Friday, June 13, 2008
backhanded conundrums
If Rafael Nadal is right-handed, but plays tennis left-handed does he get the left-handed slightly shorter life expectancy? Or does he just get the good batting average? Does right-handed baller, but left-handed eater/writer LeBron James shop at the leftorium for everything but his sneakers? Do you even need to shop for sneakers when you have an eight-figure (or is it nine?) endorsement with Nike? I think not.
Why Lakers, Why?!
I've been attempting to come to grips with the colossal failure of my beloved Los Angeles Lakers last night, and more specifically why I care like I do when they lose, and why the hell I bother to follow sports to begin with. I came up with this, which was written in a message to someone who was pondering related issues:
Following sports is great because it's roller coaster ride on invisible tracks. You watch a movie, and you more or less know what's going to happen and that the good guys are going to win. In sports all that stuff is off. Even if you believe that the refs are betting on games, you don't know which side they've bet on beforehand. It's such a great ride when you've got your Rain Man-style statistics at the ready, you read every column and scouting report, and your team wins. You feel like you had some cosmic part in willing your team to victory, especially since you wore your lucky Magic Johnson '87 MVP t-shirt.
On the other hand, I'm simply pissed the Lakers "wet the bed" after having a 24 point lead. The fan, especially when watching the game on TV and not at the arena, has exactly zero percent input on the outcome of the game. The fan thinks, "I would've known to at least foul Ray Allen, or punch him in the kidney or something." When they lose it really makes me think, couldn't I have been learning origami, or trying to end world hunger instead of screaming at a television?
It's very anti-Zen following a team, all highs and lows, no creamy middle. Those stakes only get raised as the playoffs stretch onward towards infinity. At the beginning of the season, with Kobe demanding a trade to Chicago (so he could lose to the Celtics more often, no doubt) I thought there was no way we were going to be in the Finals, but here we are (and by "we" I mean a team that I don't play on) and now I'm mad we're losing!
Even though a team has never come back from a deficit of this margin in the Finals, I still have a sliver of a glimpse of hope. That doesn't really make any sense to me, but I guess in the end that's why I love sports. Nobody knows for sure that the good guys will win.
Following sports is great because it's roller coaster ride on invisible tracks. You watch a movie, and you more or less know what's going to happen and that the good guys are going to win. In sports all that stuff is off. Even if you believe that the refs are betting on games, you don't know which side they've bet on beforehand. It's such a great ride when you've got your Rain Man-style statistics at the ready, you read every column and scouting report, and your team wins. You feel like you had some cosmic part in willing your team to victory, especially since you wore your lucky Magic Johnson '87 MVP t-shirt.
On the other hand, I'm simply pissed the Lakers "wet the bed" after having a 24 point lead. The fan, especially when watching the game on TV and not at the arena, has exactly zero percent input on the outcome of the game. The fan thinks, "I would've known to at least foul Ray Allen, or punch him in the kidney or something." When they lose it really makes me think, couldn't I have been learning origami, or trying to end world hunger instead of screaming at a television?
It's very anti-Zen following a team, all highs and lows, no creamy middle. Those stakes only get raised as the playoffs stretch onward towards infinity. At the beginning of the season, with Kobe demanding a trade to Chicago (so he could lose to the Celtics more often, no doubt) I thought there was no way we were going to be in the Finals, but here we are (and by "we" I mean a team that I don't play on) and now I'm mad we're losing!
Even though a team has never come back from a deficit of this margin in the Finals, I still have a sliver of a glimpse of hope. That doesn't really make any sense to me, but I guess in the end that's why I love sports. Nobody knows for sure that the good guys will win.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A Ditty (no relation to P Diddy)
Ladies and Gentledudes! Boys and girls! Feast your eyes on the first-ever-in-the-history-of-the-world (as far as I know) video flyer!
I wrote myself a little jingle for the upcoming show at the Hotel Cafe on the 24th. I hope you like it.
I wrote myself a little jingle for the upcoming show at the Hotel Cafe on the 24th. I hope you like it.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Marylandfarmer!
I feel like the NBA playoffs are at least as long as the Democratic Primary process. Unfortunately the Lakers are looking at a Hillary-style deficit if they don't pull out some serious mojo in game three. If you only count LA county, I think the Lakers will win the popular vote either way, so we'll always have that. I smell a return to the not so pleasant, 60's style feeling of losing to the Celts in the Finals if the Lake Show doesn't annihilate Boston tonight.
One bright spot of the seemingly endless playoff season has been the constant barrage of the Docker's commercial that features Marlena Shaw's California Soul. A rare benefit of the modern cross-marketing-assault of everything under the sun is the chance to discover some little-known brilliance that has fallen by the wayside.
As a result, an ad for middle-aged-man-pants got me into a little googling, and it makes me wonder if I should start with Miss Shaw's hit-the-nail-on-the-head-titled album "Who is This *bleep*, Anyway?" (And no, I'm not comfortable typing the "b" word. And yes, that's the actual title. Let's just move on.)
