The Blizzard of '05 Chapter One: IDITAROD!
I swear to shit my inevitable downfall will be linked in some capacity to my false sense of entitlement. A glance at the monthly corporate Amex statement could state as much in a more orderly, efficient, and eerily prosecutable manner I suppose. So, when the past weekend required an inordinate amount of activity on my behalf, I felt like I was owed something from some unidentifiable source.
Was it Mancino? Did they “owe” me because I spent valuable pregaming hours Friday night at Nadim’s place recording background noise for our EP? It was a grueling task after all, first requiring a dalliance with Nadim’s mystery bong before studiously roaming his apartment recording every sound from the flush of a toilet to the crackling of a lit cigarette. So grueling that by the time we got to 3B, it was with a heavy heart that I accepted several shots from peripheral Brown characters knowing that my current state would prevent me from staying there long enough to witness Sam get a handjob behind the DJ booth.
My hardships persisted into the following day. I had to lug my gear to Park Slope for a mixing session at 11 am that was intended to go into the early evening, leaving us enough time to hoof it back into Manhattan for a 9 pm practice session at Full Moon. God had other plans. A blizzard. Big one. We should have seen the signs, present in subtle forms like the look of absolute horror on the delivery manboy’s toothless face as our lamb vindaloo arrived.
“Wow its really coming down out there,” I said as I fumbled for my wallet.
“Fuck you,” his face suggested.
“Hey can you give me ten back?” I countered.
“All I have is eight,” he responded blankly in broken English, an answer that could also be interpreted as, “There’s a blizzard outside, I’m taking two more of your dollars…..now go fuck your face piglet.”
Fair enough. We continued mixing and ran a bit later than intended, emerging from Seaside’s subterranean studio shortly before 9 and in a bit of a bind to get to Full Moon as quickly as possible. Complicating matters was the fact that about 12 inches of snow had fallen since our initial immersion into the studio. Turns out cabbies don’t like snow. There were none to be found and so the subway became our best option for getting back into the city.
It was presented as a palatable alternative because it was something like 4 blocks away from the studio. Right. However, 4 blocks when properly adjusted to reflect the competing factors the situation presented (4 blocks + tons of shit to carry amongst 3 people + a foot of snow on the ground + blinding winds) turned out to be roughly 40 blocks. Trust me on this, I did after all score in the 27th percentile on the quantitative portion of the GRE’s.
Equations aside, we persevered and made it to the subway station. It was warm in there. Our luck appeared to be changing. At one point while on the R train a very nice Mexican man who reeked of gin even offered to help carry our equipment. After translating his adorable slurred speech shat out from a pidgin of unknown origin and aided by his wild gesticulations, we politely declined though, thinking the worst as misanthropes tend to do and believing he wanted money for his services. Instead, he followed us off the train and tried to give us gum. Jonathan and Nadim countered by talking shit about him in French, leaving myself and my new friend to marinate in a shared moment of intense dislike for frogs. He soon waddled away and we marched onwards, finally reaching Full Moon around 9:45 pm.
Practice was fun. We ate pizza and smoked a choad-shaped joint and wrote a song whose sound most closely appropriates the Kinks getting a blowjob from Mike Love. At least Kevin will understand. Before we knew it, the majestic hour of midnight was upon us and we knew it was time to face the unforgiving tundra once again. Jonathan went uptown to prepare for a film he was shooting the next day and Nadim and I naively thought we’d finally catch a cab to bring our equipment back to my apartment for our show on Sunday.
Of course, you know where this is going…no cabs found, subway again, new adversity manifested in a head full of dope and one less person to help carry gear, a true nightmare (2 subway transfers + 6 blocks + tons of shit to carry amongst TWO people + 2 heads full of dope + a foot of snow on the ground + blinding winds = Iditarod) . By the time we made it back to my place it must have been 2:00 am. I don’t remember for sure because I immediately took a consolation bong rip and a warm, warm shower before ending the journey properlike, hauling my ass to the West Village to get drunk with my ladyfriend at Barrow Street Ale House.
And so Saturday concluded and Sunday was ushered in as gently as a fire hydrant hydro-colonic, another day filled with postblizzard dreams of fireplaces and wine (or bloody maries at B3 a la Jester and Sam) brought toppling down with to do lists and obligations. I forced myself out of bed and away from warm company and immediately headed uptown, where I was to help Jonathan out with his film shoot. And help I did, eating Krispy Kremes and fake-laughing on command for many hours, hustling back downtown with just enough time to lug all of our equipment through snow, slush, and shit yet again for our gig at Luna Lounge.
The show went well. Thanks to those who came. I overcame a moral dilemma in the process via technology’s aid and careful bloody mary-fueled scheming by Sam and Jesse, Our gig began at 8, the Patriots game started at 6:30….all appeared lost. What to do? Alas, the 46 Ave B contingent had taken proper precautions, TiVo’ing every snap of Patriots dominance for me to savor over Labatt’s and Milwaukee’s Best after the show. I felt like I had won in life, enough so to justify Saturday’s travails. Almost enough.
The answer to my initial query of whether Mancino “owed” me for all my work this past weekend? Of course not. Mancino and everything associated with the dago-based appellation are a soothing sea of goodness in my Kaleidoscope-polluted life. I carry half ton keyboards through several feet of snow with a sense of purpose because of it. It doesn’t owe me shit.
Fact was, though euphoric over another Patriots Super Bowl appearance and a successful gig and pretty happily hammered at that, I was exhausted, and the impending day of work at my least favorite place on earth (that was to commence in roughly seven hours) just did not seem like a viable option. I do as we discussed have a false sense of self-entitlement after all. Who owed me then?
The answer was obvious. Kaleidoscope must pay. There would be no work for Mike G. come Monday.
