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Twitter-doom?

Ross Mayfield, Twitter doomsayer.  Quit it man.

Ross Mayfield’s blog post, “Mourning The Loss Of Twitter“, made a few points but their validity will remain to be seen.  At least as they are in the context of the post.

Twitter is not dead.

Are there spammers and blackhat marketers abusing this current form of  free expression?

Sure.  So what.

Point me to a time in history when a greedy troll hasn’t attempted to exploit an opportunity by whatever means necessary.

As long as we pay attention and use a modicum of common sense everything will be fine.

Will Twitter evolve?

Of course, it must in order to grow.  If it’s not evolving, it’s not living.

I’m all for sentimentalism when it comes to movies, but keep it away from my technology.

It’s the spirit of the thing that makes it work.  And the spirit is a culmination and a tribute to the heart of the individuals that participate in it.  The nonpluralized use of heart in the previous sentence is not a grammatical error.  I mean the collective heart of those of us who have fun with the interaction.  With the ability to say whatever the hell we want with out explanation or  expectation.

The ability to share.

So Ross, I’m sure you’re a gifted something-or-other, but I think you have this one wrong.

Love Dave.

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Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?

100+ Choppers Lined Up At The Front Door, And A Pop Band Pisses It’s Pants – In Unison.

Riding a Harley, dressed in leather does not make you a biker.  My understanding of bikers came from hanging out with them in the places they like to howl.  Acting like a biker became popular in the 90’s by balding, waist-expanded dudes suffering mid-life crises with enough dough to look the part.  So let’s clear up some biker myths:

Not all bikers have done time, just the real ones.

Not all bikers are drug addicts, some of them are alcoholics too.

Not all bikers will kick your ass if you look at them funny, just don’t look at their wives or girlfriends, ever.

If a biker doesn’t like you, he’ll probably just leave you alone.  Unless he’s in a bad mood, a good mood or drunk, then you’re dead.

Not all bikers carry weapons.  That’s my official statement.

If a biker likes you, you have life long protection.

If you make friends with a biker, he’ll demand that you ride with him and use his bike.  If you’ve never done it, you’ll be forever grateful.

If the pressures of life have you wound up tighter than a virgin at a prison rodeo, than a night out with a biker can blow out your exhaust pipes and return you to the peaceful, calm, gentle person you never were.  After the hangover wears off, of course.

Once, I was speaking with a gentleman who administered loans.  He told me he never denied a loan to a biker for his bike.  Not because he was afraid, but because bikers always made good on loans for their bikes.  Payments were always on time or early and loans usually were paid off before the term ended.

The Silhouette was one of the first true biker bars we played as a band and we learned from it.  Miko, Jim the owner’s girlfriend, was this freaky, flamboyant,  lasciviously dressed asian girl who knew everything.  She followed us out into the parking lot and started tearing into us about the crap we were playing.  “It’s too fast, you can’t dance to it”.  “Nobody likes you, play something good!”

Fortunately Mike, the guitar player, and I knew a bunch of 70’s rock songs and even a few country numbers.  Tina, the singer, couldn’t contribute that much vocally to that gig, but she could bang a tambourine and smile with the best of them.  Between that and  playing “Born to be Wild” four times a night, it seemed to be working.

Miko bounced up to the stage 7 or 8 times a set to tell us whether or not the song was any good.  Oddly enough, other than Steppenwolf and the Charlie Daniels Band, the Tempations were a big hit.  The doorman would also offer his objective point of view throughout the night, from time to time we’d hear, “the singer sucks” coming from his general direction.

All in all it was alot fun.  As long as you don’t make eye contact with the guy selling heroin in the bathroom, everything works out great.

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Our Life’s in Jeopardy, Baby, oOOo

Situation Normal All Fouled [sic] Up

Wednesday night.  Typically not considered Party Night, but when you’re a band on a mission, every night is party night.  Tina was menstrual, which usually isn’t a problem, but this was another day.  Another day brings another thing.  We never know what another thing is until it comes.  Another thing is open to interpretation.  Another thing can mean anything in the universe.  It’s rather broad, on purpose.

The agency sent us out on this gig and as usual, we had no idea what we were getting into.  Judy at Jam (the agency) gave us an address and a contact, Jim.  In the 80’s, you had to use instinct and judgment to ascertain an idea about things that were about to be thrust into your life.  You didn’t have Google.

