KINDLE

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EVERYTHING ELSE

From book jacket:

The world has problems! And no one knows that better than God. (He sees everything, remember?) He decides it’s time for that ultimate wake-up call. Only this go-round, the Big Man is giving his Daughter a shot. Her name is Ilona. She’s 18, lives in the East Village, listens to alternative music, dates, drinks, and has no problem telling the Pope and the President that they better get their act together…pronto! But like every Savior, Ilona has a deadline. She needs to get her message (the 11th commandment: “Be Kind”) across now. And what better way than through the media. She becomes a sensation, promoting her word on various talk shows, and from her vantage point on the cover of every magazine. Ilona is the new “It” girl, the messiah for the X-Generation: cool, quirky, and sexy. And as Jesus Christ’s kid sister, she’s not about to take any crap from the men who’ve been running the show. As with her Brother before her, there are the doubters amongst us. People who feel that God has no right rewriting the Bible and that Ilona is the black sheep of the Holy Family. But God is not about to stand by and watch as his little girl is “crucified.” He’s had enough of the hypocrisy, and takes out a little revenge on those who refuse to believe…opening the door for Ilona to work her divine magic.

THE SECOND GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD is a comic gem of a tale, reminiscent of the work of Nick Hornby, Tom Perrotta, and Kurt Vonnegut, which the New York Times called “an irreverent look at the Second Coming” while the Los Angeles Times said it was “a very very funny book.” Hip, enchanting and life affirming, like a female “The Catcher in the Rye,” THE SECOND GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD tackles all the big issues: Good, Evil, and Rock ‘n’ Roll.

And of course they weren’t the only ones. Lame is the new creed for rock bands. Wimpy is the new balls.

But instead of focusing on the pathetic, let’s look at the few great albums released this year:

The best record of 2011, hands down, nothing came close, was “Past Lives, Martyred Saints” by EMA. It was raw, damaged, out of tune. The songs could rock you one minute, then haunt you for the rest of your life the next. Layers of vocals, upon almost Archers Of Loaf-like guitars. Lyrically you were left to wonder how she made it through recording the album alive. And if when she sings “I wished that every time you touched me left a mark” doesn’t send shivers down your spine, then check the old pulse. This album certainly left a mark on me. (In this iTunes generation, I’m going to list the one song for each record. This is where you should start. A song that will tell you all you need to know. With EMA, start with “Marked.”)

Speaking of Archers. The masterful reissue of their brilliant debut “Icky Mettle” was another highlight (and I know it doesn’t count as a new album, but I don’t care). Quite simply, it’s the best album of the 90s (with “Versus the Greatest of All Time,” the best rock EP of all time on the second disc). And “Web In Front” is probably the greatest song ever written. Yes, I love this band. And yes, if you don’t know them, you’re life is empty and meaningless. (There isn’t a bad track, and “Web” is too obvious, so start with “Bacteria,” which is so mind-numbingly brilliant, it might make your head explode, especially if you like shit like Foster the People.)

You’ve got to love the original Web video:

Then came Wilco’s “The Whole Love.” Their best since “Yankee,” an amazing collection of songs from one of the best songwriters of our time. Some of it was sprawling, much of it was poppy and beautiful, and then there was the fuzz bass, and that noise guitar at the end of “Art of Almost”— I get chills thinking about it! A great record! (Speaking of sprawling, start with “One Sunday Morning.”)

Crooked Fingers’ “Breaks In The Armor” was Eric Bachmann’s best songwriting since this band’s eponymously titled debut. He sounds energized, his word-play as sharp as ever, and the album’s sparse production makes every note ring true. (Pop on “Bad Blood,” and let it sink its teeth into you.)

The “Kitchen Tapes” version of Lucinda William’s “Blessed.” It sounds as if she’s singing for you…privately…in your freakin’ kitchen. The over-production of the actual album is gone, and we’re left with that voice and some off-kilter guitar playing. But really, Lucinda Williams singing to you in your kitchen!!! What the fuck more do you need? (Start with “I Don’t Know How You’re Livin’.” – it will break your heart.)

