"There's no shiny towers here, we built them in the city town Just some kids and they're runnin' round, chasing Softee down"
How could I possibly write an albums worth of material centering around life in the outer-boroughs of New York City without mentioning Mr. Softee? As such, I felt compelled to work it (him?) into the lyric of a tune called "Middle Town" (above) from my new record, "Queens English".
For those not from these here parts, Mr. Softee is a somewhat low-key, iconic fixture of NY street life in the summertime. Basically a fleet of bare-bones, soft-serve ice cream parlors on wheels, Softee brings both smiles to kids and looks of "crap, there goes dinner" to pre-meal time parents alike. With his sickly sweet concoctions and annoying yet beautiful music box jingle (usually played on some terribly distorted truck-mounted sound system), Mr. Softee is the taste and sound of the baked apple incarnate.
As my son and I hit the park today, heard that familiar jangly tune and smelled that familiar smell (idling truck fumes), we knew spring had definitely made its way back to NYC...on a waffle cone and four sticky tires.
"That jukebox in the corner blasting out my favorite song The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long Won't be long 'till summer comes now that the boys are here again"*
Taste...the final frontier. So what do you do when a UFO lands in your backyard? I'm pretty sure that chubby dude with the sled fetish bombed on Paul Masson would know but he's dead, right? Now what? These and other poignant questions were suddenly posed as this sparkling silver beauty appeared behind my home last week (left).
After a small leak in my ceiling prompted a visit from a local roofer, it got me thinking, hey, I should have this guy put a new roof on my garage while he's at it (exciting, right?). I've never attended to these old, car-park rafters since I've owned the property and probably should. Wouldn't want any of that utterly useless crap I'm storing in there for no apparent reason to get water damaged. I tell the roofer it's his lucky day and we're off to the races.
When the roofers finish, shockingly I'm left with something pretty garish that resembles the Jupiter 2. Apparently, as my roofer explains it, these days tar is passe' and rubber roofs are all the rage. Once these flubber-esque sheets are rolled out and heated to stick to your roof (technical, I know, stay with me people) they must then be coated with a Warhol-like silver paint to reflect the sun and prevent said flubber from drying out, cracking and letting the water in. Makes sense. Of course. Awesome.
So, after a few days of living with this garage-sized suntan reflector beaming retina-burning rays through my kitchen window, my wife and I are pretty freaked. I'm back on the phone with the roofer - Me: Can we cover the roof with something, maybe black? Roofer: Nope. Not recommended, absorbs the heat, not good for the roof. Me: Yeah, I know but the silver's pretty tough on the eyes; besides I burn easily. Roofer: No, that's how it's done. Me: I got to be honest, my wife really hates the way it looks. Roofer: She'll get used to it, give it some time.
What? She'll get used to it?! Wow, I'm getting pissed, offended and obviously nowhere. I hang up. After some Yellow Pages finger-walking and numerous calls, I finally find a dude willing to take my money and coat the spacecraft black. Seems no one wants the job. Like the others I've spoken to, Roofer #2, claims the stealth coating's not so great for the roof but it'll be "okay".
In the end order is restored to the known universe and despite all my troubles I suppose it's comforting to learn a deep moral code apparently exists amongst roofers today; it seems not many are willing to eschew the force and cross over to the dark side.
Editors Note - Roofer #2 has yet to return for his check.Laziness? Cosmic existential dilemma? You decide.
"Dude!.... are you that guy that made "Inside, everything is really nice ohhhhhh inside"???! Seriously if you are him I want to thank you so much for making that song. I haven't heard it in years but it's still on my old computer because it came with Musicmatch Jukebox as a sample song. That's one of my favorite songs EVER! I still sing it all the time even though I haven't heard it. Anyway I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate you for making such a beautiful song. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it because of the memories I get. Believe it or not that song had an impact on my life when I was going through some hard times and it always made me feel the future will be better...And it is! Anyway thank you so much! Much love! :D "
Thought I'd put my usual snarky, cornball antics aside this week and share a cool note (above) I received yesterday re: a tune I wrote. It's weird, making records is like having children in a way; usually a painful birth, followed by unconditional investments of love and nurturing, yielding bi-polar mixtures of both sadness and great joy. You might make 'em but you don't own 'em and when they're ready, they go off into the world and take on a life of their own. Finding friends, making enemies, causing ruckuses or quietly keeping to themselves. They might phone home once and a while but you're never quite sure what they're really doing out there.
