My 15 Seconds Of Fame On TheBest Show on WFMU

I called The Best Show on WFMU with Tom Scharpling the other night after being a fan of it and Tom for quite a while. As I put together my podcasts, it’s his voice I hear going, “Work, dummy!” because that’s exactly what he’s done himself. I try to entertain by any means necessary, but he does it, by writing, directing, tweeting, and talking for 3 hours (for no pay!) on the Best Show to a nation’s delight. I wish I had his work ethic, maybe if I’d been born in Jersey.

The Best Show was brought to my attention through the albums released of the phone conversations Tom has had on it with Superchunk drummer Jon Wurster; Tom playing straight man to Jon’s a variety of characters, often from the fictional Newbridge, New Jersey. When I lived in Iowa, I would listen to Scharpling and Wurster almost every day while I wrote my retail book. It was funny, but it was also clever in a way that has influenced my storytelling a lot in the time since.

I hadn’t listened to the show in a while and didn’t know that Tom had just banned all regular callers. It was like driving alone down a 6-lane road. In 1983, my calls for things like Adam Ant tickets in Ft. Lauderdale were answered with a busy signal. In 2011, the host of one of the most popular radio shows in America answered right away.

But I had the wrong number. I recognized Tom’s voice, but I never acknowledged it as he gave me the right line to call. As a listener to the show, I thought it best just to go through the proper channels as to not agitate Tom. He was already dealing with enough from the fallout from the regular caller ban.

As I waited on hold, I got to listen to the show and it was Tom at his prickly best, offering his services as a buffet bouncer so seniors don’t make off with the prime rib. Between that and the Led Zeppelin he played before, it was a good soundtrack to the muted America’s Got Talent that I had on.

What I wanted to share on-air was of a topical nature, in a way. The Gathering of the Juggalos was the weekend before and I used to work with a Jugglette that went. She was smart enough, but oy, the self-created drama! I would start with her joining a dating site called- lord help us all- Juggalove and end with a Justice of the Peace marriage in full ICP-related regalia to a dude we (her ex co-workers following her exploits through Facebook) all thought had died.

I have found it important to write notes when I tell stories like this, so my enthusiasm for telling the story doesn’t make me lose my place. This was what was written on my note page (I won’t subject you to my handwriting). I’ll present without context, because I might want to do a separate post about it and it’s kinda funny that way.


Juggalo that I know
Drama Salvadoran immigrants
Juggalove- Cupcakes, Bonghits, Orgasms, Scrubs
Stadium full of jackasses

Grease Painted White Trash Soap Opera
Jugga-stein 1)allergy 2)Powdered Stimulant
3) Baby Mama
The dude went to jail
She dated a guy that died
And came back then
She married a third guy
Aliases
Take Status Updates Literally
Quasi Sci-fi Rock Musical

How Many More Times
Pinball
Elton John

So I was ready when I heard a slight bit of static and,
“WFMU”
“Hey Tom, it’s Pete from DC.”
“Hey Pete, how are you doing?”
“Pretty well, it seems better than you, big guy. I wanted to try to cheer you up. As you know, The Gathering Of The Juggalos was this weekend and I’d like to tell you about a Juggalo that I know. If that’s OK?”
I heard nothing, “Hello?”
I was disconnected.

That’s cool. I knew the show, I realized that he could have not been interested and to not take it personally, he cuts off people all the time. To be honest, it was a little bit of a badge of honor for me, as pathetic as that may sound.

Yesterday, I listened to the podcast of the show to hear the rest of the show to hear Philly Boy Roy (Wurster)’s call about the Gathering of the EOTs (enemies of Tom), Tom threatening to rain retribution on his high school bullies …..and check out my call. As I was about halfway through my introduction… my voice cut out. Tom didn’t disconnect me, my fucking phone did!

So, I may call again. I might share my absolutely true story about the taxes I’m being forced to pay for royalties I never received for a hit song that I didn’t write.

And I’ll use a landline.

The Irony Alert System!

The thing we forget when we rely on text-based communication is how important body language truly is. With no physical cues or vocal inflections to go by, the raw expression of words paired with our often-poor grasp of grammar can have an unintended impact.

