When I Get Passionate (I Also Get Stupid)--Published: 2001, Park Lake, Inc.

George Edison walked into his swank Upper West Side apartment just after six p.m. He slung his jacket in a corner and turned on the television real loud. He made himself a bourbon and water, slamming ice cubes into the glass with maximum force and noise, and made sure to belch loudly several times before shouting, "Jessica! Where's my dinner?"

He heard nothing. Glancing about the apartment, he saw his wife's coat and floral-print purse lying on the sofa, next to a suit coat, pair of pants and silk underwear he didn't remember leaving there. Shrugging, he finished his drink and walked towards the bedroom.

The door was slightly ajar. He went to push it open, then paused.

"Is your husband home?" he heard a male voice asking. "I don't want him to catch us together, making love."

"No, lover," his wife's voice, unusually husky and labored, responded. "Don't worry. I locked the door hours ago, and he'll be at work until six."

"Then there's plenty of time for us to finish making love."

"Yes, lover. Plenty of time. For lovemaking."

George frowned again. Something seemed suspicious. He burst into the room and found his wife of six months in bed, the covers up to her shoulders. Next to her sat a balding, near-naked man with a thin mustache, in the midst of kicking his shoes and socks off.

“Jessica?” George intoned quizzically. “Didn’t you hear me come in?”

“Oh, hi honey!” she chirped, making shooing motions to the man next to her. “I was in the shower. Doing my hair. And making a plate of brownies. How was your day?”

“Jessica, I think…I think we need to talk.”

“All right, darling,” she said, making a warning gesture to the mustached man, who promptly dove into a closet two steps away from where George stood, shaking and scratching his head slowly. “But can we make this quick? The plumber is coming over to take a look at my pipes.” Jessica giggled obnoxiously at her witty double entendre, and then, remembering she was supposed to be playing it cool, tapered down to a series of annoying horselaughs.

“Jessica, I don’t know why, but I think…I think you’ve got something going on behind my back.”

“Goodness!” She looked as though he’d accused her of stealing the rags off a homeless orphan’s back, and George felt immediately guilty for making such a beautiful, faithful woman look so upset. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean, I work all day, and when I call you’re never here. I come home and you’re always in the shower, or in bed, or in bed with another man. I just don’t know what to believe any more.”

“It’s all in your head, darling.” Jessica, waiting for George to turn and look out the window, made seductive noises towards the man in the closet, who was hanging out the door, grinning widely and giving her the thumbs up. “You’ve been working too hard. You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, dear, you are. Where did you get the idea I would ever be unfaithful to you?”

“I don’t know…” George shook his head moodily. “I wish I could believe you.”

“You can believe her, pal,” said the man in the closet. “She’s as faithful as I am to my wife.”

“Maybe…” George shook his head some more. “Maybe…”

“Maybe nothing. Oh pooh!” Jessica kicked her negligee under the bed and wrapped a robe around her as she got out of bed. “This is all so incredibly silly. Just look at the facts. I say I’m faithful to you. Benny says I’m faithful to you.”

“Benny? Who’s Benny?”

“Exactly!” she shrieked, hooking an arm around Bennie’s neck briefly to give him a long, lingering soul kiss. “Who is this Benny person you’re always going on about? You’re pulling it all out of thin air, dear! You need to relax.”

“Maybe you’re right,” George said, accepting a handkerchief from Benny so he could wipe his eyes, which were tearing up at the thought of the shame he’d just brought on the most wonderful woman in the world. He was beginning to feel ridiculous. “I’m sorry, darling. How could I be so insensitive?”

“It’s all right, darling,” Jessica cooed, patting him on the shoulder and leering seductively at Benny. “Why don’t you take a walk to clear your head? It might make you feel better.”

“Good idea, darling.” George went to go get his coat. “Will you start dinner while I’m out?”

“Um, probably not. Maybe you should eat out.”

“Another good idea. It’ll clear my head.”

“And dear? Make sure you’re not back until after nine? And knock first, so you don’t surprise me. Or Benny.”

“I will, dear.” George’s eyes were moist again, but this time with unbounded love for his radiant, slightly-perspiring bride. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know.”