My memory's a bit foggy but back in '99 when my first record, "Pop Job", quietly hit the streets I kind of remember my label, Parasol, making a deal with some entity connected to Microsoft or Musicmatch that allowed for the inclusion of my tune, "Inside", within an early mp3 player Bill & Co. were bundling with their operating systems. Chances are if you bought a PC with Windows around this time you probably received "Inside" hidden, er, inside your computer.
Cut to ten years later when I receive this amazing, flattering and touching note from a total stranger thanking me for giving them a little joy and helping them navigate some rough emotional terrain in their life. Heavy and humbling, it briefly washes away all the negatives I've accumulated and associated with the music 'business' over the years. Whenever I'm lucky enough to receive one of these appreciative messages it also serves to remind me why I do what I do - because I love it and hope to make that personal connection with folks at some level via the music I create. They say the true artist creates for himself and no one else. I'm not so sure I'd agree; seems a little selfish even to a narcissistic-artistic type such as myself. Alternately, it might smack of self-importance to think a tune I wrote (sitting on a broken futon in my apartment) could affect someone's life in a positive way but amazingly, the reality is, it seems one has and for that I'm honored and grateful.
"Hey, Honey! The kid just called, he got a promotion at work today!"
(Announcer's voice bursts in) "It's not creepy! It's the Snuggie! The blanket with sleeves!..."
If you're anything like me (& I hope to God you're not), one-part insomniac/one-part hard-core night person, you probably often find yourself wandering this earth or puttering around your dwelling in the wee hours when more sensible folks are dead to the world. Subconsciously I think I probably feel sleep is over-rated and a waste of precious free time; Time better spent creating music, reading or watching crap TV.
If you're one of my late-night, channel-surfing brethren you've probably come across this rhymin' Snuggie commercial. For the uninitiated, the Snuggie is this kind of blanket with sleeves that you can put your arms through so you can continue to use your appendages as they stay snug as a bug in a...well, Snuggie. Sounds good in theory (although I think they already invented this a thousand years ago, it's called a sweater) and it probably indeed works in practice but the downside, as you've undoubtedly seen from the video, is the aesthetic of the Snuggie; It's, well, just plain F'in kooky at best. Chances are unless you're some kind of medieval monk or "of one with the body of Landru" (a totally nerdy Star Trek reference) then you're gonna look pretty insane wearing a Snuggie. I love the pitch in the commercial - Read a book, use your laptop, enjoy a snack, worship false Gods! But wait, there's more! Comes in not one but 3 totally strange choices of color! Great for drafty dorm rooms, great for the outdoors, great for burning people at the stake, machine washable! Check out the old dude in the Snuggie spot who looks like Paulie Walnuts sitting in his recliner eating popcorn. Pure awesome Snuggie-ness.
And just when you thought it couldn't get any freakier, it seems the good folks at Snuggie have outdone themselves - Introducing the Snugglette! It's the mini-Snuggie for kids! Wow...I kind of don't know what to say. Even I'm a little weirded out at this point. What's next? Jim Jones flavored Kool-Aid?
Supposedly they've sold millions of Snuggies (including designer versions) and even Oprah wears one (so you know it must be good). Apparently people go on organized pub-crawls wearing Snuggies these days. Who knew? And really who am I to scoff at progress or the seemingly unbridled insanity of the 21st century? Rave on Snuggie children, I'm with ya.
I do look pretty cool in burgundy.
Of one with the Snuggie, -mb
Editor's Note - I just heard the ShamWow guy got busted for beating down a hooker. Wow, what a sham(e).
After completing my new album, feeling fairly burnt out and feeling as though there was nothing left to squeeze from the creative ether, surprisingly new tunes began to appear.
There must be 5 million songs in the history of pop music that encourage people to take their clothes off. For some reason I thought it was time to write one about keeping them on. See above lo-fi, web-cam jam; lyrics below if you'd like to follow the bouncing Blog and sing along.