We arrived early, unusually early, because it was a strange club and we wanted to have plenty of time to set up.  Besides, we didn’t have anything else going on.

We’d played shithole dives before, and this was no exception.  It had the same smell, state of disrepair and half-assed attempt at legitimacy as any club we’d played.  Interestingly enough, we didn’t analyze it beyond that.  I wish we had.

Jim wasn’t there yet, but we set up anyway, sound checked and then waited for the throng of appreciative patrons to fill the rafters and cheer us on in triumphant regalia.

Let’s understand something.  We were an 80’s Top-40 band.  We played Madonna, Prince, Cyndi Lauper, Culture Club and Thompson Twins.  Each of these groups are annoyingly pop and dated, but at the time they were the shit.

What We Didn’t Know

The club, The Silohuette, was a biker bar.  A stone cold biker bar.  A STONED, serious-as-a-heart-attack, ex-con infested,  drug-dealing in the back room biker bar.  The patrons were armed.  They had to be.

The Animals Sat and Stared

Hairy monstrous masses of men sat in bar stools deciding whether to stay or hurl half-empty glasses of domestic swill at the Annoyance emanating from the familiar corner where music once lived.

Music is interpretive.  So many factors in one’s environment determine whether or not one will enjoy a piece of music.  One thing was clear on our first set that night, no one was enjoying it.

Aghast and disheartened, we stepped out on to the front landing and took in the 100+ Harleys parked in impervious union.  It was our first clue that maybe the 80’s pop wasn’t going to carry us through the night, let alone the weekend.  Jim, our contact, gave us the death-stare as we passed by him collecting cover charges from tattoed and large prison muscle dudes entering into the blissful atmosphere we were paid to provide.

We couldn’t change our 80’s costumes, but we could change our tune.   So we did.

To Be Continued…

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Rabbit Finally at Rest – Goodbye John Updike

Author John Updike passes away of lung cancer at age 76

The literary world may be at odds regarding the writing talent of  John Updike, but who cares?  Reading his books are fun.  Run, Rabbit Run was the first Updike Novel I read.  Finished it in two sittings, which was pretty good for an active, bordering on A.D.D. 18 year-old.

Fluid style,  vibrant and exciting imagery, passionate and tender.  That’s what I remember.  After finishing one book in the series I couldn’t wait to continue on with the next, which is exactly what I did, with fervor.

His prose dances elegantly and eloquently across the pages and I was inspired after each read to emulate or capture that essense in my own writing.

I could close by saying “We’ll Miss You”, but fortunately for us, your thoughts, ideas, humor and insight lives on through the rich body of work you left behind.

Thanks John,

John Updike - Rabbit finally at rest
John Updike - Rabbit finally at rest
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John, George, Dick and Sarah

(Weds. September 24th, 2008)

Telephone rings, an elderly gentleman in a nice suit picks up the phone.

John:

Hello?

George:

Hey John, what the hell’s going on down there?

John:

Things are going really well George.

George:

What the hell are you doing stopping the campaign, are you loco?

John:

Well, Sarah thought people’d think I really care about this wall street thingy if I suspended the campaign, you know, align my priorities …

George:

John, you’re not making any sense, did you clear this through Dick?

John:

You mean Rick?

George:

NO! Dick you idiot, everything goes through Dick!

John:

Well, no, ah..

George:

Oh my god, he’s gonna be pissed…

Look, I’m gonna have to call you back, I gotta call Dick and see what he wants to do.

(10 minutes later)

George:

Hello John,..

John:

Yes

George:

Look, if we’re lucky we can still turn this thing around, Dick said you still have mileage on that “Maverick” spin, so I’m going to invite you and the “boy” down to sort things out, you follow me…

John:

Ah..

George:

…then you’re going to walk in there with this plan that’ll kick the s**t out of the Dems plan and come off looking like, you know, a hero.

John:

But, I don’t have a plan.

George:

Dick will have one ready by the time you land in DC, bring your reading glasses this time.

John:

Okay, what about the debate?

George:

What about the debate?

John:

I don’t want to go.

George:

We’ll talk about that when you get here..

(the above conversation is fictional, any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental)