomatically... dickheaded (does that make sense?) to whatever may be ailing you can help. So I adamantly dismiss all allergic symptoms. Eye of the tiger. Fit as a fiddle. All that shit.

(Last time I jokingly said "fit as a fiddle" at a party I walked out with a gash on my arm that required nine stitches... and just now, after typing the word 'stitches' I ran to the kleenex box here at work and sneezed like an elephant)

Whatever the cause, I've been kind of shitty all weekend. Nose, throat, fever, nausea. But I still don't feel full on sick.

Regardless, I tried to get some things done this weekend, dammit.

Friday night I stayed up doing some work on a jingle we're recording at the house for Days Inn. It's a little 30 second spot for radio. We are hoping this will open the door for more jingle work. It's fun so far.

I also started work on an acrylic painting. I've been an oil paint man for close to ten years. Recently though I've become more curious about acrylics and bought a set. I decided to recreate a photo taken by the lovely Rena Coen. www.renacoen.com

I'll upload a picture when it's done.

Saturday was the Annual Kiley Mexican cookout. This year instead of pouring 14 assorted Mexican beers down my throat to douse the four pound pile of assorted Mexican cuisine, I stayed dry and gave motorcycle rides around Quincy. The ladies of the party were pleased to have a shuttle service.

Later on that night RAOV played down the street at Dee Dee's. My old man used to hang out there before he moved to Colorado. I never want to play that place again. The sound is terrible and there's a pole dead center of the "stage" area.

Sunday the house went out for family dinner night to celebrate Boston's Restaurant Week.

We chose Tangierino's in Charlestown. If you've never been to this little hidden gem, think the palace scene in "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom". Great food. Great beer.

So now it's Monday. It's beautiful out. Just gotta keep busy.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Admiral's visit to the doctor

So my motorcycle, the Admiral, has been giving me trouble lately. I figured it's because it sat for a good year with minimal riding since his previous owner upgraded to a soft tail.

So I took him off the road until I could figure something out as far as taking him in to the bike shop.

I had the pleasure of going to the insurance company in Braintree, then the DMV, then Braintree, then the DMV one final time in order to get the bike registered. Long, long story. You'd be reading all day if I went into it.

So yesterday I went to my tattoo class, which got out early, much to my delight. I walked home and my roomate was planning on going to the Egg and I for some late breakfast. I asked if he'd follow me to the bike shop where I planned on getting inspected and dropping the Admiral off.

We took the short trip and I got the sticker. Then I asked the mechanics about my concerns. They allayed my fears enough so that I rode the bike to and from breakfast, and later, to work.

Got all the way to Southie. Took back roads. Then finally went to take two exits-worth of I-93. Just at the source of one of Boston's infamous tunnels, he stalled. Luckily I had a place to pull over safely. So I waited. Started him up again. Got about twenty yards before stalling again. This time in the breakdown-lane-less tunnel.

I coasted to a small sliver where an onramp descends into the tunnel.

There I sat with cars, trucks and huge rigs whizzing past me and the Admiral at 65 or so. I felt like a five year old lost at the mall. Only I could have been killed.

Every story I tell is a long one. This goes on so much longer. Walking to find a gas station with a useable gas can, praying the whole way home, dressing up like super heroes... etc.

So I took the day off.

I took the day off and, after taking notes on drum specs, mic placement and tuning techniques, tried to capture the John Bonham drum sound in the studio.

Get well, Admiral.



*UPDATE*

Most bikes under 1100 cc's don't have gas gauges. It's a sad fact. So you have to keep mental notes of when you gas up, how much you've ridden on a tank, city vs. highway...etc. I wasn't paying attention to the tachometer. The Admiral is alive and well. He's currently setting off car alarms in the greater Boston area.

Look for the chick with the sideburns on a blood-red VN800 with white walls on a side street near you.