Best…Picture…Ever.

Oh, what wonderful photo ops happen when titans meet!

I’m poopin’ my pants with joy right now.

Gig-O-Rama

Photos from the CD release party

I put the photos from last night’s gig into a page that I’m still working on. I thought I’d put the page up even thought it’s not complete because Lindi’s dying to see the photos. See the performance, check out the muscians, marvel at my silly hat and stripey pants. Check ’em out and come back, because later on, I’m going to add some more text detailing what happened that evening.

Saturday night jammage

Lindi’s invited me to jam with her at the Art Bar tonight (Saturday, Feb. 2nd), where she’s playing as part of the entertainment for Rannie Turingan’s photography show. Rannie did the photos for Lindi’s album and website. I’ve also been invited to join a jam at Eclipse (College and Dovercourt), which is supposed to be a free-for-all musical improv night. I’ve been told to think of it as a “licensed living room,” which sounds like fun. I’m going to try to do both, and maybe even busk after last call to raise money for my trip to CodeCon in San Francisco.

Yeah…girls…geez

Mars and Venus vs. Mars and Mars on a date

The Bloggie award-winning site little.yellow.different makes a great point in showing the difference between a man and woman on a date and two men on a date:

A straight date

The Setting: At Claim Jumper.

Guy: Waiter, I’ll have the giant rib platter.

Girl: I’ll have the chicken caesar salad. Wait, can you put the chicken on the side? I would like to have the chicken steamed, not fried, if that’s okay. Well, broiled would be alright too, but make sure you put it in a pan with olive oil and nothing icky like lard or butter, because that would just NOT be cool. Ohmygod, what is the salad dressing? Is it a light vinegarette? It HAS to be a LIGHT vinegarette, NOT those icky creamy dressings. Heck, can you just cut off a crust of french bread? I’ll have that with a glass of Evian. Please.

A gay date

The Setting: At Claim Jumper.

Guy: Waiter, I’ll have the giant rib platter.

Guy #2: Make that two.

Mars and Mars, goin’ at it

On the more raunchy end of the scale comes a tale from my friend Z’s wilder days. Z was at a party with a lot of other gay men, mostly bears (now if you’re not familiar with gay parlance, a “bear” is a large, hairy man). He somehow got into a game of high/low — everyone draws a card from the deck and whoever draws the low card loses the round — a game of strip high-low, that is. Needless to say, unlike strip poker, the clothes get lost pretty quickly. The game had an extra twist: the person who ends up naked becomes the personal slave of the whoever drew the high card. Z drew the high card during that round and earned himself a personal slave.

“Wow,” I said at that point in the story, “you’d never get girls to agree to that. I really must switch teams.”

“So I’m doing the guy in front of a mirror,” Z continued with the story, skipping any extraneous details of what happened after he drew the high card (conciseness — another wonderful guy trait), “when suddenly I push too hard and he goes head first into it and breaks it. I ask him ‘are you okay?’ and he says ‘yeah, keep going’!”

Keep going. Keep going. Geez, a girl would stop if she heard a strange noise coming from three blocks away.

Even within the queer community, the guys know how to have fun much better than the girls do. At the last Pride Day Weekend here in Toronto, a friend of mine said “Note the difference between the two cultures. We have a Gay Pride Parade. The womyn,” — and believe me, you could hear the alternative spelling with the way he was pronouncing it — “have a Dyke March.”

In spite of all the overwhelming evidence, I still prefer this:

to this:

(Oh, my wild moustachio’d years…)

“I can’t read your crazy moon language!”

Actually, I’m starting to comprehend. I’m kind of like the universal translator in the pre-Captain Kirk world of Enterprise: not all the bugs have been worked out, but sometimes the message gets through.

There was an incident this week where a female friend of mine was very frazzled and gave me this wan look and stood a certain way, which I read as “I need a hug.” I approached her, arms in the hugging position, when she actually said “I need a hug.” Eat your heart out, John Gray!

