RP: hipster braggart or musical philanthropist?

It's not the tragic death of a family member, or even anyone I know, or even a death at all. But it sure as hell feels like it.

So yesterday (or maybe Tuesday, they all blend together lately) I had my Pandora making it happen so I could drown out the pathetic environment I work in. Pretty much like any other day. On a whim I switched from Patrick Dunn radio, the station I'd been listening to for weeks, to my Dance Rock station, inspired by such jewels as The Radio Dept., M83 and Fujiya & Miyagi, and on came this song from an 80s compilation by a group called Kitty Hawk. I was so intrigued I began researching the group (Pandora offered no help). Well I was lead in about nine different directions. On top of the flight nostalgia, North Carolina travel sites and bits about the Navy ship, there's apparently three different bands with the name Kitty Hawk. An 80s group, a more recent 4-piece folk group out New York and from what I can tell a couple of dudes from DC that can play about 267 instruments each. I gathered I had initially been inspired by the 80s group, but my hunt led me to the Myspace page of the latter.

I don't know what happened, but the second I heard what their little player was offering I knew I was going to love it. Luckily some were listed as downloadable and I expanded my search to find other material by the same guys. They have a web page, but aside from that their existence is nil. And to boot, from context clues on their myspace I got the feeling these guys had just broken up less than a month ago. Even without that information their music was heartbreaking enough, but to listen to it and think that these songs somehow never took off with enough people to make the effort worth it, it just sucks.

I thought of sitting on this for a while, but every time I loop through the eight songs I managed to find, I get the itch to tell someone about it. Kitty Hawk is now easily one of my favorite bands. And as noted previously I've only heard 8 songs. It's as if Great Lake Swimmers called up Pinkerton and asked if they could meet up, and Pinkerton was like "I don't know, Rivers' new album just came out, I'm supposed to stay in," and GLS was all like "Cmon, you're beautiful," so she did and they watched some weird independent movie that neither of them cared about and they didn't even touch the popcorn, they were both too concerned with like GLS' smooth minstrel fingers touching Pinkerton's butterfly tattoo or some shit but finally they both broke down and fucked and had a musical baby, and they named that baby fucking Kitty Hawk. Listen to them. I'll make you a CD later.

R. Petti signing off for the weekend, or possibly longer.

http://www.myspace.com/kittyhawkrock
kittyhawkrock.com

3 things. 3 things, 3 things, 3 things.

ONE

No matter what my life situation, this will always crack me up. Good thing I made it.



TWO

This is my new least favorite quote from work:

"It was so cold I almost had to turn on my heated steering wheel."

THREE

And, if you haven't seen United 93, you should watch it however difficult. Especially today. That is if all of the news stations' simultaneous replays don't make you queasy enough.

God bless, I guess.

Ryan is 80% water, but 78365% UNHEALTHY.

There was a time when I got up early in the morning and pounded the shit out of myself. There was a time when protein and fiber were a major concern for me. There was a time when I'd hydrate so much I'd need to make at least 12 trips to the office lavatory. There was a time when I drank, yes, but seemingly not nearly as much as needed to keep pace with the world's best and brightest alcoholics. There was a time like that, but that time has past.

I'm coming off of five straight nights of drunken foolishness. I count last night only because I managed to kill three Liteskies with dinner alone, though debauchery was only truly present on the preceding four. On top off this my diet this weekend consisted of mainly things of the color orange, and let me assure you there wasn't a single carrot in the bunch. And yesterday I slept for about 12 hours spaced out over three different "sessions".

There's a strange tiredness about me today that's wholly unnatural. I'm having trouble pinpointing certain words. And I'm working...well. It seems as if up to now I've manage to kill every available expendable brain cell and am now moving into light stroke territory.

So with any luck, I'll be on disability by November. See you in hell!

Ryan's from the early twenty aughts

I'm usually late to the game on a lot of of things. Now depending what you read into that, it could be a pretty loaded statement. But here in the public domain, I'll limit it to the arena of, yes you guessed it, TECHNOLOGY!

Yes I love technology
But not as much as you, you see
But I still love technology
Always and forever

--Kip, Napoleon Dynamite, 2004

Who still quotes Napoleon Dynamite? Me baby, me. Allow me to elucidate.