Sleeper Agent’s “Celabrasion” was my guilty pleasure for 2011. Sort of Blondie meets T- Rex, but then there ain’t nothing wrong with that. It’s about as poppy as I get. A lot of fun! (Start with “Get Burned.”)

Deer Tick’s “Divine Providence” is a great record in which they channel the spirit of The Replacements, right down to Bob Stinson’s “wrong note at the right time” way of soloing. It’s the perfect album for long drives on a summer night. Probably their best. And it makes me can’t wait for what’s coming next. (Start with “Funny Word.”)

Another great rock record from another great under-appreciated rock band is “Unpersons” from Vancouver’s The Pack A.D. Even if you’re sick of Black Keys/White Stripes schtick, give these gals a shot. To me they play with a genuine love for what they’re doing. No pretense. No ego. They’re having fun. (Start with “Haunt You.”)

Wild Flag’s eponymously titled debut like-wise rocked. And I truly loved about half of it. Probably would have made one of the best EPs we’ve heard in years. (Start with “Romance.”)

Ryan Adam’s “Ashes and Fire” – I’ll admit it took me a while to get into this album, it took me seeing him live at a church in Eugene, Oregon. But then the songs came alive. And it became the CD I’d play in my hotel room when I was along, on the road. It made me think of home. It made me miss my wife and dogs. It just worked…beautifully. (Start with “Dirty Rain.”)

Matthew Ryan’s “I Recall Standing As Though Nothing Could Fall” is another beautiful collection of song writing. Ryan’s voice always kills me. And it was nice to hear him end the album with one of his most rocking tracks in years. (Start with “Summer in the South.”)

And lastly Dark Mean’s eponymously titled album. Really dig this guy’s voice, and the banjo! Another fun record that just keeps growing on you with every spin. The hints of Ryan Bingham popping through in the sound don’t hurt. (Start with “Happy Banjo.”)

That’s it. Hopefully there’s something new here you can enjoy. And likewise, hopefully I’ll never have to fucking hear “Pumped Up Kicks” again for as long as I live.

I leave you with this gift from Mr. Bachmann…

I was down in Tampa for the world premiere of Color Me Obsessed at a festival where my own Friends (With Benefits) won best feature the year before. I was waiting in line like everyone else to get into the closing night film, talking to a friend and one of the volunteers. Suddenly the director of another doc that was playing the fest (a doc that also played HBO), interrupts, and rudely announces that she’s a filmmaker, and she wasn’t about to stand in this line. I’m not joking here, she was really rude.

The volunteer of course brought her into the theater, and as she walked away I said (a lot louder than I thought), “what a fucking cunt.” No one in line disagreed.

I hold to that sentiment. And actually wished I had found myself on a filmmaking panel with her, because I would have gladly told her to her face.

There’s no reason to behave as she behaved. It certainly won’t make anyone in line want to see your film. It certainly won’t make the fest organizers want you back. (Or course, she was dealing with a volunteer, whom I’m sure she felt was subhuman.)

There’s just no excuse. Treat people that you yourself would want to be treated. Seems like common sense. Doesn’t it? (Perhaps they should teach THAT in film schools. And remove “Entitlement 101″ from the curriculum.)

“A director who doesn’t edit what he shoots isn’t really a director.”

and

“It’s said that people have pets because they can’t have effective relationships with other people. I believe it’s the other way around: people have relationships with other people because they can’t have effective relationships with their pets.”

Not to mention still living off a rock high from those two Mats tribute shows thrown by Jesse Malin, Todd Youth, and company after the two sold out Color Me Obsessed screenings in NYC last week.

But even more than that. It’s been a great year for so many reasons. To shoot the Archers of Loaf live, and have three of my favorite people in the world (Jan Radder, Sarah Hajtol, and Adrian Correia) by my side as I’m doing it. Is there anyone I’d prefer to make a film with? No. These are the guys that make my life easy.

To have so many other films that excite me in developement. To be working with Lynn Mancinelli again. And the new people on the crew (Taryn, Andrew, and Cory) who are such rising stars.

For the acquaintances who became good friends over this past year: Diane Welsh, Katie Dickie. And the friend who became such an important part of my team: Dean Falcone.

For the attention lavished on CMO. It’s been a nice surprise to have taken the risk, and have it pay off. I am humbled.