Gig Update

The gig went quite well. I’m a little too busy to post the details and photos right now, but I’ll do so soon. In the meantime, check out this review of Lindi’s album, which appeared in this week’s edition of eye magazine (one of the free “alternative” weeklies here in Toronto)

LINDI
The Taste of Forbidden Fruit

(4 stars)

Not to be confused with the friendly giant of local guitar-pop [they’re referring to a popular guy name Lindy — Joey], this Lindi (also blond, also well-known to local audiences) is an emotive piano chanteuse par excellence. Judging by the quality of the compositions on this, her debut, she’ll soon leave her indie status behind for the next level. Whether she’s playing a sympathetic ear (“Nothing at All“), dreamy romantic (“Coffee Shops”), craftycabaret singer (“Sweet Jezebel“) or naughty little thing (“Naughty Little Thing”), this ingenue displays a remarkable poise and class that belie her 22 years. The bandwagon starts here and now — the intrigued are advised to jump aboard before being forced to shell out 40 bones to see this precocious crooner headline at Roy Thomson Hall.

One point of information: she’s not blonde. Well, not anymore. She was, when the photos for her album and site were taken.

As for the Roy Thomson Hall remark, I have two things to say:

• A high compliment ending a great review! Congrats, Lindi!
• Cool! I’ll get to play accordion at at Roy Thomson Hall!

On Matters Rock and Roll

Yes, Lindi, I’m excited about tonight’s gig

It may not be the release party of my debut CD, but I’m still excited.

If you’re in the Toronto area and you’re looking to hear some really good live music tonight, drop by B-Side (corner of Peter and Richmond Streets, above Fez Batik) and check out Lindi. She’s got beautiful and unusual songs, and one hell of an accordion player backing her up to boot! Neil Leyton will be the opening act, after which he’ll join Lindi and the rest of us as we play songs off her new album, The Taste of Forbidden Fruit. Tickets are $10; if you pay $15, they’ll throw in the CD (the CD sells for $15, so think of it as buying the CD and then getting into the show for free).

Turn the other cheek, you second-rate Pearl Jam-wannabe Bible-thumping poseurs

Last Sunday, at their concert in Cleveland, lame-o Jesus rock band Creed barred Cleveland Plain Dealer music critic John Soeder from reviewing the show. Apparently the band’s publicist was so miffed at a bad review that another Plain Dealer critic wrote for Weathered, their latest album the band has attempted to inflict upon the public. I doubt that the review did them much harm; after all, it spent eight weeks at the number one position on the American rock charts.

Soeder tried to review the show by listening against one of the stadium doors using a plastic cup. In spite of the inconvenience, he still manages to find a silver lining:

I will say Creed was easier to stomach with several muffling layers of steel and stone between us. At least I didn’t suffer from direct exposure to the plodding rhythms of drummer Scott Phillips, the hand-me-down grunge riffs of guitarist Mark Tremonti or Stapp’s prosaic lyrics, often steeped in us-against-them paranoia.

Proof again that the problem isn’t God; it’s Her fans.

Just as bad as the scum at the record companies and the RIAA

A twerpish company with a twerpish product. I don’t feel like expending energy on writing about them (besides, I have Peek-A-Booty stuff to work on), so check out this (a summary in bOINGbOING) and this (a message from one of the coolest lawyers in the world, Fred von Lohmann).

“Unfinished Business” Week, Part 6

Any requests?

I’ve been meanng to expand my accordion repertoire for some time. If you think there are some songs that I should learn how to play on the accordion — and remember that I specilaize in the rock/pop genres — please let me know! The folks at Threadz want me to learn some Sublime, Ollie wants me to learn Guns of Brixton by The Clash and I’m thinking of learning Cake’s Short Skirt Long Jacket and their cover of I Will Survive.

Any other suggestions?

“Unfinished Business” Week, Part 5

Updated “About” Page

The first of many updates to this site. I’ve added a photo gallery sidebar to the “about” page so you can see what a naked man playing accordion looks like.

Go ahead. Click the link. You know you want to…

Shout-outs

Here are some things that I’ve been meaning to say to various people in my life. I will, for the sake of their privacy, not say which thing is for which person. You (and they) will have to figure out that part.

• Bitch, where’s my money?

• It was good seeing you again. It’s been too long.

• Wear looser underwear, man. You’ll feel better.

• Have you ever been serenaded before? Would you like to be?

• You fucked up again. Three strikes – you’re out. And judging by what you’re up to, the remainder of your life will be a series of fuck-ups. Stay the hell away from me.