“That’s nice, dear,” said Jessica, batting her lashes at Benny and shuttling him back into bed. “Now don’t make me put the chain on the door—nine p.m. Not a minute earlier. Larry the carpenter is coming over later to…”

“To check our your drawers?” Benny suggested?

George laughed out loud. That Benny. What a card…

New rock band Bullets in Madison on fire with new single; lead singer on fire with fire

Originally published August, 2003, in Spun Magazine; reprinted here in light of rerelease of Panic in Amber Blue

Originally published August, 2003, in Spun Magazine; reprinted here in light of rerelease of Panic in Amber Blue


The singer steps up to the microphone, wind machine ruffling his clothes and carefully-disheveled hair artfully. The band behind him strikes chords and poses with thoughtful, somber moodiness.


"Crosswords..." keyboardist and vocalist John Morton intones soulfully.


I'm on the set of the Bullets in Madison video shoot for their hit single, "Crossroads," off their new album Panic in Amber Blue. Surrounding me are all the makings of a killer video: chained, caged strippers, a neon band insignia highlighting the stage, a prowling leopard in the rafters and a rotating drum set.


Director McG, whose Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle recently took in $52,000 at the box office, is at my side, coaching the merry montage of musicians along what will undoubtedly be their chart-busting hit single. The band is sluggish and slow-moving, which, for them, translates into ecstatic. McG is polysyllabic in his directions to the band, which, for him, translates into intellectual. I want a drink, which, for me, translates into business as usual.


"Crosswords..." Morton croons again, the band soulfully striking up the tune once more while McG makes frantic get-on-with-it gestures with his spindly arms. The music plods on, then stops as Morton trails off into silence.


"I forgot the rest of the song," he admits soulfully, hanging his head in shame.


"It's okay," McG assures him gently, shooting a quick glance at his budget director who is currently preparing to hang herself with a length of power cord. "We're going to overdub your singing in postproduction anyway."


"It's weird," Morton continues, gazing at his keyboard mournfully. "I have that first word down, but when it comes to the words that come after it, all I can think of are the words 'drive-by.'"


"That's the next song," guitarist Michael Stautmeister tells him thoughtfully. "The one we play after this one." Nearby, the trumpeteer is getting stalked by the leopard.


"Oh yeah." Morton adjusts his shirt collar artfully. "That's weird."


McG, clearly wishing he could get back to more cerebral projects like looking up Lucy Liu's skirt in her next film, hooks an elbow around Morton's neck. "We're going to get through this, guy. You and me. And the rest of the band. Sky's the limit. No holds barred. We'll show the rest of the clowns you play music with you're the glue that holds this miserable act together. You just wait."


"We can still hear you," guitarist Aaron Sandberg drones somberly. As he looks after Morton and his director, he runs a hand through his full head of hair soulfully...and winds up with a fistful of his remaining hair. His bald spot glares triumphantly. Upon seeing it, he screams mournfully.


McG is not unaware that the band is aging somberly, soulfully and mournfully ten years for every minute this farce drags its nuts. But clearly he's got ideas cooking on how to get the show more dynamic. More engaging. More today.


"Cue the flame thrower guy," he tells the head grip. "And get the kerosene ready. We're torching Morton first."


-----


Bullets in Madison is an up-and-coming band whose debut album is just as new as they are to the Chicago indie rock scene. For some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of these guys are going to wind up teaching in the public school system. Some of them might even wind up where I work, sneaking into my room, swiping my lesson plans, stealing my medicinal whiskey (kept safely on the bookshelves, where students will never find it) and locking me inside the building when I'm not out the door at 3:05 like them. I have no idea why I suspect all this. But I'm rarely wrong.


That's the future, though. Years away. In the meantime, the band is putting together its first music video.


The "Crosswords" shoot has been going on for months, as Morton struggles to remember his lyrics and his partner in crime Sandberg watches the last remains of hair fall out. I've spent the majority of my time here exploring the band's origins and musical influences, only to discover that, much to my dismay, Morton and Sandberg are the most boring people on the face of the earth. Stautmeister was, for a time, a better bet at entertainment, but he stopped talking to me when he caught me going through his wallet looking for naked roadie pictures.