NEXT: THE BLIZZARD OF ’05 CHAPTER 2: FERRIS BUELLER AIN’T GOT SHIT ON ME
Was it Mancino? Did they “owe” me because I spent valuable pregaming hours Friday night at Nadim’s place recording background noise for our EP? It was a grueling task after all, first requiring a dalliance with Nadim’s mystery bong before studiously roaming his apartment recording every sound from the flush of a toilet to the crackling of a lit cigarette. So grueling that by the time we got to 3B, it was with a heavy heart that I accepted several shots from peripheral Brown characters knowing that my current state would prevent me from staying there long enough to witness Sam get a handjob behind the DJ booth.
My hardships persisted into the following day. I had to lug my gear to Park Slope for a mixing session at 11 am that was intended to go into the early evening, leaving us enough time to hoof it back into Manhattan for a 9 pm practice session at Full Moon. God had other plans. A blizzard. Big one. We should have seen the signs, present in subtle forms like the look of absolute horror on the delivery manboy’s toothless face as our lamb vindaloo arrived.
“Wow its really coming down out there,” I said as I fumbled for my wallet.
“Fuck you,” his face suggested.
“Hey can you give me ten back?” I countered.
“All I have is eight,” he responded blankly in broken English, an answer that could also be interpreted as, “There’s a blizzard outside, I’m taking two more of your dollars…..now go fuck your face piglet.”
Fair enough. We continued mixing and ran a bit later than intended, emerging from Seaside’s subterranean studio shortly before 9 and in a bit of a bind to get to Full Moon as quickly as possible. Complicating matters was the fact that about 12 inches of snow had fallen since our initial immersion into the studio. Turns out cabbies don’t like snow. There were none to be found and so the subway became our best option for getting back into the city.
It was presented as a palatable alternative because it was something like 4 blocks away from the studio. Right. However, 4 blocks when properly adjusted to reflect the competing factors the situation presented (4 blocks + tons of shit to carry amongst 3 people + a foot of snow on the ground + blinding winds) turned out to be roughly 40 blocks. Trust me on this, I did after all score in the 27th percentile on the quantitative portion of the GRE’s.
Equations aside, we persevered and made it to the subway station. It was warm in there. Our luck appeared to be changing. At one point while on the R train a very nice Mexican man who reeked of gin even offered to help carry our equipment. After translating his adorable slurred speech shat out from a pidgin of unknown origin and aided by his wild gesticulations, we politely declined though, thinking the worst as misanthropes tend to do and believing he wanted money for his services. Instead, he followed us off the train and tried to give us gum. Jonathan and Nadim countered by talking shit about him in French, leaving myself and my new friend to marinate in a shared moment of intense dislike for frogs. He soon waddled away and we marched onwards, finally reaching Full Moon around 9:45 pm.
Practice was fun. We ate pizza and smoked a choad-shaped joint and wrote a song whose sound most closely appropriates the Kinks getting a blowjob from Mike Love. At least Kevin will understand. Before we knew it, the majestic hour of midnight was upon us and we knew it was time to face the unforgiving tundra once again. Jonathan went uptown to prepare for a film he was shooting the next day and Nadim and I naively thought we’d finally catch a cab to bring our equipment back to my apartment for our show on Sunday.
Of course, you know where this is going…no cabs found, subway again, new adversity manifested in a head full of dope and one less person to help carry gear, a true nightmare (2 subway transfers + 6 blocks + tons of shit to carry amongst TWO people + 2 heads full of dope + a foot of snow on the ground + blinding winds = Iditarod) . By the time we made it back to my place it must have been 2:00 am. I don’t remember for sure because I immediately took a consolation bong rip and a warm, warm shower before ending the journey properlike, hauling my ass to the West Village to get drunk with my ladyfriend at Barrow Street Ale House.
And so Saturday concluded and Sunday was ushered in as gently as a fire hydrant hydro-colonic, another day filled with postblizzard dreams of fireplaces and wine (or bloody maries at B3 a la Jester and Sam) brought toppling down with to do lists and obligations. I forced myself out of bed and away from warm company and immediately headed uptown, where I was to help Jonathan out with his film shoot. And help I did, eating Krispy Kremes and fake-laughing on command for many hours, hustling back downtown with just enough time to lug all of our equipment through snow, slush, and shit yet again for our gig at Luna Lounge.
The show went well. Thanks to those who came. I overcame a moral dilemma in the process via technology’s aid and careful bloody mary-fueled scheming by Sam and Jesse, Our gig began at 8, the Patriots game started at 6:30….all appeared lost. What to do? Alas, the 46 Ave B contingent had taken proper precautions, TiVo’ing every snap of Patriots dominance for me to savor over Labatt’s and Milwaukee’s Best after the show. I felt like I had won in life, enough so to justify Saturday’s travails. Almost enough.
The answer to my initial query of whether Mancino “owed” me for all my work this past weekend? Of course not. Mancino and everything associated with the dago-based appellation are a soothing sea of goodness in my Kaleidoscope-polluted life. I carry half ton keyboards through several feet of snow with a sense of purpose because of it. It doesn’t owe me shit.
Fact was, though euphoric over another Patriots Super Bowl appearance and a successful gig and pretty happily hammered at that, I was exhausted, and the impending day of work at my least favorite place on earth (that was to commence in roughly seven hours) just did not seem like a viable option. I do as we discussed have a false sense of self-entitlement after all. Who owed me then?
The answer was obvious. Kaleidoscope must pay. There would be no work for Mike G. come Monday.
NEXT: THE BLIZZARD OF ’05 CHAPTER 2: FERRIS BUELLER AIN’T GOT SHIT ON ME
posted by Mike at 3:18 PM
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