Also, the reconnecting of people over Facebook has it’s own challenges. The people from earlier in your life knew you when you were happy-go-lucky (or as much as you were going to be), before you were beaten repeatedly by fate. They simply aren't used to the sardonic you and, unlike when you were in high school, they now take what you say seriously.

Sarcasm is our gift as English speakers, as most of the rest of the world takes things at face value. I once had to explain it to two Swedish women, but even with the help of another American, I couldn’t explain why something like the Onion was funny, they just saw it as being mean, yet I've rarely been prouder to be an American.

So I created the Irony Alert System, a way to gauge the sincerity of statements, based on the Terror Alert System. Attach it to any blogpost, tweet, status update, or comment. It's an attempt to create more understanding, arguments will continue unabated, but maybe we'll get pissed about the right things.

Red: Irony: using words to suggest the opposite of their literal meaning! I am full-on fucking with you and pulling your metaphoric leg. I don't actually mean a syllable of what I'm saying. This should go without saying, but I'm going to anyway.

On the other end is blue for sincerity. I realize that green is the color on the other side of Terror Alert System, but for me, blue just seemed more apt for the tone; true blue! More earnest than Bono and Jim Varney put together! What I am typing is being dictated from my VERY SOUL! Therefore, all basic rules regarding grammar, punctuation, and over-capitalization will be pushed aside.

Orange: Despite the overall sardonic tone, there’s at least a hint of genuine emotion. To use a personal example: I tweeted a month after the earthquake in Japan whether it was cool to play the song “Radiation Vibe” in front of people yet. Although I was kidding mostly, people don’t actually come to see me play, but if some one said, “Too Soon” (and it was Irony Level Blue), I would understand. It’s the alert color that says, “Hey, I may rock, but I’m not made of stone.”

Green: Discourse on the internet is like a big bottle of snark juice. You can drain it and fill it with sincerity, but you’ll still taste a bit of snark. That’s what the green irony level is all about.

And right in the middle is yellow, the color of yielding. Yielding gets a bad rap these days, but it’s what keep us out of accidents and not just in cars. The yellow alert is wisdom and maturity working together to strike a balance between sincerity and irony. I don’t expect this color to be used all that much.

I'm Back, Baby

The Underachiever's Progress is becoming a podcast. Podcasting seems to be a natural fit with where my mind has been for a while. It's taken me a while to put stuff together and I hope it's as fun to listen to as it is to do.

My motto for it is, "Entertainment By Any Means Necessary", which means: let's roll and see what happens. That's not saying everything that's being recorded is part of it. I'm just opened to the opportunities having live mics in my apartment.

Music, comedy, musical comedy, stories interviews, whatever works. I've already recorded some skits and songs and a VERY loose interview with Filmmaker/uberdrummer Brendan Canty.

I will also be podcasting my Surviving Retail show and a musical called "Ragna-Pop or She's Got The Bomb" but I will also post here more to relieve my need to snark in more than 140 characters.

Stay Tuned.

Lovvers- Popagenda Fail

I went to see a band tonight, Lovvers, that play great songs and put on a great show. But I will never see them again and will never buy any of their music. Why? You may ask, since those are the very traits that send my heart a-flutter? Because the asshole lead singer violated the Popagenda. I went to Comet Ping Pong to catch them; I did the last time they played, but they went on too late for me to stay too long.

I should have been able to pick them out of a line-up:

Ironic T-shirts: Check

Ironic haircuts: Check

So skinny they run the risk of falling through their ass and hanging themselves (and the girl jeans aren't helping): Check

Ironic glasses that were last seen as "spare glasses" that kids used to dread wearing: Check


They have the markings of the North American Hipster Doofus, but they came from England. They might have tried to grow beards too, but I'd be surprised if they were able to grow pubic hair. The drummer carried a canvas tote bag that said in big letters "Fuck Your Blog". I thought what a negative and pointless statement, so very English.