Sandberg, on the other hand, won't shut up about what inspires him as a musician and motivates him as a performer. Our most recent interview took place backstage, while McG layered Morton in petroleum for the big fire scene, which, according to McG, "really captures the song's anti-Iraq war message." Morton had tried to explain to him that the song actually came from a frenzied effort at free verse over the Sunday papers comics section, McG insisted that he had the better interpretation, and Morton's objections were effectively overruled. As the grip splashed Morton's mostly-hairless chest with a paintbrush dunked in Vaseline and Stautmeister, for some reason, rapidly took pictures, hooting and whistling all the while Sandberg droned on and on concerning the dangers of artistic influences.


"Many writers will stop reading any books by other authors while they are working on their own novel because they’re afraid that another style will seep into their own," he said. "Yet at the same time, they’re in a bind because they might happen to like that particular style, and wouldn’t mind if the influence rubbed off, so long as it didn’t suffocate the work."


Bored out of my mind, I tried desperately at this point to steer the conversation to oral sex. But no dice. Man. Musicians.


"The problem compounds when you’re in touch with many influences," Sandberg continued.


"Speaking of touching," I tried again, simultaneously gesturing towards the nearest cage-dancing stripper and my crotch. But he didn't take the bait. He only averted his eyes from my groin and went on with the interview. Fucking musicians...


"Again, two things can happen. There's a constant conflict between original vision and influence which the careful artist addresses."


"Hey, Professor, want to put it in language we can all understand?"


"Well, the resulting work, whether novel or album, can become an ugly pastiche of all styles, or, the result can be a beautiful and diverse, woven piece of work."


"That's the biggest load of bullshit I ever heard," I jeered.


Sandberg fixed me with a level gaze, and another clump of his hair fell to the floor. "You don't even know what pastiche means, do you?"


"No. No, I don't. Do you?"


"Well...no."


"Okay then. So, getting back to getting your knob polished..."


Here, our interview was interrupted: the pyro guy had ignited the flamethrower, turning Morton into a flaming ball of smoke and heat.


"Crosswords! Crosswords!" Morton shrieked, running around the stage, slapping at the flames with his hands. "Agh!"


Sandberg took this opportunity to make some lame excuses to go and comfort his friend. However, Morton, engulfed in fire and screaming in blinding pain, decided that company with Sandberg was infinitely worse, and came back over by me for his interview.


"And yes, while some say it is impossible not to be influenced," Morton said, leaning in close to my tape recorder, "I say it is possible to use the influence to eventually transcend the influence. That is the ultimate goal."


"Did you used to have chest hair there?" I said, gesturing towards his smoldering torso. "Because you don't any more."


With one thing and another, Morton getting carted off to the emergency burn ward, Stautmeister running off to post the entire thing on the Internet and Sandberg finally taking a hint and hitting up the cage dancers for some back room action, I finally got some peace and quiet in which I could actually listen to the album. So here's my review:


It's good. Overpriced, but good. I recommend it.


Maybe in the future we won't have to buy music any more. Maybe some day we'll be able to get it for free off the Internet. Not Napster, obviously, but something else. Something...torrential. That would be sweet. In the meantime, if you want it, you'll have to buy the album off their website, or your local Tower Records outlet.


Hmph. Musicians. Always in it for the money. And a first aid kit.

God, Incorporated

Basically, when I first got some photo editing software, I stayed up all night screwing around, trying to do something appropriately sacrilegious. But I abandoned it after the first page.

P.S. You have to click on it. I can't figure out how to get Blogger to leave more room for images.

Vice-Presidential Potty Mouthes

Vice President Joe Biden's f-bomb after President Obama's passage of the health care bill, coupled with former Vice President Cheney's snarled "go (bleep) yourself" from a few years ago, was shocking. Utterly shocking. Truly and utterly shocking. It's language we haven't heard from the esteemed second banana of the Oval Office...except for a few notable examples. The Flannel Diaries presents an exhausting study of White House f-bombs, culled from the Flannel Diaries' Official Presidential Archives:

"As far as Indochina was concerned, I stated over and over again that it was essential during that period that the United States make it clear that we would not tolerate Indochina falling under Communist domination. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, I stated over and over again that they could all go (bleep) themselves."
--Vice President Richard Nixon, debate with John F. Kennedy

