The Finer Things in Life [demo]

It was a very friendly, decidedly un-college crowd since it was during the UT game.

We’re not usually ones to shill for the man, but I did appreciated the duct-tape aesthetic of this Rolling Rock ad. They sponsored the event and gave away free beer.

We’ve always liked the fact that Austin is kid-friendly. It makes the town feel more like a community. Atlanta is a much more segregated city, in more ways than one. To me, it sometimes felt like a little bubble of twentysomethings. Of course, you could argue that Austin is also segregated in its own way, but at least people here are okay bringing toddlers to rock shows.

I’d had the idea for the melody and chorus for a long time, but never knew what the story should be. The tune first popped into my head one day after driving down South Congress to visit The Mighty Cone for lunch (probably making it my first food-inspired melody). In fact, the original the reason I was “going downtown,” as the lyrics say, was to get a chicken cone. It was a sunny spring day in Austin, I had a full belly and a spring in my step. I was feeling good. But as it turns out, I didn’t have much more to say about fried chicken. So I just filed it away.

Eventually, I got the first verse down. After that, I just needed to spend some time with the song and let the rest happen. So for the last three days, I’ve basically walked around with a constant tape loop in my head, trying to make it all work. It’s like solving a crossword puzzle. Any syllable out of place can throw the whole thing off.

Looking back, this song started out in a pretty strange place and ended up somewhere completely absurd. Namely, it ended up in a place where you can catch gout from your wife. It was fun to just follow the strange logic of this thing to its conclusion.

A couple of the lyrics were inspired by one of Eliza’s recent posts, some were in there to make it rhyme, and others were in there just to test the boundaries of my marriage. I wanted to see what I could get away with. Besides, doesn’t every girl dream that one day someone will write a song about them? Shaliza Price, this one’s for you.

[audio http://69.89.31.159/~chickeo9/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/im-goin-down-41.mp3]

The problem with that story is that I never collaborate on songwriting. In fact, my favorite part about songwriting is spending time in my own head and answering to no one. And if I’m honest, the thought of collaborating on an original song seems about as fun as waking up early to go running. There are so many times in life that you have to compromise with one person or another. But when I write a song, I don’t ask for anyone’s input or opinion. The only thing that matters is that I enjoy singing it. (Actually, when it comes to the band, I am interested in the other guys’ opinions. But if they’re not crazy about a song, it’s no skin off my back. I’ll still keep it in my head.)

My songs are my little playground. There’s no approval process. Legal doesn’t approve them and there’s no client or boss to offer input or suggestions. The only feedback involved is the kind that comes from a noisy Fender amp. If there were other people giving me pointers, I probably wouldn’t end up with this little half-song I put together today, in which I call Eliza the meanest girl in the world:

(It’s not true, by the way.)

[audio http://69.89.31.159/~chickeo9/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/im-goin-down1.mp3]

For the gearheads: I recorded this on Garage Band. The drums are fake (but pretty convincing, right?) Bass is also fake (less convincing). Acoustic is my 1966 J-45. Electric is my Reverend Buckshot played through a little toy Fender amp (the MA-10), powered by a nine-volt battery.

Update: Forgot to mention that this was all recorded using whatever mic is built into the iMac.

The atmosphere at Dan’s lies somewhere between a less-than-sanitary Dairy Queen and one of those rooms in prison where you talk to the inmates over a little phone. In a word: grimy. But the food was first class.

First off was the milkshake. Good Lord, this thing was big. It’s shown here next to a large Diet Coke for perspective. A fitting tribute to the holiday, and surprisingly good for a milkshake made from soft serve.

The onion rings were only ok. We weren’t crazy about the breading.

The star of the show was the burger, which comes in small, medium, and large sizes. This one is a large double with cheese. Now brothers and sisters, listen up. This burger stands up to any of the best ones in town. I still cannot fathom why the burgers at Casino el Camino are so highly regarded in all the local “best-of” lists. We’ve always found them to be a little dry. (Maybe they get bonus points for hipster cred). Dan’s burger, on the other hand, was dynamite, with a nice char on the burger and plenty of messy toppings. Emphasis on messy.

Eliza had a single medium. Looks like a munchkin compared to the giant above.

I look at this photo here and think to myself: I am living the good life.

As an aside, there’s an old country song called “Truck Driving Man” that makes references to “a roadhouse in Texas / A little place called Hamburger Dan’s.” We were listening to it the other day and Eliza wondered aloud if they were talking about this place. While it seems pretty likely, we’re not sure. If anyone out there knows, let us know in the comments.