I heard the lead singer grouse that playing was "Pointless" because only 8 people showed up. Then when they played, he complained that one one was getting right up front. But when he said before one song that he was playing in front of "Nobody", I lost it.
"We are not nobody!" I yelled, motioning to the other seven people, WHO WERE REALLY INTO THEM.
"Well, why are you hiding?" He replied to me.
"Who the fuck is hiding?" Comet is slightly larger than a classroom, there is no place to hide.
So I get the next song dedicated to me, accompanied by an middle finger. Clever boy, aping our obscene gestures along with our easy-to-mock affectations.

I was just going to leave, but I thought, fuck it. I stood in front, not aggressively,just trying to enjoy their music. Then I had to dodge, lest I be impaled by the singer's bony hips being thrown at me. Great, asshole, I do what you say and you start shit with me?

After the last song, people wanted to hear more and the lead douche snidely said,"We learned something from Fugazi about encores," and disappeared backstage.

I had a rant boiling up inside me, but the rantee wasn't available, so I took it out on my poor bartender. "Look you limey piece of shit, I know it sucks to play in front of 8 people, but don't fucking insult the people that bothered to show up, someday it might be nobody at all! I played for YEARS those kinds of shows and had to work my ass off to get even that kind of crowd, but I played my heart out anyway because it's a lot more fun to do that than piss off people that like you!"

I have a personal manifesto called "The Popagenda" and the second tenet is: honor every audience regardless of their size or interest. They could always be doing something better than watching your lame ass.

One of my most favorite memories playing with my old band the Milk-O-Matics was one show where we didn't think we were playing in front of ANYBODY, but still rocked out to the best of our abilities. After the show we were unloading and a couple of people came out of the club with one of our posters.
We were surprised, I didn't know where they were hiding.
"Thanks for showing up!" I called out to them.
"No, thank you, THANK YOU!" they replied. We may have only seen a hundred faces, but we rocked most of them.

The Ramones changed the world with 8 people in the audience, to name merely one example. Talk about Fugazi: If they were in your position they would have still delivered the goods without moping and insulting the crowd. Then they would have eight people telling their friends for years how amazing Fugazi was in front of eight people. That's the lesson you should have learned.

Signed, a guy that could have been a loyal fan.

P.S. The blog says, "Fuck you, too."

UPDATE:11/5/09 I actually ran into Fugazi Drummer Brendan Canty- he's a customer at the store and one of the nicest people you'll meet- told him this story and asked him about my guess about how his band would have handled that situation. He sheepishly admitted that he's never played that small a show but said if they had they would have most assuredly kicked out the jams (I paraphrase).
"That's what you're there for," he said. Exactly.
"And if those people wanted to hear more, we would have played more."

Hey, you know who's still alive? Prince!

“Remember when we were kids and we’d fight about who was better: Michael Jackson or Prince? Prince won.”- Chris Rock

Hearing about Michael Jackson’s death didn’t really effect me all that much and I haven’t been sure why. Not that I would have thought I would have pounded my fist into the earth and scream “Why, God, why?!?!” but I thought I would have felt SOMETHING. When I did actually think about it I felt a sense of relief for him, he just seemed to be at war with himself.

The man lived a life that is about as unique as any person could possibly live. He went from being merely famous as a child to being the de-facto king of the world for a good chunk of the Eighties. This set quite the stage for the inevitable fall and with all the records he sold he had the money to fall anyway he saw fit.

But if Prince had died, forget it. I’d be right out there sobbing with the masses, in a bootleg T-shirt celebrating the other Jehovah’s Witness music superstar. I haven’t be listening to much Michael since his death, but I’ve been listening to tons of Prince recently.

This is partially because Spin just did an awesome story about the making of Purple Rain, the movie –and soundtrack -that made Prince’s career, complete with a downloadable Purple Rain tribute album. Did you know that it was basically recorded live? I kinda did, but I’m a music nerd. It wasn’t completely live, but compared to many other albums recorded in the 80’s, it might as well have been recorded on a boom box at practice.

Did you know that Vanity- according to Purple Rain director Albert Magnoli- dropped out of the movie at the last minute to appear in as Mary Magdalene in The Last Temptation of Christ? I wonder how that worked out for her?