“In the United States today, we have more than our share of the nattering nabobs of negativism.” Off camera: "What the (bleep) does that mean, anyway?"
--Vice President Spiro Agnew, on Watergate

“Never forget that the most powerful force on earth is love. And (bleeping). (Bleeping) is pretty powerful too."
--Vice President Nelson Rockefeller

“Running for President is physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually the most demanding single undertaking I can envisage unless it's (bleeping) Nancy Reagan. Score!"
--Vice President Walter Mondale, on his campaign for President

"Why Iraq? Why Iraq? Why the (bleep) not?"
--Vice President Dan Quayle, on the Persian Gulf war

"(Bleep) me."
--Vice President Al Gore, on the 2000 election

"Bullets in Madison Schwings at Schuba's: Episode II

Missed Episode I? Go read it first. Done? Good. Continue, mes enfants.

I'm on a plane with Bullets in Madison, and I'm going to die.

Yeah, I know. I said that already. But here's the part where it actually happens. Beforehand, we were all going to die. Beforehand we were only on a plane ride to Chicago for the band's concert at Schuba's, and everything was hunky-dory. If boring. With Morton learning elementary Spanish, Sandberg retiring to the men's room every ten minutes for "him-time" and the saxophonist getting high on ventilated air, I had nothing else to do but write up analyses and reflections on Bullets in Madison's music and performances. And seriously, who wants to read that?

But now, things are different. The captain has made it clear he's nowhere within driving distance of being able to land the plane without slam-dunking it into Lake Michigan. The plane is spinning through the air like fabric softener in a dryer. And all of us are cursing ourselves for hooting at the airline stewardess to give lap dances instead of paying attention to her instructions about turning our seat cushions into flotation devices. Still, as the band has reminded me, the new album, We Became Your Family When You Died is available for free download, so at least their lives have meaning. I, meanwhile, have yet to visit my ailing father in a nursing home, pay the last ten years' worth of taxes, and watch the rest of my Eight is Enough DVD series, so clearly, I've got a lot weighing on my conscience.

But before I can come to some sort of emotional grip over my unfulfilled ambitions, the band goes totally China Syndrome. This is too good to pass up. As the plane continues to plummet towards the earth, I settle back, light a cigarette, and begin to take notes.

“Oh shit! We’re all going to die!” yells Losch.

“Agh! My hair!” shrieks Sandberg, grabbing his baby oil and diving for the lavatory.

“What did he just say?” asks the saxophonist, sticking a Q-tip up his nose.

“Guys…I have a confession.” Morton, ignoring the laws of physics and gravitational pull, struggles to unbuckle his seat belt. “I need you all to know this before we’re all dead. I’m—“

“Gay. We know.” Losch pats his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Sandberg, back from the bathroom, and the saxophonist are nodding. Morton looks pained. “No. No, that’s not it.”

“Sure, buddy. Whatever you say. You’re not gay.” Losch winks, taps his finger on his nose. Sandberg snickers.

“Look, I’m really not gay. Why would I lie about that now? No, it’s just that I've been taking rent money from our petty cash. It’s been eating away at me ever since. I just wanted to clear my conscience.”

“Riiiight.” Sandberg puffs his cheeks out. “Thief. You betcha.” He goes to pat Morton on the shoulder, but when Morton recoils, he yanks out a Hand-I-Wipe and hurriedly scrubs up.

“You’re such a tough, masculine spare change robbing type,” says Losch, flapping his wrists and simpering when Morton’s back is turned. Sandberg, cheered by how attention has been diverted from his bathroom shenanigans, takes special pains to laugh obnoxiously at Morton’s expense.

“It’s okay to be who you are,” says the saxophonist, desperately rummaging through his bag for more glue.

"It's not okay to steal from your friends!" Morton yells, getting exasperated.

"But it is okay to be homosexual," Losch reassures him. "We've known for years."

“Who keeps grabbing my butt?" Morton snaps, whirling around.

"Whoops. Sorry." I withdraw my offending limb. "I thought you'd be okay with it now."

"I'm not. Because I'm not gay."

“I am,” announces the saxophonist. “I think. Is it gay if you make out with guys?”

“Nah,” I reassure him. “Only if you like it.”

