Someone has apparently raided a database of Jewish surnames for spamming purposes...my inbox today has been hit by emails hawking sex pills, pirated software, and other enhancements from Finkelstein, Gunzberg, Finkbein, Fishbein, Feidelberg, Feldman, Halperin and Heller. I feel like I'm back in my old neighborhood in Needham, with the Waldmans, Goldbergs, Mursteins and Shapiros...
July 2005 Archives
Just something to write about before we take off for the weekend...
Have you ever gotten a computer virus?
Nope.
We've always been an Apple family, from the very first //e my parents bought in '85 or '86. It's weird to think that back then, Apple dominated the personal computer market and they were doing the equivalent of people who buy a Dell today. But thanks to that - and the fact that Middlebury was a mostly-Mac school and offered discounts to incoming students on new Mac purchases - I've continued along the line to this day. After the //e, my next purchase was the Macintosh Color Classic, sort of a precursor to today's iMacs in that it was an all-in-one computer, with the monitor attached to the CPU and a handle in the top to carry it handily. That lasted me through my college days, though toward the end I had to be careful what I downloaded onto my 40MB (that's forty MEGABYTE) hard drive.
After that, I ended up buying a Centris 650 from a friend who was getting out of the Mac-owning thing and getting a screamingly fast PC. The Centris was the high-end of what we could buy going into Middlebury, so four years later it was well into the obsolescence cycle. But it had a whopping 230MB of hard drive space - more games! More documents! More downloaded pictures of Claudia Schiffer! (Yeah, things were a little lonely in the back woods of Maine.)
The Centris stayed with me for the move to Massachusetts and the subsequent move up to Weird Husband World Headquarters, where we live now. I managed to use my persuasive skills to get Mrs. Dave to use HER interest-free loan to purchase a "wicked fast" Power Mac G4, aka Sawtooth. This thing was a MACHINE. According to the US government, this thing qualified as a supercomputer when it was released in 1999. It's still the machine I use today, though now it probably qualifies more as a reasonablydecentcomputer. It now has a younger sister, the iBook that Mrs. Dave uses.
All of which means, no viruses.
Of course, that doesn't mean that we Mac users didn't cause our share of mischief. Though it wasn't strictly a virus, a friend and I did have a bit of fun with a guy across the hall our freshman year of college. To protect the innocent, let's call him Jon Larson II (Yes, the second. Not Jon Larson Jr., Jon Larson II. You figure it out.) Anyway, Jon was incredibly dense and prone to windbaggery where he'd just corner you and hold forth on any number of topics. He also ALWAYS had his computer on, so unless it crashed, he would never restart it. And he NEVER turned the volume off, so we'd always hear his music or the sound effects from his games. Not to mention that he'd get in the mood to listen to one particular song over and over and over - one day he put Led Zeppelin's "The Battle of Evermore" on infinite repeat...and then left for class, forgetting to turn it off. After that, a friend and I decided we'd get our revenge on Jon. Enter Belch.
Belch was a system extension for Macintosh System 7. It did one thing, and one thing only - make your computer come down with a severe case of indigestion. Basically, it would let out a tremendous belching sound every few minutes, and do so anywhere from one to ten times in a row. It would also paralyze the computer while doing so (a lovely feature of the old system software - when one program was doing its thing, you couldn't do anything in other programs). Now, if Belch had been a regular program, it would have shown up in the program menu and been detected immediately by the user. Not much fun. But Belch was a system extension, which meant that it was not only buried deep within the System folder, but that it wouldn't load on the computer until the next time it was restarted. And remember, Jon never shut his computer down. We took things even one step further - we changed the icon on Belch to an innocuous printer icon, and named it "ImageWriter III" (The ImageWriter II was a popular printer of the time, and you needed to have a printer's extension in your system folder in order to use it). A few days went by, Jon's computer finally crashed, he restarted it...and the burping began. It was all we could do not to piss ourselves laughing. He'd restart the computer, leave it off for a while, but then as soon as he turned it back on, back came the URRRRRRRP URRRRRRRRP URRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP from his room.
Jon and his computer are long gone by now, but a trip down memory lane reveals that Belch is still around. I guess the classics never die...
Literally, folks.