Perhaps my first record would've landed me a commercial for car insurance long after it's original release had it been called "Zack Hexum: Whoever, That Motherfather Is" instead of "Introducing Zack Hexum".
Sidenote: a year or two ago I watched Tarrantino's "Jackie Brown" on a network that was not allowed to say naughty words. Motherfather was one of the somehow more colorful substitutes for dropping the MF bomb. Another that I keep planning on adding to my lexicon is "Maryland Farmer", a little bulkier than the original, but what it lacks in poetic grace it makes up for in goofiness. Substituting the so-called bad words in a Tarrantino movie is a mammoth undertaking, somewhat akin to counting the number of choruses of blues B.B. King has played, or the number of Milwaukee's Beasts consumed at UNT drumline parties.
Speaking of ale and the like, here's John McCain's new strategy for tapping into the teetotaller demographic.
If I could veto one thing out of existence it would have to be C.G.I. animals acting cute in mostly live action movies. I see you George Lucas! Not to beat a previously whipped groundhog, but this was the first thing to come to mind. Stick with what you know.
Finally, pack your bags folks, because we're going to the Hotel Cafe on June 24th at 10 PM. Be there... or... I guess... don't.
One bright spot of the seemingly endless playoff season has been the constant barrage of the Docker's commercial that features Marlena Shaw's California Soul. A rare benefit of the modern cross-marketing-assault of everything under the sun is the chance to discover some little-known brilliance that has fallen by the wayside.
As a result, an ad for middle-aged-man-pants got me into a little googling, and it makes me wonder if I should start with Miss Shaw's hit-the-nail-on-the-head-titled album "Who is This *bleep*, Anyway?" (And no, I'm not comfortable typing the "b" word. And yes, that's the actual title. Let's just move on.)
Perhaps my first record would've landed me a commercial for car insurance long after it's original release had it been called "Zack Hexum: Whoever, That Motherfather Is" instead of "Introducing Zack Hexum".
Sidenote: a year or two ago I watched Tarrantino's "Jackie Brown" on a network that was not allowed to say naughty words. Motherfather was one of the somehow more colorful substitutes for dropping the MF bomb. Another that I keep planning on adding to my lexicon is "Maryland Farmer", a little bulkier than the original, but what it lacks in poetic grace it makes up for in goofiness. Substituting the so-called bad words in a Tarrantino movie is a mammoth undertaking, somewhat akin to counting the number of choruses of blues B.B. King has played, or the number of Milwaukee's Beasts consumed at UNT drumline parties.
Speaking of ale and the like, here's John McCain's new strategy for tapping into the teetotaller demographic.
If I could veto one thing out of existence it would have to be C.G.I. animals acting cute in mostly live action movies. I see you George Lucas! Not to beat a previously whipped groundhog, but this was the first thing to come to mind. Stick with what you know.
Finally, pack your bags folks, because we're going to the Hotel Cafe on June 24th at 10 PM. Be there... or... I guess... don't.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Mozart's Punch-Out
The day that began with seeing Craig Kilborn on the tennis courts carried on with a phone call from my friend asking me to haul it over to the studio to lay down some baritone saxophone on Beach Boys legend, Brian Wilson's, new record. If you don't think I'm introducing myself as "hello, I'm Zack Hexum and I played on Brian Wilson new record" for the next couple years, you're crazy.
I didn't get to meet Brian, but rumor has it he drank one of the bottles of water I bought and left at the studio. This makes me feel like one of the *ahem* "enthusiastic" Drake Bell fans who hangs out after the gig and screams like they're on fire when I throw them one of Drake's guitar picks after the show. I suppose that ecstatic joy is the common thread of all music fans, it's just degrees and fear of large men with needles that keeps me from getting the artist's face tattooed on my kneecap.
That momentous day concluded with a friend getting me a ticket to a semi-secret Elvis Costello show at The El Rey Theater (I still hate saying "the el", but I'll move on with a twinge of cognitive dissonance). Twas my first time seeing Elvis. On recent records his vibrato is a bit much for me. Live he blew my socks off. Fortunately I was wearing comfortable shoes, so it worked out well.
After last Wednesday's series of unbelievable events, I had a quick jaunt to Iowa for a gig with Drake the Bell. We played Waterloo. Alas, I was unable to find the time to hit up a pawn shop and have another Little City Driver-style Dobro experience. We did, however enjoy rocking out. We're going to add Jellyfish's "Joining a Fanclub" to our repertoire before our next batch o' shows. Best be warned.