“Oh. I guess I’m straight, then.”

“I thought I was gay in grade school,” Sandberg announces. “Turns out I was just really into gymnastics.”

“I’m a robber!” shrieks Morton, stamping his foot. “I’m not—oh Jesus Christ, you idiots, I’m--”

“My dark secret is kleptomania,” says Sandberg. “I stole my dad’s insulin and sold it to school kids.”

“I ducked out of cab fare once,” says Losch. “After I knifed the driver.”

Here, they launch into a round of Last Confessions that would have done Stillwater proud.

“I knocked over an old lady once,” says Sandberg. “She had the seat on the bus behind the DVD player.”

“I used to club baby seals,” says the saxophonist. “After I robbed a bank.”

“I never learned to read!” shrieks Losch.

“I took some pictures of Brendan in the shower,” says Sandberg.

“I burned my ex-girlfriend’s summer home down,” says Losch.

“I voted Republican in 2000,” says the saxophonist, at which point we all stuff our shoes into our carry-on bags and proceed to beat him over the head with them. Which only seems fair. You know, because of that war thing.

This entire time, the plane has been spinning out of control faster and faster. Morton has given up trying to wipe his conscience clean and is leafing through a Spanish Bible. The other band members are composing themselves for the Big Adios. “This is it!” yells Sandberg, clutching his copy of Richard Dawkins (and Losch’s Swank) to his chest. “I’m ready to meet God! If there is a God! Which there isn’t!”

“Death can’t be as bad as this,” mutters Losch, tuning his guitar.

“Can I borrow fifty dollars?” the saxophonist mutters to me, nursing two black eyes.

“En caso de una emergencia su cojín de asiento puede ser usado como un dispositivo de emisión,” sings Morton, carefully putting on a crucifix necklace.

“Fuck you all,” says Sandberg.

Then, sudden stability. The plane stops spinning. Our stomachs settle.

The captain gets on the mike: “Woo. Sorry about that, folks. No more Scotch for breakfast for this guy. Anyway, we’ll be landing in about twenty minutes.”

A heavy, ponderous silence envelopes the cabin. There is an abundance of feet-shuffling. No one makes eye contact. Some clearing of throats. The saxophonist engages in some hurried snorting of Bausch & Lomb contact solution.

Then, several dark, brooding glances are thrown surreptitiously my way. I can see it passing through their minds right in front of me: This guy is a liability. He knows too much.

I visibly gulp. I square my shoulders. I make sure my notebook is safely stashed in my undershorts. “Look, we can agree to be adults about this,” I say, rubbing my hands together nervously. “I can keep it all confidential. Trust me.”

They all look at each other. Nods are exchanged silently. Knowing glances fly through the air.

“We’ll just have to trust each other,” says Sandberg, scheming to push me out the airplane window and throw Losch’s copy of Swank after me.

“Trust is important,” says Losch, scheming to dope me up, stick me in a car and run me over the Canal Street bridge at ninety-five miles an hour.

“Without trust, where are we in this crazy world,” agrees Morton, scheming to lock me in a room with the rest of his asshole band members and set the walls on fire. After borrowing some petty cash.

“How about that fifty dollars?” says the saxophonist, scheming to get high on fifty dollars’ worth of drugs.

Matters of life and death always bring out the best and worst of people. Unless you’re Bullets in Madison, in which case they only bring out the worst. No matter. Having seen what I’ve seen and heard what I’ve heard, I give myself about two days more to live before their bumbling efforts to bump me off finally hit paydirt. Still, don't let my fate rule your opinion. Their new album is totally worth checking out, provided you don’t have to spend any time alone with them.

So then, dear readers, until my moldering, violated corpse is discovered at the bottom of Lake Michigan by the proper authorities, I remain, as always, immeasurably jealous of anyone who doesn't have this shit job.

NEXT WEEK'S COLUMN: The band takes me fishing.

Bullets in Madison Schwings at Schuba's: Episode I

I’m on a plane ride to Chicago with Bullets in Madison, and we're all going to die.