Bluegrass version, courtesy of Jim and Jesse:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8WefF6C01c&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1]

Buck’s honky tonk barn-burner version:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uP3tkWz_aX8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1]

I loved stitching this little bird.

Jaxon models the bib.

I decided I needed more stitching instruction and signed up for Rachel Hobson’s hand embroidery class over at Leslie Bonnell’s Stitch Lab. I was one of only four students. Rachel first gave us a thorough lesson on tools of the trade, materials and resources, and methods for transferring patterns. Then she guided us through the stitches shown on my sampler below. We learned the blanket and back stitches (shown on the sun). The french knot (ooo la la!), chain, split, and satin stitches make up the top of the flower. We also practiced the stem and lazy daisy stitches (on the stem and leaves) and the herringbone stitch for the grass.

Rachel’s class was wonderfully fun, but it wasn’t until the next morning that I realized the calming effect stitching has on me. I finished my french knots while waiting in my car for an early meeting to start and instantly became relaxed.

Shortly thereafter, I purchased a couple of iron-on transfer patterns from Sublime Stitching and became totally hooked. The repetitive motion of the needle popping through the fabric, the freedom to choose whatever stitch and color you like, and the instant gratification of creating something beautiful in a couple of hours – I’m now a total junkie.

I decided to strike out on my own and embroider Ben’s band logo on a kitchen towel. I taped it up on the window and traced it with a water soluble pen.

And then I stitched.

And stitched. Here while watching Play It Again, Sam. A pretty awful movie in my opinion.

Here’s a Sublime Stitching pattern for some of Daniel Johnston’s famous Austin artwork.

I love that juicy satin-stitched mouth.

My new creations are all kitchen towels. We now have a few more than our tiny kitchen drawers will allow.

I’m going to move on to napkins now.

Afterwards, dinner was a no-brainer. When I have access to the Deluxe Chicken-Avocado cone, I take advantage. You used to only find these at ACL fest, but now they’ve got their own trailer on South Congress.

Just to break up the routine, I threw in a brisket taco from neighboring Airstream tenant Vaquero Cocina. I was a big fan of their typography, and the taco wasn’t bad either. But I wish the brisket had been served hot (it was chilly) and that they offered a corn tortilla option (flour only). Still, it was nice and spicy, with some tasty toppings in there, too. Here’s Taco Town’s take.

The medium too easily generates anxiety in place of fulfillment, an addictive cycle of craving and malaise. No sooner has one experience begun than the thought of what else is out there intrudes. Putting on an old-fashioned disc and letting it play to the end restores a measure of sanity.

The first thing this passage called to mind was a cycle I tend to fall into when I’m not very busy at work. I check Google Reader. I check Twitter. Email. I check them all again. I vaguely remember something I was supposed to be working on, but it escapes me, so I check Google Reader again. I bounce from tab to tab like a pinball. I’m not looking for anything in particular, but I keep looking… for something.

Plenty has been said about internet addiction, email addiction, and “crackberries.” But in terms of going beyond cliches, Jonah Leher provides some great insight into what is actually happening in our brains. Here’s an interesting passage from his recent post on information addiction:

What numerous experiments have found is that our dopamine neurons aren’t interested in responding to the reward itself – instead, they want to find the first reliable bit of information that predicts the reward. This is why we crave new facts: they are means of updating our old facts, of extending our cognitive models forward in time.

This is a satisfying idea. Our brains are information machines. Dopamine rewards us for finding information that explains how things work. It makes perfect evolutionary sense. The problem is that on the internet, the supply of information is seemingly infinite. So before we realize what we’re doing, we’ve spent five hours clicking, clicking, clicking. We’re not any happier, even if we’ve discovered some new tunes, videos, furniture or whatever. Then ends don’t justify the means.

This is why I go back and forth on indie rock music. It’s an endless discovery. There are always new bands. There’s one every week. The problem is that so few of them last. When’s the last time anyone mentioned Clap Your Hands Say Yeah? Right now, the indie intelligentsia is telling us that we should be listening to the Dirty Projectors. I give ‘em eight months.

I’m not saying that these bands are bad. I’m just saying that the whole indie rock thing sometimes feels like it doesn’t have anything to do with actual quality. It can feel more like fashion, as opposed to something timeless. And what’s the point in the constant searching unless you find something worth holding on to? Or as Mr. Ross put it, “Putting on an old-fashioned disc and letting it play to the end restores a measure of sanity.”