For the two stinky dogs who bring a smile, love, warmth to every day of my life.

And to be able to share all of this with the woman who’s been by my side for 19 years as my wife, 24 years as my best friend. The partner who still cries when she feels I’ve done something really well. And who has no problem telling me when I haven’t. I love you, Kris.

I have a lot to be thankful for…

“This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by Gorman Bechard. Sorry about that.”

REALLY?

“Sorry about that!!!!”

Shouldn’t it be more along the lines of: “The person who posted this was a thieving asshole who had no right to post it in the first place. His account has been canceled.”

I mean, seriously, who’s side is YouTube on? The illegal poster’s? Or the person getting raped by their service by people who can post whatever they want?

YouTube needs to get a grip on reality, grow a pair of balls, and stand up for the people getting ripped off, instead of kissing the asses of the illegal posters.

Either that or one of these fucking pirates needs to have their head beaten in with a baseball bat, just as we would if we caught them breaking into our home. No difference.

Except pirates are enabled by YouTube and their like.

It’s bullshit.

“What makes them so douchy?” you ask. Well, two things in particular in regards to festivals.

1. Most festival are limited in the amount they can spend on bringing filmmakers to their weekend of film. So, it’ll usually be a handful of us mingling. Now, I will always try and see everyone’s film. Attend the Q&A’s. Even ask questions. I try to get involved. I’m there to work. Festivals might seem like a vacation. Ask my wife, they’re anything but. You have to be on, you have to schmooze, you have to be selling yourself and your film every moment. Part of that involves seeing other films, supporting other filmmakers. I’ve even been told by fest directors that every time they turn around they see me walking into a screening. And nothing makes them happier. But what pisses me off (and even more so fest directors) are the filmmakers who take all the travel perks, come into town, screen their film, do a half-assed Q&A (you can always tell the douche bags by their Q&A’s), then sleep, drink, sightsee…basically do anything BUT watch other films. They expect you to watch their masterpieces. But can they return the favor? No. Of course not. (And these are usually the same film school assholes who at their Q&A expound on how filmmaking is such a collaborative art form, and how great it is to be involved in the filmmaking community. HORSESHIT!) These filmmakers annoy the piss out of me because they don’t realize filmmaking is a job. Instead of being thankful for being flown and put up in a strange town, they believe it’s deserved. Such is their sense of entitlement. Of course these are always the one “hit” wonders who soon discover filmmaking isn’t for them, and are soon making bad cappuccinos at Starbucks. Karma is a beautiful thing!

2. The other inexcusably douchy thing filmmakers do all the time: cancel on festivals at the last minute. I know one fest director who paid for flights and rooms for three members of a specific filmmaking team, only to have them not show. And look, I know shit happens. But fellow filmmakers, unless someone VERY close to you is dead or in the hospital dying, likewise for yourself, or unless you house burned to the ground, THERE IS NO EXCUSE. You’re fucking over not only a fest director who liked your work enough to invite it to their fest (and remember the director of a small fest today, is often running a much larger fest tomorrow), but also the audience who might have wanted to ask you a few questions. And mostly you’re fucking yourself in so many unpleasant ways. The fest director has identified you as a douche, and will never go near one of your films again. They’ll spread the word to other fest directors that you are Douche of the Year on their short list. Plus you lose the chance to mingle with potential fans, potential buyers of DVDs and VOD. And you miss out on sleeping through the screenings of the other filmmakers, which you would have skipped anyway.

Actually the more I think about it. The festival, the other filmmakers, and even the patrons, are better off without you there. Stay home. Practice your barista skills. They’re going to come in handy for you one day.

Time doesn’t seem to erase how much I still miss him. And as I said last year, I don’t think a day has passed since in which I haven’t missed the way he always made me laugh. What follows (below the photo of my tattoo, and the shot of Kilgore which inspired it) is one of the best thing I feel I’ve ever written…certainly the most heartfelt. I present it again as originally written. Hug your pet, grab a box of tissues and read on…

A tumor the size of a grapefruit. I saw it on the x-ray, filling the space between his liver, his spleen, and his stomach. Perhaps encroaching on his lungs as well. Suffocating Kilgore Trout from the inside out.