Sorry for the substandard audio, apparently my laptop mic came with a sweet, built-in phaser effect.I like to pretend it's 1976, Phil Ramone's producing and after a bottle of red and a few bottles of white we've decided to throw a Small Stone across the whole mix.
Ever since I was a little lad, I hated strippin' down it made me sad Bath time terrors, watch the teardrops flow I'm sorry Momma, I like wearing clothes.
Now I'm grown, I'm not that little man And my baby she just cant understand Why she's never ever seen my toes I'm sorry baby, I like wearing clothes
Don't take me for a seaside holiday Shorts and sandals, ah keep them away No, skinny-dippins' never in my plans Cause I only burn, I never tan...
Not comfortable inside my birthday suit Rather have a jacket and a nice pair of boots Now I'm no crazy semi-kind of prude It's just a lifestyle not an attitude
Styles may come and styles may go Muffin tops and bellies hanging low Not everybody's body's built for show I'm sorry people, I like wearing clothes I'm sorry Momma, I like wearing clothes I'm sorry baby, I like wearing clothes
When the Greek historian Herodotus first committed this famous phrase to paper (parchment?) 2500 years ago, words now commonly attributed to the work ethic of our fine US postal service, I guess he didn't take into account a strong postal workers union or NYC's crumbling infrastructure. Back then I suspect a gas leak meant nothing more than the result of one's late-night Hummus binge.
Anyway, the other day I look at the clock, damn it's 2:30, I want to get to the post office; I have a half hour. Now normally I avoid the post office as much as humanly possible but not unlike a post-Hummus Herodotus, sometimes you just have to go. The mundane occasion? Having just finished my taxes, my accountant suggests I mail the paperwork off to the various governmental PO Boxes via Certified Mail to prove to Uncle Sam I actually submitted my tax forms in the event Uncle Sam looses my tax forms en route to Recessionville, USA. Sounds reasonable. I suppose I'd rather visit the post office now than the IRS later. With that thought in mind, I grab the forms and the 3 year old and we're off.
Five minutes later the boy and I score a cherry parking spot in front of the place. With the kid in one arm, the forms in the other and 3 quarters in the meter, we weave through the traffic as we cross the street and land at the door. Looking up we're greeted with a very official looking sign (pic above) written in gov. issued Sharpie. Gas leak?! In a post office?! Did the postal union lobby for gas powered stamp machines? Were gas fueled, Rumsfeld issued, Anthrax eradicators installed? And don't you just love the use of the word, "possible"? So committal these government types. Like there may or may not be a gas leak but either way Uncle Sam's not sticking around to find out. Mail? What mail? Herodotus who? You're out of luck, Jack; go to the main branch if you have any quarters left. Right away I'm pissed; this is exactly why I hate going to the post office - the almost inevitable clusterfu*k; the very embodiment of the term "going postal". C'mon, I just want to mail my F'in taxes but once again the fear of the unknown, the fear of the "possible" has hindered the progress of this great nation. Back in the car I wonder if there's a color-code for "possible gas leak" over at the Dept. of Homeland Insecurity.
With the clock hands dangerously close to the 3pm hour, we arrive at post office #2 the next neighborhood over. No gas leak here (although it smells as if someone might have taken a leak). We fill out the little green forms, hand over the envelopes, pay the Sam...mission accomplished.
On the way home I reward my son's postal patience with a doughnut from Dunkin' Ds. Now there's an organization with a solid work ethic. I guaranty if they ever had a "possible" gas leak or the roof had blown off that mo' fo' you'd still be able to get a cup of coffee and a plain stick.
Winding the car back home I feel mildly triumphant but the smell of victory is quickly snuffed with an all too familiar fragrance wafting from the 21st century, back-seat historian with half-eaten doughnut in hand and that relieved look on his face.
It's a way off but just wanted to let everyone know that the band and I will be playing Wednesday, May 13th, 7pm at The Living Room in NYC. Should be fun; we'll be playing the new record in its entirety (with a horn section), in running order and we'll probably kick out some old school jams as well, time permitting. Of course I'll harp on this again as the date gets closer but just figured I'd throw it out there now so you can mark your calendars, reschedule your vacations, weddings, etc.
"There's no shiny towers here,
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