Of course, this particular plane ride didn’t start out that way. At first, I thought only I was going to die. Having sat through another two-hour ordeal they call a concert at Schaumburg’s Dave and Buster's, I was more than ready to take my toaster into the bathtub, assuming their piledriver melodies and screeching vocals didn't do the job. The new album, We Became your Family When You Died, is saturating the airwaves, though, and if you drop the ball halfway through the game, you get...bad...scores (insert sports metaphor here).

We’ve been in the air for half an hour, maybe ten, and we’ve been cruising comfortably long enough for Sandberg to disappear into the closet-sized bathroom ten times to “check his hair,” although guitarist Brendan Losch pointed out at least twice that one didn’t need baby oil and dirty magazines to “check hair,” particularly when the person doing the hair-checking didn’t have any hair, to which Sandberg responded that Brendan was maybe too mouthy for his own good and should clam up a little if he didn’t want a mouth full of seat cushion. Lead singer and keyboardist John Morton has spent the majority of the flight leafing through Spanish language emergency cards stuffed in the fronts of seats, trying to bone up on his Spanish based on rudimentary drawings of and emergency procedures. The saxophonist, whose name I haven’t yet bothered to learn, has been throwing together hallucinogenics out of seat upholstery and shaving cream. (He and I get along just fine.)

“Well, I think I got my follicles in place this time,” Sandberg says, emerging from the bathroom and wiping his palms on his denim pants.

“You took long enough,” snarls Losch, swiping his copy of Swank from Sandberg’s sticky grip.

“Por favor no lanze toallas de papel en los servicios,” says Morton, stuffing his pockets with free airline peanuts.

“I can smell colors,” says the saxophonist, lighting up a banana.

“Enough screwing around,” I say, waving away the scent of United’s mute grey and scorched fruit. “Let’s do an interview. How would you describe the tour so far?”

“Engaging,” says Sandberg, sneaking another peek at Losch’s magazine.

“I’ve had better,” says Losch, burying his magazine into his bag.

“Saliendo se caen los pies pegarás un tiro primero.,” says Morton, admiring his own reflection in a nearby mirror.

“What tour?” asks the saxophonist, burying his face into a Ziploc of airplane glue.

“Okay then. Follow up question.” I squint at my notes, trying to decipher the journalistic endeavors from the one-liners I’d copied down while watching Almost Famous. “If your band were a mountain, which one would it be?”

“The K2,” says Losch. “Because we’re at the top of the world.”

“That’s not the K2,” says Sandberg. “You’re an idiot.”

“We’re the Mount Everest of indie rock,” boasts Morton. “Because you can’t beat us.”

“Unlike Sandberg,” says Losch, at which point we all break up laughing, while Sandberg flounces off into the lavatory to sulk by himself.

“We’re the Himalayas,” says the saxophonist.

“We’re the Himalayas on top of the Andes,” says Morton.

“We’re the Himalayas and Andes on top of a really big building,” declares Sandberg, who has finished pouting relatively quickly.

“This is a stupid question,” says Losch. “Who invited this guy?”

At this point, before I can defend myself, the captain’s voice comes piping over the cabin speakers. Throughout the entire flight, we’ve heard nary a peep out of the cockpit, except for the usual this-is-your-captain-we’ll-be-crusing-at-ten-million-feet bit and the old oh-I-didn’t-know-the-mike-was-on-and-I-so-wasn’t-checking-ESPN-scores-in-here bit. Now, however, I’m hearing words that would make John McClain grip the sides of his armrests in panic: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. I’m afraid we’re experiencing some altitude alignment problems. We fully expect—“

Suddenly, the plan begins plummeting towards the earth at a deadly speed. Luggage and music equipment is flying all over the cabin. A screech enveloped the cabin. My stomach drops into my feet and I scream like a 1960s-era teenaged Beatles fan told Paul McCartney just married her evil stepsister.

My time on this earth is suddenly limited. And I'm stuck with an indie rock band.

I immediately begin weeping.

"Hey, don't do that." "Everything will work out okay." "Just relax, pal. We're going to make it."

Soothing words. I begin to calm down.

"Morton!" yells Losch. "You ate all the goddam airline peanuts."

Now we're all weeping, except Morton, who grabs a last package of peanuts from his jacket and devours it. He is unrepentant. We are unconsoled. I am disconsolate. I am out of ink.

This ends Episode I. Click here for the end of this extremely stupid story.