Did you know that Wendy and Lisa were an actual, factual Lesbian couple? Thank God I didn’t know that in 1984, it would have been all too much. The fate of the chick that was all up on Wendy in the “1999” video was not disclosed.

Ah, the “1999” video, that was my introduction to Prince. My parents had separated and we moved in with my grandparents in South Florida and got my first real dose of what I had previously only seen when I was able to slip away at gatherings where the hosts had cable: MTV.

Prince was the one person making pop music in the 80’s that I actually liked from the beginning. Except for my metal-head friends, he was the only person we could all agree on; I wasn’t into Janet Jackson and they certainly weren’t feeling The Replacements.

Oddly, I didn’t buy much of his music until I got a bit older; I just didn’t want to explain to my dad why I wanted to buy an album that came with a poster of the artist in bikini bottoms or sang songs like “Jack U Off”. Jeez, I got embarrassed when my parents saw toy commercials. Luckily, I didn’t have to; he got a lot more radio time than most of my other favorites by a light-year.

And the man is still making ridiculous amounts of music- too much, a lot of writers say- and people still flock to his concerts. In short (sorry, Prince), he is still alive and worthy of celebration and that’s just what I intend to do.

In a music nerd side note –and this isn’t in the story- there is kind of this weird connection of Prince’s exes and Motley Crue; Vanity was engaged to Nikki Sixx before she became born-again and Tommy Lee was engaged to Prince’s ex-wife Mytae Garcia. I wonder if he ever came up in conversation.

In yet another music nerd aside- Prince and Larry Graham- bass player for Sly and The Family Stone- have gone door to door together for the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Something tells me that they got a lot fewer doors slammed in their face than most missionaries.

How to have a hit song and not know it.

In 2007, a song I co-wrote, “I Still Burn” was recorded as the debut single of the winner of the German version of “Pop Idol”. It was a smash hit through out Europe, charting in many countries that I have yet to set foot in.

The problem is, I didn’t write that song; someone else named Pete Wright did. When I say I did, it isn’t like claiming responsibility for the achievements of my namesakes, otherwise I could say I played bass for the band Crass and was a former British secret service agent turned author. The difference is that two very important organizations seem to think I did.

First, I’ll start with the IRS, who recently sent me a two thousand dollar tax bill. Although I haven’t seen the bill myself, they said I didn’t claim $16,000 in royalties that I had made in 2007. I made $16,000 in 2007? I sure could have used it; I spent most of that year eating tuna and ramen as I finished my book and spent a few months as a kept man in Texas. I would have loved to take my wonderful then-girlfriend to Outback a couple of times to show my appreciation.

Then there’s ASCAP, the American Society of Composers, Arrangers, and Publishers. This esteemed organization has been vigilantly protecting the rights and royalties of artists such as myself since 1917. Obviously they were much more zealous about my rights than necessary, since I was getting someone else’s money. Since I’m my own record company and get no radio airplay to speak of, I didn’t feel the need to burden ASCAP with the details of my travels over the last few years, so I didn’t give them a change of address. So to my old apartment, fat royalty checks were arriving completely unknown to me.

But between the night I found out about the royalty tax bill and the next day when I was able to investigate the matter, my mind swam with possibilities. To get that much money, the song in question would have to had some substantial sales and airplay. In this country, I’m almost completely obscure, I haven’t sold a physical CD in over 3 years and can’t get a arrested in this town. To think that there was some place on Earth where people were feeling the magic of Your Pal was a thrilling proposition. This hope was dashed quickly by a visit to the real Pete’s myspace page.

Hopefully some one at the IRS reads my blog.

Holy Crap! I'm one degree from Obama!

I've been a big fan of the soon-to-be President for quite a while. Even though he has yet to be inaugurated, he's already made more of an impact on my DC than 8 years of George Bush. Just last week he ate dinner at George Will's house; in the coverage of it, door was opened by his wife Mari, a longtime customer at my toy store and super-nice lady who've I've dealt with many times. It didn't hit me at the time, but this gives me one degree of separation from our new president (or two, I've never been a hundred percent how that works).