The fellow on the right in this picture is Chris M, who was Josh's best man and the resident expert in our trip to Vegas last August. Chris' brother won the Red Sox ticket lottery back in January that allowed him the chance to buy Monster seats for a game this season. He picked Saturday, July 16th - Red Sox-Yankees. You'll notice that in this picture, the part of Chris' brother is being played by yours truly. Chris' brother is nowhere in the vicinity of the ballpark...in fact, he's in Qatar. Yes, the tiny little country halfway around the world, on the the Arabian peninsula, across the Persian Gulf from Iran. Apparently, he was offered a huge raise and all sorts of living expenses, and was forced to give up his Monster seats to do so (well, that wasn't a condition of his move, but instead a result of his moving schedule. Still, kind of an amateur move.). And so it was six of us we met up at the Cask & Flagon for a trip 37 feet into the air...atop the Monster.
Tickets for the game up there were a cool $100. Most of the time, they're $80 for second and third row (where we were; it's $100/$120 for front row), but for special games like this, they hike up the price. Still, it's well worth it. The view from up there is something else - a clear view of the whole park, unobstructed by poles, vendors, or even the people in front of you. There are three rows of seats - which hold 312 people - and another 100 standing-room spots. We were in section 6, right above the Jimmy Fund sign and between the Sports Authority and Volvo signs. Basically, dead center on the wall. The seats themselves are swivel stools with a back, a bit of leg room (!), and a counter to lean on/put your drinks on. Combine that with the view and the high probability of catching a homer, and the expenditure is quickly justified.
Originally, the plan was for our group to pair off and get the Monster seats for three innings each. Dan and Steve immediately claimed the 7th, 8th and 9th, while Josh and Kimberly took the 4th, 5th and 6th, leaving the first three to us. They punched our tickets, stamped our hands, and up we went. Fortunately, the first three innings probably took longer than either of the other two stints. Unfortunately, it was because Matt Clement couldn't find the plate with a map, and was gone after 2 2/3 innings. Alex Rodriguez hit a frozen rope that hit a guy in the gut in the row behind us and then dropped amid a family of four to our right. The husband came up with it, handed it to his wife, and it didn't take much convincing for her to lob it back onto the field. The crowd was angry that day, my friends...like an old man sending back soup in a deli. Ok, so I just wanted a Seinfeld reference in there. Security came by and chided the woman for throwing the ball back, saying it was "only a tradition in Chicago"...bah. But she didn't get tossed out.
Come the end of the third, we trudged down to our common-folk seats - mere $45 butt-achers in section 27 - and Josh and Kimberly headed up to the Monster. They got to see all of the Sox action (minus the Mark Bellhorn pop-fly homer we saw in the bottom of the 3rd) and then came down after the 6th to pass the tickets along to Dan & Steve. And then, things began to spiral out of control...
Apparently, Friendly Fenway is only Friendly to a point. They will not allow you to switch seats with anyone, and claimed to have made a mistake in letting Josh & Kimberly up there without checking their hands for the stamp (which we thought was for alcohol sales rather than re-entry). So when Dan & Steve came back empty-handed (or, rather, just came back), we knew something was amiss. I believe Chris is in the middle of writing his protest letter right now to Messrs. Henry, Lucchino and Werner. But the upshot was that we got to go BACK atop the Monster for the 7th, 8th and 9th. Good times, except for that whole pesky losing thing. Final score, 7-4, but a view I'll never forget.
Mrs. Dave and I got a tour of what will eventually be our new digs next year. Our apartment-to-be is starting to take shape, with the old kitchen turning into a shared office for both of us, the beginnings of a bar/counter in our kitchen, and the bedroom/closets completely walled off. Basically, all of the new walls are up, the old walls are down, and it's almost ghastly to think of them cutting through those beautiful floors in the back corner to put in the new egress. The drop ceilings are gone, there's new sprinkler tubing running through the rafters, and you can even see the remnants of the old knob-and-tube wiring in the old wall boards. And where they've pulled some temporary walls away from the original walls, the original dark-stained woodwork shows through. It's gorgeous...but we'll probably never see it.