I got my first iPod only a few months ago, and even that was only the cheapo 1GB iPod shuffle. It's perfect for running when you're too busy worrying about breathing and that growing pain in your planter's foot to be able to pick a song specifically. When you're meandering around Central Square however, and you absolutely NEED to hear the entirety of The Bends, that's when it falls apart. But that's just the iPod situation. I've had hand me down TVs since I was first allowed one in my own room as a tween. Needless to say my currect model is clumsy, not flat, and sub-low definition. I only got a DVR last year and that only came after pondering the possibility of one for the previous three. Its current state now is much like that of a useless power sucking paper weight, as my account has been closed for months due to lack of interest. My desktop computer is over six years old. It was in such horrendous shape, that an old unneeded lab machine at work was donated to my cause as a replacement and it's twice as fast. I'm a packrat, and as packrats go I'm not a very good one. I have closets full of wires with nothing to attach to them. I have devices stacked inside ziploc bags sealed inside giant rubbermaids that I couldn't sell on ebay if I tried. I have old X-files videos, even though I own every $130 season on DVD that's been released since. Its terrible.

My point was this. I've been on a CD burning spree for the past week and a half, and I just discovered this burning program that let's you overlap tracks, a la iTune's crossfade. I'm not sure how long this particular media miracle has been available, but knowing my delayed reaction to life in general, probably a few years at least. Up until now, if I was feeling like a maniac, I'd try editing myself to try for that perfect fit and it was always a pain. But now it's simple!

So look out, because you may at any point in the near future receive a mix CD from me that may be impossible to listen to on shuffle. And if anyone wants a continuous 23-track CD of Arcade Fire's Keep the Car Running, I'VE GOT IT.

People still listen to CDs right?

Stalling for Dimes

I'd never been so happy to be at a Roxbury gas station. In one fell swoop, I released all the pressures of the entire day from my lungs, popped the cap and turned to face the familiar concrete island.

Press here for credit. Press here for debit.

Debit please, thank you!

Now the next step would have been to reach for my wallet which, since my having entered the working world, has taken up residence in my back left pocket. And reach for it I did, only to find to my soul-sinking surprise that it wasn't currently at home. Its whereabouts wasn't an immediate concern, as it probably should have been. My main concern lay in two areas:

1) I just pulled into a gas station and am about to leave again without having performed any sort of transaction. That's embarrassing.

2) I may in fact not make it home on what fumes I had left in the 'ol g-tank (hollow clang).

You see, I was completely devoid of any fuel at this point. It had been my intention to swing by the local Shell during my lunch break earlier. But that idea somehow got lost in whatever activity I had been engaged in at the time, work or not. And if you know me, it was most likely not. Even upon reuniting with my vehicle for the commute home, I saw the gauge E-ing at me. And within the fifteen minutes it takes for me to pass a station on the way, I had completely forgotten about it. It was only until the Vibe she sputtered a bit more than usual on the pickup did I remember. "Oh fuck," I believe was my response to no one. The rest of the ride to fabulous Roxbury consisted mainly off easing on and off the gas, staying under 25 when possible and a racing heart at each worsening enginey burp. Miraculously, she lasted until I could sidle off at Exit 18 and float into the Mobile-McDonalds complex.

But let's get something straight: this whole situation isn't completely my fault. There's no audio cue in the Vibarino signaling "I'm about to lose my shit because my straw is gurgling". Just a quiet yellow light and a defeated looking gauge meter. My last car, the trusty Cavalier (apply named Cavalier), let you KNOW. You'd get all that was mentioned previously with a pulse-increasing DONG to boot. And God help you if you tried squeezing out a Cleveland Steamer from the Cav's tank, because unlike my current transport, it would just flat out give up. Like dead-stall-on-the-highway-you'd-better-pull-into-this-uphill-off-ramp-immediately-with-no-power-steering-and-manage-to-stay-out-of-the-way-of-everyone-who-now-thinks-you're-an-asshole give up.

Even despite the warning system seemingly designed by the national weather service though, I must have run out of gas in that car at least five times. It was just the finality of it. Driving along then suddenly BOOM! I'm all done. See, I'd always try squeezing out just a little more than I should have. Sometimes after a stall I could get her started again. Other times she wasn't having it. I even started carting around a few silly red gas cans in the back officially making running out of gas seem like more of an occurrence than food shopping to the unknowing passerby. But since then I done shot that horse.

I know, it's idiotic. And I realize that as an independent adult my basic responsibilities are to pay the bills, clean up after myself, and make sure I don't run out of frigging gas. It's a retarded thing. But then again, my life has been fraught with retarded things.