Sunday, SUNDAY, ¡SUNDAY! was the recording session for Brandon Rogers' single "Broken". I was there in my capacity as string quartet arranger, and let me tell ya, folks: there ain't nothin' like the real thing. When I was doing ghost-writing for TV over the last few months I used sampled strings, because I didn't have the budget or the time to employ an orchestra, or more specifically use anyone who's name wasn't Zack Hexum, or at least someone who was wearing his underwear. Yesterday, however Brandon hired the über string quartet "The Section". I felt like Thomas Edison, listening to parts I invented being played by flesh, blood, and wood musicians and their instruments. I'm already scheming for my next opportunity in that department.
Mozart wrote his first symphony at age eight (I knew how to get thirty lives on Contra for Nintendo when I was 8 years-old, and I may have learned how to ride a bike by then, too). I'm writing my first piece for string quartet at an age when I'm old enough to have fathered an eight-year old, but that's ok. I'm on my own pace here, folks. I could totally take Mozart in Mike Tyson's Punch-Out (if it were a two-player game).
Sunday's string-stravaganza ended with a quiet and 99% pleasant evening at Libertine. The artist who was on after me had what I assume to be either a mom or manager (or a momager, as I have dubbed this archetypal character) patrolling the crowd who shushed me and a group of friends for talking during the line check (this means the artist hadn't started performing yet). She asked us to kindly move to the other end of the bar and topped it off with a "you understand". Yes, I understand. You're asking a portion of the audience to move away from the artist during the performance, thus erasing the likelihood of creating new fans who aren't specifically there to see them, and annoying/alienating (annoylienating?) complaining blogging musicians, such as myself.
I've played a decent amount of solo shows where I've battled talkers, drunk talkers, drunk-dancing talkers, drunk-dialing talkers, Weird Al, talking heads, headless talkers, and most of the in between. A silent audience may be golden, but the artist has to earn it.
Anywah, it's been a busy and unbelievably lucky couple of days. Time to get back to it, and manufacture more of those.
I didn't get to meet Brian, but rumor has it he drank one of the bottles of water I bought and left at the studio. This makes me feel like one of the *ahem* "enthusiastic" Drake Bell fans who hangs out after the gig and screams like they're on fire when I throw them one of Drake's guitar picks after the show. I suppose that ecstatic joy is the common thread of all music fans, it's just degrees and fear of large men with needles that keeps me from getting the artist's face tattooed on my kneecap.
That momentous day concluded with a friend getting me a ticket to a semi-secret Elvis Costello show at The El Rey Theater (I still hate saying "the el", but I'll move on with a twinge of cognitive dissonance). Twas my first time seeing Elvis. On recent records his vibrato is a bit much for me. Live he blew my socks off. Fortunately I was wearing comfortable shoes, so it worked out well.
After last Wednesday's series of unbelievable events, I had a quick jaunt to Iowa for a gig with Drake the Bell. We played Waterloo. Alas, I was unable to find the time to hit up a pawn shop and have another Little City Driver-style Dobro experience. We did, however enjoy rocking out. We're going to add Jellyfish's "Joining a Fanclub" to our repertoire before our next batch o' shows. Best be warned.
Sunday, SUNDAY, ¡SUNDAY! was the recording session for Brandon Rogers' single "Broken". I was there in my capacity as string quartet arranger, and let me tell ya, folks: there ain't nothin' like the real thing. When I was doing ghost-writing for TV over the last few months I used sampled strings, because I didn't have the budget or the time to employ an orchestra, or more specifically use anyone who's name wasn't Zack Hexum, or at least someone who was wearing his underwear. Yesterday, however Brandon hired the über string quartet "The Section". I felt like Thomas Edison, listening to parts I invented being played by flesh, blood, and wood musicians and their instruments. I'm already scheming for my next opportunity in that department.
Mozart wrote his first symphony at age eight (I knew how to get thirty lives on Contra for Nintendo when I was 8 years-old, and I may have learned how to ride a bike by then, too). I'm writing my first piece for string quartet at an age when I'm old enough to have fathered an eight-year old, but that's ok. I'm on my own pace here, folks. I could totally take Mozart in Mike Tyson's Punch-Out (if it were a two-player game).
Sunday's string-stravaganza ended with a quiet and 99% pleasant evening at Libertine. The artist who was on after me had what I assume to be either a mom or manager (or a momager, as I have dubbed this archetypal character) patrolling the crowd who shushed me and a group of friends for talking during the line check (this means the artist hadn't started performing yet). She asked us to kindly move to the other end of the bar and topped it off with a "you understand". Yes, I understand. You're asking a portion of the audience to move away from the artist during the performance, thus erasing the likelihood of creating new fans who aren't specifically there to see them, and annoying/alienating (annoylienating?) complaining blogging musicians, such as myself.
I've played a decent amount of solo shows where I've battled talkers, drunk talkers, drunk-dancing talkers, drunk-dialing talkers, Weird Al, talking heads, headless talkers, and most of the in between. A silent audience may be golden, but the artist has to earn it.
Anywah, it's been a busy and unbelievably lucky couple of days. Time to get back to it, and manufacture more of those.
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