• Looking forward to the big event, and thanks for mentioning me!

• Your greatest contribution to the world is providing plants with valuable carbon dioxide.

• You don’t know what you’re missing…

• That stuff will eventually melt your brain.

• Stop being such a doormat!

• I believe in you. Why don’t you?

• I know you fear it, but it’s coming for you. And I’m going to watch and laugh.

• You’re a backstabbing weasel, and I’ve seen your stuff. It’s crap.

• I should’ve lured you away from your loser boyfriend.

• No matter what happened, we’ve always persevered, haven’t we? Oh yeah: fuck the new ending.

• Thanks for all the great opportunities. Here’s to your newest one!

• I’ll call soon.

• And you thought I’d never amount to anything. Drop dead, bitch.

• Wait. Just wait. And watch.

• You’re going to grow up to be a fine young man if I have anything to do with it.

• Undressing in front of me was just plain cruel.

• She had more fun with me.

• Yeah, I think I look better with blond hair than purple, too.

• Glad to see you’re back on the meds.

• I know, I should’ve said something.

• How ’bout I go interrupt your work and slap the dick out of your mouth?

• Did I happen to mention that I can cook, too?

• Thank you. For everything.

Soon to be off the list

Just checked the Blogger page, and saw this:

With the next addition to the list, The Adventures of AccordionGuy in the 21st Century gets pushed off. It’s been a nice stay month-and-a-half stay on the “Blogs of Note” list, and I’d like to thank Evan for putting me there as well as everyone who’s been reading (and I know you’ve been reading; I’ve been checking the stats on my web server!).

“Unfinished Business” Week, Part 4

Square Footage, Part 3

(This is a continuation of the story covered in Square Footage, parts one and two.)

As I mentioned in an earlier posting, I referred to four places as “the office” in 2001. The best of these offices was 81 Langton, in San Francisco’s SOMA area.

The company for whom I used to work leased half of the thrid floor of a warehouse in the grungy area near 16th and Potrero. Aside from the expense of paying for a space large enough to hold two simultaneous basketball games and still have enough room for the four of us to work in, the building had other downsides. First, the company off whom we were subletting the space refused to let us share their network closet; their webmaster said that it was a security risk. We ended up spending thousands of dollars building our own network closet because some idiot dot-com was too greedy to share. We also had problems that came up because of the construction that was being done to bring the building up to San Francisco’s earthquake code. There was continuous drilling and jackhammering noise, as well as great clouds of dust. We had to leave the office unlocked to allow the construction workers to enter the office; this resulted in someone sneaking in one night and helping themselves to a couple of new laptop computers. When the landlord announced that they were going to install a brand new set of stairs for the building, we decided that it was time to leave; we didn’t want to have to put up with another six months of construction.

Michelle. our tireless general manager, found a new office in very short order. Two weeks after moving to San Francisco and getting settled into the new office, my stuff was packed and I was getting settled in a newer, nicer office. Check out these photos:

This is a view from the loft, which acted as our meeting room. Below, you can see my desk near the left, Cory’s desk near the window, Michelle’s desk to the right, and the gas heater disguised as a wood-burning stove between Cory’s and Michelle’s desks.

Another view from the loft, showing the staircase, meeting room area and front door.

The work area as seen from office manager Amy’s desk. That’s my desk peeking out from the left, Cory’s semi-deflated Mickey Mouse chair by the pillar, Cory’s desk by the window and Michelle’s deskt to the right.

Ahhh, the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, glazed concrete counters, and stocked by Webvan. That’s a gas stove, too! Nigella would’ve been impressed.

My desk and Leap chair. I later covered up the wall behind me with posters, photos and postcards in a giant collage. The window offered a view right into the downstairs neighbour’s shower.

This was a much better office than the warehouse; in fact, it was the best office I’d ever worked in. It was a mere 15-minute bike ride from home, close to a couple of good places to eat and a bright sunny place in which to work. I was having a blast working there and tore into my work, a good chunk of which was getting ready to represent the company at the O’Reilly Peer-to-Peer Conference in February of that year.

I remember settling into my chair and saying “Yup, I’m really going to like it here.”

Four months later, I was relocated back to Toronto.

Next: San Francisco, you and I have some unfinished business.