And so, we join our hero back in Roxbury, if there ever was one in such a place. I slipped back into the Vibe, wide-eyed and mulling over options with a panic I'm all too conversant with. There weren't many. In fact there was just one: drive home with fingers crossed.

Oh, Vibe. She was going to be so pissed at me and she didn't even know it yet.

"Oh, a gas station! Great, I'll just take a rest while he puts in the usual 20 bucks...All right, ready to roll! Hey what the--hey you forgot--I'm still EMPTY you moron! Oh nooooo!"

That's what I imagined going through my car's mind as we pulled away from her oasis. It's a problem when your own car thinks you're a moron. Or really when you're anthropomorphizing your own car and making it call you a moron.

Regardless, I sat hunched over the wheel, analyzing every shift and bump I took for the next fifteen minutes. Sitting at red lights was complete torture, as it was unclear if the next acceleration would be her last. Occasionally she'd doze off, but then find a surge from somewhere in the depths and lurch ahead steadily for another few minutes. I coasted around turns, took full advantage of downhills and climbed the ups with upsetting slowness. I was that driver with a parade of other drivers behind him all thinking, "What is this, a PARADE!?"

I came to one last uphill battle. After that it was all on the down. I was maybe several hundred yards to home when I decided it was in my best interest to break the law and turn down a one-way. It's fine, I live here. There's never anyone driving down this street. Well, except this guy.

Hi, thanks, sorry.

All in the face of an obvious "What the hell are you doing, idiot!" greeting through the glass. She coughed once more turning onto Plain Street, finally passing out as I turned the key to off. I sat momentarily, fully amazed at both my stupidity and my gray girl of a hatchback.

Without a wallet to my name, I now had to scour the house for at least nine dollars. Easier said than done, because I failed to find more than several quarters. Cut to a few hours later. I had managed a meal fit for a court jester and some other bullshit in the meantime, but I knew my window of oil opportunity was closing. I resorted to pulling out the step stool and reaching for one of those Don't-You-Dare-Use-This credit cards. A justifiable emergency, yes?

Starting her back up was a thrill in itself. She rolled over about sixteen times before finally catching. And with a renewed sense of uncertainty, we puttered down the street and around the corner. Once she wholly died on me. I flashed back to Cavalier momentarily, having to fight unfamiliar resistance to turn her to the side of the road. She started again, but I considered it her last warning shot. Stopped at the longest light in the neighborhood, the beacon of Gondor lay just tens of yards away still lit and serving motorists at quarter to eleven. As if she herself saw the glowing yellow hope just ahead, my Vibe she held, and upon the eagerly anticipated switch from red to green, let me ease her across the three lanes of empty traffic. Pulling underneath the steel canopy, Amex in hand, I'm pretty sure I had a dumb smirk on my face, leaving the guy at the pump across from me wondering why in hell I was so happy about paying for gas.

Press here for credit.

I read no further. Swiping a credit card never felt more relieving. And with that, and seemingly all the gasoline in the world to burn, we raced up the highway ramp toward the city we'd driven through a hundred times before.

As for today, my wallet is still no where to be found. And I'm kind of ok with it. For now.

I Know Exactly Where I'm Going in Boston

Hi.

I have a show this week. Two in fact. These facts in themselves aren't so mindblowing. But what lies beneath them is slightly on the intriguing side, if not a bit on the dramatic.

Wednesday is our first NXT show without having rehearsed the night before. So we'll see how that goes. Again though, your mind is still in tact. But on top of that this was supposed to be our last Lost in Boston show, and quite possibly our last show with this particular cast. The big idea was to have an all out NXT blowout of complete lawlessness, wherein all nine of us would share in the last show's lineup. Then word came down from the big house that we were extending the run another week into September and The Pandemonium Show got moved to the 3rd.

So in short, this Wednesday marks the last Lost in Boston show at the Asylum that won't be entirely overrun by castmembers vying for their last scraps of stage time before everyone's fired. So come September 3rd, instead of six people on stage at once reading Lines from a Hat, there will quite possibly be nine. I wouldn't be surprised if there were ten or eleven somehow.

At any rate, come see both shows. Compare and contrast. They'll both be pretty great.

Oh and Bastards is Bastards. 100% improv this week. It's so much improv, you probably can't even handle it. That's a challenge, McFly. Are you in or out?

Now let's hear the right answer.