Upstairs, on the second floor, it's really a shame that they went to the trouble of redoing our apartment a couple of years ago, because all the new shiny hardwood floors and the repainted walls are going to be covered up, with carpeting and boring white paint, respectively. Our old living room is two bedrooms and a common room, our old bedroom is a double, and the back office is now a stair well.
On the top floor, they knocked out the wall right inside the door, and it's now a hallway in front - SO much more open and inviting! Six rooms, including one double, on that floor, a double bathroom...a completely new layout.
The best news of all was to hear from the project manager that everything is still on schedule. Well, except for the fact that they don't really *have* a schedule, just a projected duration without a firm end date. And oh yeah, they might eventually be expanding the building AGAIN. Dibs on the new wing...
From an e-mail exchange with a friend tonight, in which we were discussing the latest idiotic Joe Morganisms (but, I repeat myself) present on tonight's Sox-Yankees game.
Chris:
> Which of course, drives me just about as nuts as the new taco bell
> commercial "It's wrapped in a tortilla and grilled for maximum
> portability." No, grilling does not increase a food item's portability.
Me:
In fact, I would argue that it decreases it, rendering it uncomfortably hot, and furthermore, full of disfiguringly hot cheese goo.
Believe it or not, I had managed to avoid Taco Bell my ENTIRE LIFE until a month ago. What great occasion, you ask, led to me breaking the fast food culture barrier and eating """""Mexican food""""" (yes, it requires that many "finger quotations")? My 30th birthday celebration at work. AT WORK.
Now, let us forget for the moment that it was a birthday celebration, and that a lesser man would have taken the stapler to the forehead of the people responsible for buying him craptacular, runs-inducing, lukewarm, flattened and slightly mushy fast food for his birthday celebration. Let us instead focus on the fact that among the six people in my office at the time, we had three (3) Cubans, one (1) Puerto Rican, one (1) Ecuadorian, and me. That is to say, the Hispanic:Nonhispanic ratio of my office is 5:1. And yet they get TACO F*&^ING BELL for me. Have they no Hispanic pride? No confidence in the food of their own people, that forces them to purchase inferior imitation Hispanic food that will induce explosive intestinal reactions among all present, regardless of their particular intestines' fortitude in dealing with the food of their own people?
Let's just say that I left silent but deadly offerings all around the office as thanks for my savory luncheon.
One of the tires on my car was low today so we took it to the local gas station for a little air fill-up. I'm used to the little air pumps that ding when your pressure is too high, so Mrs. Dave and I were understandably surprised when the thing went >>POW<< right in front of me. There's really little more embarrassing than having to change a tire at a gas station when you've originally pulled in to FILL said tire.
Taping started off as a means to relive the shows I had gone to (by artists kind enough to allow it) but over the years it's turned into a great way to *discover* bands as well - many through recommendations from friends and fellow tapers. But due to the nature of taping - having to set up early, deal with security, beat the crowds to the sweet spot in the venue - I'm often among the earliest to arrive at a venue, and as a result, sit through the opener or openers. Some, like Cyclone Fence, are only memorable for their all-out awfulness, their combination of rusty-nail-to-the-eardrum caterwauling and jarring guitar crunch. Others are passable but nobody I'd pay money to see again if they came through on their own. Then there's the rare artist that comes along that makes me decide I need to get out even more and see them on their own.
I first saw Erin McKeown opening for Matt Nathanson at the Paradise in February of '04. She walked out on stage, all five-feet-nothing of her, with her Gretsch guitar and nothing else. Not everyone in the crowd may have been there to see her, but she started singing and strumming and my toe started tapping immediately. A little folk, a little pop, a little rockabilly, and a whole lot of engaging music. By the time her set was over around a half-hour later, I was hooked. Bought her album (Grand) and listened to it a good deal right away, but was a bit thrown by the fact that she played with a whole band on her album. I saw her two months later in Somerville, also an opening gig, but this time she had a drummer and keyboard player with her, and everything sounded much like it did on the album. I'd still love to see another show - full-length - with just her and her guitar, but in the absence of that, I was happy to see that not only would she be playing a full-length show, but that she would be playing the record release party for her new album at the Paradise, followed by a show up in Portland the night following.