But this didn't excite me nearly as much as Obama's recent lunch with DC mayor Adrian Fenty(who's shopped at my store, too)at Ben's Chili Bowl. I have been there many times in various states of intoxication, in fact I even found God there once. Seeing Barack Obama at the same counter that I've ordered my favorite chili cheese fries gave me a thrill that I couldn't easily describe. But a couple of days ago, I figured it out: we often try to follow in the footsteps of greatness, but this time greatness walked in mine.

2008:My Year In Suck

In the excellent Clash documentary Westway To The World, a journalist surmises about Mick Jones’ childhood living with his grandmother in the projects; that he probably looked out on to the westway by where he lived and wondered what was to become of his life. Thinking about my own life, I knew that my family was aggressively middle class, so I didn’t have that feeling of growing up hopeless. I didn’t realize it at the time but I was soon to find out what it felt like to have grown up hopeless.

I didn’t have the Westway, but when I lived in Phoenix I had the South Rim, with the mountains making a hazy outline against the thick smog, visible as milk in the cereal bowl of the valley. I wondered, what the fuck now? I still don’t know.

To finish my book, I kind of took myself “off the grid” as it is popularly said. I spent a huge part of 2007 living at a house in Iowa, then in Texas living with my then-girlfriend. I finished the book and unfortunately the relationship didn’t work out, so I tried moving back to the DC area and you know, get back on “The Grid.”

The Grid keeps throwing me back off.

January: After unsuccessful attempts to get a job (although I worked the Christmas season at my old toy store job. It was only part-time, so it was only partly masochistic) and a place to live, I move in with my Mom in Phoenix. As I may have mentioned…

Pros- I get to spend more time with my family, especially my niece and nephews.
Cons- Just about every other god-damn thing about it.

I fucking hate Phoenix, and I got to spend part of the summer there. People love to say, “But it’s a dry heat!” So is being on fire. Tim Roth in the movie Bodies, Rest and Motion when he said an Arizona summer was good practice for Hell.

July: After saving enough money from working at a place that refills printer cartridges, I move back to the DC area. Not wanting to repeat previous mistakes I get a place to live with my friend Misha and a place to work full-time. It’s at my friend Dave’s guitar store, so it’s kind of the perfect job for me. Or it may have been if my hours were constantly getting cut until I only worked two days a week. I understood their need to cut costs, but my landlord would probably not be as understanding.

Fall ’08: I got another job pretty quickly, as a theater manager at the new Montgomery Cinema and Drafthouse. As with many new places, the inspections and finishing touches took a little while, so thank God for those two days a week at the Guitar Store. When it finally opened, the stress of juggling and putting out fires (metaphorically, of course), almost got the best of me there. I got laid off at the Guitar store, which I didn’t mind at the time because it magically gave me two days off a week, up from zero.

After a while I really started to enjoy my work and even got promoted to shift manager. A new wrinkle developed by chance one night when I got pushed on stage to introduce a comedy show there and did about 5 minutes worth of material that went over pretty well. My bosses said that I could do some more MCing if I wanted to. Uh, yea, I do!

Then it closed. Just a bit before Christmas, in the midst of an economic panic. What the fuck was I going to do?

2008 fucking sucked. But looking my life right now, the evidence of how lucky I really am is impossible to ignore.

Of course there’s my Mom, for letting me live with her and trying to help me out of the paralyzing depression that dominated the first half of this year.

There’s Misha, who took me in when I needed it and made moving back to the area that I feel most comfortable in possible.

There’s Steven, my boss at the toy store. His help this year has saved my ass more times –especially- this year more times than I can relate.

And last, but certainly not least, is my friend Shawn, who has supported me in every conceivable way this year.

Overall, I’m doing pretty well considering that I got laid off twice this year. I have a roof over my head and no out of control debt. I actually have a job, albeit one that has almost driven my literally insane in the past. After the year I just had, the stresses there are a lot easier to deal with. Yes, it’s sad that I am wistful for when I was merely unhappy, but that seems to be as much as anyone can hope for with what everyone else is going through. We as Americans are not used to worrying so much about our survival, but we’ve learned a valuable lesson that much of the rest of the world already knows: until you stop worrying about survival, fretting about happiness is a luxury that’s easily left behind.