At first we thought it was a reaction to Previcox. A drug given to him just about four weeks ago to help with his hips. He was having the worst time walking, this glorious pup who would jump, would bounce, like on a trampoline whenever he saw me.

(watch the clip that now opens my website as proof…it’s 45 seconds that will make you smile.)

At first the drug did wonders, until he stopped eating, starting vomiting. Side effects all, so many serious side effects. How could this fucking killer pill be on the market?

I am angry. I am seething. I know Previcox did not kill my dog, but it certainly didn’t help there in the end. A shot of Pepcid did for a while. But still the appetite nowhere near the vacuum cleaner-like enthusiasm with which he used to eat. Less and less every day. And the vomiting returned. Bile, from his mostly empty stomach.

More Pepcid. But it didn’t seem to help this time. Finally a trip to the vet. You could see it in her face as she checked him stomach. Perhaps we should get him x-rayed…now. The normally busy hospital would take us NOW.

So I dropped my wife at home so she could tend to our other dog, and drove Kilgore down to Central Hospital in New Haven. It was quick. He sat by my feet afterwards as I waited on word. The receptionist said the vet wanted to speak with me. She gave me the news. None of it good.

How long does he have? I asked. A few days, was the response. Or perhaps to the beginning of next week. (This was a Thursday.) The x-ray technician showed me the tumor. It was massive. All encompassing. There was nothing to do but make him comfortable during his last few days.

But a small meal of Kentucky Fried Chicken pulled from a breast was all he could manage. A few strips of it really. And a little water to follow. That would be his last meal. My dog who could eat anything and everything, from a full edition of the Sunday New York Times to financial magazines (he especially loved to “tear into” MONEY and KIPLINGER’S) to, well…anything he could find in the yard., gross or not.

Whenever I put a 12-pack of beer away, he’d wait patiently, then snatch the empty box as I pulled out the last beer and put it into the fridge. Then he’d play keep-away with it, or tug-of war. Or he’d lie right down and start ripping it to confetti. He especially loved Rolling Rock boxes.

But he could eat anything and everything, always without repercussion. Now, nothing…

He walked around on his own on Friday. Venturing out into the yard, up on the couch with a little help. He wagged his tail, but mostly slept a lot.

That night, Friday, what would be his last night (october 24), I slept on the couch with Mr. Trout. Well, he slept on the couch. I was mostly on the coffee table, but that was ok. He rested his chin on my leg, I scratched him behind his ear.

My wife and I kept asking anyone we knew…how would we know when it was time to put him to rest? Well, he told us.

Kilgore got up twice that night, went out into the yard, slowly, but surely. But then came the morning. Almost two days now without food or water. And when it came time for him to go outside, he made it through the door, but had to lie down after only a few steps. He couldn’t get up. We knew…

We had already made an appointment at the vet for Saturday morning. Originally for a check up to see if there was anything else we could do. But now I needed to call them, and change the appointment until late in the day. The last appointment of the day.

He couldn’t really walk, so I carried my friend out to my Jeep and laid him down in the back. And, the three of us took his final ride. My wife sat in the back with him, as I went into the vet office to make sure everything was ready. Then I carried him in and laid him on the table.

After a while the vet came in an asked if we were ready. No, how could anyone ever be ready? But I knew he was in pain, I knew he was so tired, and I certainly didn’t want that thing inside of him to burst.

He lay, as he always did at night, two paws straight out in front, his chin resting perfectly centered between them. I squatted down so that I was nose-to-nose with my friend. He never took his eyes off me as the doctor administered the drug that would put him to sleep.

When his eyes finally closed, I kissed his head. Something he so hated until a few weeks ago. I’d always do it at night, and he rub at the top of his head with his paws as if I’d given him cooties, or something. It was a ritual. But he was wagging tail. And in my heart I always believed he was perhaps embarrassed in front of the other dogs, like why was I kissing his head in public?

But this would be the last time I’d get to kiss the top of Kilgore’s head.

Goodnight, my sweet prince, perhaps one day we’ll meet up on the other side.

(i.miss.you.)

(so.fucking.much.)