A minor digression - Erin not only allows her shows to be recorded, but also posts a list of recorded shows on her web site, so that people can get in touch with the tapers and get copies of the shows. When I submitted the February 2004 show, I sent along a track listing, but one track's name escaped me because I couldn't find lyrics for it anywhere. For lack of a better title, I tentatively gave it the name "We Will Become Like Birds", after the last line of the chorus. Her response: "track 7 is untitled... we'll leave it with your title. congratulations. best to you, erin mckeown."
The new album comes out, and the track name has been changed to "Air" (the first word in the song). The album itself? We Will Become Like Birds.
Mrs. Dave decided to opt out of the Boston show last-minute, so I trekked to the Paradise by myself. Usually I tape from the balcony, for a few reasons: first, there are really only two good places to tape at the Paradise, the balcony and the center column on the floor. The center column is, at most, six feet from the stage, and is a high-traffic, high-chatter area where you basically need to block your gear all night long, whereas the balcony enables you to stick your mics out over the crowd, far away from the gabfest that inevitably ensues where music and alcohol mix. Second, the center column is right in front of the artist's face, and although I wouldn't use the mic stand for a non-taper-friendly artist, there's a difference between having mics at the back of a venue and having a constant reminder right in their face that they're being recorded. I also wasn't sure if the opener (Hem) was taper-friendly, so that was another consideration. As such, I didn't even carry my mic stand into the Paradise, figuring I could run from the balcony...except the balcony was closed. Back to the car, gear in tow, pick up the stand, set up front and center, hope for the best.
Just as I get my rig set up, I catch someone out of the corner of my eye, making a beeline for me from the merch table set up in the corner. Uh oh, someone with the band is coming to read me the riot act. But wait...I know this someone with the band, because he's someone with another band - it was good old Dalton, Guster's manager. Apparently he'd just hooked up with Hem recently as their manager, and after exchanging pleasantries, he went off in search of permission for me to tape. Unbeknownst to me, the band had already given blanket permission, and my stand wasn't distracting to them in the least as they wound their way through 45 minutes of countrypolitan harmonizing, a very lush, laid-back sound with guitars, keys, mandolins and vocals.
And then it was time for Erin. Her drummer and keyboard player started a snappy beat, she bounded up on stage, and they cut out their intro just long enough for Erin to extend a high-energy greeting to her hometown crowd (she grew up in Virginia but was born in Boston - "My mother went into labor at the Union Oyster House," she said. "True story.") and launch into "Cinematic". Most of the set that followed was a romp through the new album, with a few older chestnuts like James!, Slung-Lo and Le Petite Mort thrown in for good measure. A double encore, topped off with a lengthy rendition of "Blackbirds" that ended with a disco breakdown, was the finale to the night, and 79 minutes later she was gone.
She did come out to sign copies of the disc after the show, and since I was packing up my gear, I was pretty much at the end of the line. I got her to sign a copy for Mrs. Dave (or "Yo, Viv babe! We missed you tonight!" as she signed it) and I got to thank her for allowing me to tape and distribute. She was very gracious, and even remembered that I'd taped two of her shows before and offered them up through her site (which reminds me, I need to submit these...) - great that she would take the time, and even better than she remembered me!
I presented Mrs. Dave with her signed CD, which she listened to all the next day at work...and promptly asked if I'd be interested in going up to the Portland show the next night. The original intent had been for it to be date night, but she was offering and I wasn't saying no. So we made the trip up to Portland - driving a bit faster than we normally would for fear of missing the set - but it turns out the time quoted on the web site was the door time, not the set time, so we were there plenty early. The venue itself is called the SPACE Gallery, and is an actual art gallery space - a small stage is set up at the back, the ceiling is exposed wood and concrete, pipes and wiring, and there's a great big I-beam, dead center, 20 feet back from the stage. A perfect spot to tape and clamp. I love it when a plan comes together.
The show was much the same as the night before, although Hem played a song that they had apparently only played live a handful of times before, much to the chagrin of the fan I had met in Boston who was debating whether to go to Portland or not (sans car). As always...not going is a regrettable option! Erin's set was equally lively and talkative - each night she explained the background of several different songs - and Mrs. Dave finally got to enjoy a full-band, full-length Erin show. As we drove home after the show, the clock ticked past 12 midnight, and my musical June week was over.