2009 has to be better, right? We can still hope, so I will. Happy New Year and many happy returns to everyone. I don’t have any resolutions personally, I just want more of what this year sorely lacked: money, security and happiness.

Oh, and feminine affection. Much more of that, please!

My Failed Seduction

Realizing that my readership has dropped WAY off, I can be a bit more honest in expressing myself in a blog fashion. Flat out, I've been almost stupefyingly lonely the last few months. The only thing that has helped is just trying NOT to be, like some imaginary someone standing over me slapping me in the face until I don't feel lonely anymore. This is a story from before I learned to "deal".

A couple of months ago, I had a female friend visit me for that wonderfully ambiguous activity known as “hanging out”. I wanted to use this opportunity to make an in earnest pass at her. I had always been very attracted to her, but didn’t have the kind of fantasies that I had have starring some of my other female friends. But the possibility that she just MIGHT be receptive to a pass from me changed that quickly in my deluded mind.

It was pretty obvious that this wasn’t going to work very quickly. She had spent the day with a woman that she was attracted to, took out her sexual frustration on her ex-boyfriend and was IMing a third person that she had never met. As she talked about the stew of drama in her life, she admitted that she probably enjoyed it on some level. It was right about then that I added another ingredient: I told her of my plan to seduce her.

“You were not!”she said, lightly slapping me on the shoulder. I was, actually. "Well, I'm flattered," she said, which I know from TONS of experience means, "Thanks, but no thanks." Shit, I even wrote a song about it( although I wrote it about a gay man hitting on me).

As my friend left, I realized that it was probably a good idea that it didn’t work, although my loneliness continued unabated. With the two texting conversations going on while we watched a movie, it was the next best thing to being by myself. I opened the door to my newly clean bedroom and quickly realized that the dog had peed in the corner.

It was not my night.

The Graduation Party

A little over a decade ago, I was at a college graduation for a friend of mine that I had known for a while. Meeting members of her family, I had my eye drawn to one of her cousins. I thought that she might be young, but I was surprised to learn she was only 18. Talking with her and my friend, I found out that she was the same cousin that accompanied us to a Cure concert in 1987. I was shocked because she bared no resemblance to the 13 year girl that I remembered from back then. Obviously my baldness gave a her a similar problem.

“No, you didn’t go with us,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Yes I did, “ I said, ”Disintegration tour, Cap Centre.”
“That’s the show, but it wasn’t you. There was Mike, there was Cess there was Pete.”
“Yes, Pete. I’m Pete.”
“No this Pete had,” she put her hands flat 8 inches over her scalp to signify the empire of hair I once. Short back and sides with a longish moppy mushroom up top is how I wore it when I wore a younger man’s hair. But those days were gone.

I was that Pete alright, that show was the beginning of the end of my –screwed up-relationship with my Cessi, my ex-fiancée. I had made a mistake of saying that Cindy Crawford looked awesome on the cover of the new Cosmo, and she was very upset about it. She was never shy about saying who she was attracted to who was not me, but the fact that this was the first time I had said something about someone that wasn’t her justified her hurt. At the show, she pointed to a girl sitting behind us asking me, “Isn’t she pretty?”
“Sure,” I shrugged and I swear I never looked at her again, not wanting to exacerbate our situation. After the show, she sulked the 3 hour drive home saying that I had stared at that girl all night. My protests to the contrary were negated by Mike, who said he noticed the same thing. Did I mention that she cheated on me with Mike most of the time we were together? It wasn’t my last dysfunctional relationship, alas, but it did set a pretty high standard for me.

I didn’t unload this part of the story for her, this is just for you (you’re welcome!), but this memory added to my frustration dealing with her disbelief that I wasn’t present at such a significant moment in my life.

“You know, you’re about 6 inches taller than you were then, but I still believe it’s you!”