Roadie for a Day.

"Hey Peter Frampton, do you like toast too? As do I. It is warm and crispy. And the perfect place for jelly to lay. Now get away from me Frampton, I ain't got shit to say to you!" -- Mitch Hedberg

Those of you who know me well know that I am a bit of a Phish fan. (Just a bit.) So when Phish guitarist and bonafide rockstar Trey Anastasio brought his band into Bates College in an event organized by my sister's department, I knew it was an opportunity for a brush with greatness that I couldn't miss.

And I had every opportunity. We drove up from my parents' home on the coast to Bates early in the morning, where we unloaded and set up tons of gear. My sister's boss, knowing I had traveled across the country for a chance to rub elbows with Big Red, gave me an all-access backstage pass. I was one of only about a dozen folks to hear soundcheck. I hung out backstage during the opener in the crew area, eating Thai food and nervously downing Diet Pepsi. I thought about what I would ask him if I got the chance, thinking about Vegoose and spying the guitar wizard rocking out at stage left during the Arcade Fire set.

The Man passed by me backstage five minutes before he took the stage-- him accompanied by a tour manager, me standing by myself, chowing on steamed rice. It was the moment I had flown out for. But instead of pulling a Wayne and Garth, all I could think of was the joke by the late, great stoner-comedian. And so all I offered was a double-take, and a half-yelled "Have a great show."

Trey took a few steps, turned to me, and offered a genuine "Thank you. Thanks a lot." And that was that.

****

I don't regret withholding my words. Those of you who know me know I won't press myself into awkward situations very often. So what was I supposed to say to someone who I had absolutely no common ground with? Mitch had it right with Frampton-- you just admire 'em, tell 'em they're doing a great job, and let 'em do their thing. "Have a great show" seemed just right.

The rest of the experience on Saturday was equally memorable. I was a roadie all day, and learned a great deal about what it takes to produce a major touring show. The production manager (who had run Phish's tours since '99) was uber-organized, great with the volunteer help he had onboard, and very personable. I shot the shit with the tour manager (Dickie Scotland) about databases, and helped lightman Chris Kuroda disassemble and package the light and soundboards. We took opening band Tea Leaf Green's equipment offstage after their set, in front of 1500 people. I handled the Trey band's keyboards and chatted up their guitar tech. We got ice for the tour bus and Thai food for the dressing rooms backstage. I lugged hella equipment, and my right arm is basically useless at the moment. Most importantly, my all-access pass allowed me in front of the crowd-control barricade for the encore. There we were, my sister and I, with the best seats in the house. From there, I just sat, admired, and smiled. Very cool.

Unless I get a job in the industry, this weekend was the most access I will likely ever have to such a concert. It was a great time. Even if I didn't have shit to say.

Achieving Seniority.

Today, I received a nominal name change; a promotion, if you want to split hairs. Now I have to remove the "Applications Engineer" moniker from my license plate holder, and hit up the trophy shop for a "Senior Applications Engineer" desk engraving.

What does a Senior Applications Engineer do? Well, let me summarize:

Senior Applications Engineer: Demonstrable facility of application technologies; good functional knowledge of key Product areas and superior functional knowledge of select Product features; communicates with other Product Teams, resolves customer issues, good self-management skills.

These are the things I've picked up in the past year at work. But now that I think about it, I think I've qualified for a Senior-level position in several other areas in the past year. For example, I think I could now cut the mustard as a:

Senior IKEA Architect: Easily handles variety of screwdrivers and hammers; able to coordinate multiple furniture pieces in a single space; adequately budgets flat packs for time and space; working knowledge of Swedish pronunciation; debit card(s).

Or how about:

Senior Karaoke Soloist: Able to perform solo or in harmony with collaborators of varying pitch; conversational in Bon Jovi and Journey; good decision-making skills regarding placement of "Thriller" and "Careless Whisper;" interpretive dance skills a plus.

And certainly:

Senior Quiznos Tester: Affinity for fresh ingredients a must; willingness to accept new sandwich challenges, double meat offers a plus. Proficiency in bread, sauce and pepper selection should be advanced. Must be willing to frequent a single franchise to develop an awkward relationship of mutual recognition with owner. May be asked to prepare a competitive analysis of Subway offerings.

Other promotions due: Senior Commuter, Senior Alt-Tabber, Senior Fox Watcher, and of course, Senior Nerd. I think I might be a Vice President in that category, actually. With that, good night.

Kind regards,
Jeff
Vice President of Playlist Indification, Mobile Devices and Protecting Your Wireless Router
Initrode Corporation

Let Me Explain Myself.

OK. The photos from our second party would suggest some things to the uneducated observer.

That I enjoy dressing up in foam rubber and a jolly cap.

That I am a fan of aviator glasses.

That I enjoy being felt up en masse.

That would be somewhat misleading. Let me set the record straight on these controversial issues.

First, the slot machine costume. This was inevitable. I will be starting the day of Halloween somewhere in Las Vegas, after attending the Vegoose music festival. I had talked a good game about "ooh, maybe I should drive back from Vegas in a slot machine outfit" that, when it magically appeared in front of the #22 bus stop, it needed to be bought. There was no debate, no turning back. No, I will not be going to the Castro in it. No, I will not say why.

Second, the aviator glasses are in honor of Fleet Week in San Francisco, and were a concession. Because it was Fleet Week, full of air shows, Judy, Susan, Brynn and John all asked if I was going to wear the Goose costume that I donned at the Tainted Love concert. Considering I needed to drink water for two straight days after doing that, I voted no. Aviators. So hot right now. Aviators.

Now, as for the disproportionate amount of groping that I receive in these photos... well, I like to think that my Bowie-like aura transcends gender. That my Michael Jackson-like moves transcend race. And a fridge full of beer, cabinet full of top-shelf liquor, and laptop full of '80s hits and early-to-mid '90s hip-hop transcend about everything else.

Not that the public will care, when these photos see the light of day during my Congressional campaign. They will see the "Like A Prayer" montage and instead vote Smilowitz into office. You're no fun, 1st District. No fun at all.

The Retartist.

Retarded, plus artist. Retartist. That's me.

I am taking a painting course at a small, local studio in North Beach. It is Beginning Acrylic Painting, an eight-session course. We have completed two sessions thus far. It may be early, but I think it's sufficiently late to determine that whatever artistic ability I had in middle school has been severely compromised by the cookie-cutter, code-monkey job I have and the extensive left-brain training I endured at MIT. Symptoms include looking at individual parts and characteristics of a subject instead of the whole subject, excessive worry about the nature of details, and attention to the last points given in class, and only the last points given in class. I guess I just need to practice, is all. Get a feel for what works and what doesn't-- intuition, the right-brain stuff.

At least the teacher seems nice. Although, I can't tell if his comments are more words of encouragement, or that he is so dumbfounded by my utter incompetence that he is unable to muster anything else. I'm hard at work at the drawing board, and he'll look over my shoulder, saying:

T: "Great."
Encouraging Interpretation: "This is starting to look like an actual painting."
Probable Interpretation: "I almost feel guilty taking your money for this class."

T: "I like how this has an abstract style."
EI: "You are drawing stylistically, as opposed to photographically."
PI: "That looks more like a chicken nugget than a leaf."

T: "I really like your use of color here."
EI: "You are exercising your newfound knowledge of color balance and the value range."
PI: "Are you colorblind or stupid? You've gotta be at least one. My money's on stupid."

T: "Maybe you want to touch up this part of the painting."
EI: "I like the other sections, and working on this section would balance the piece."
PI: "If Bob Ross were alive, he'd happy-little-cloud you to death."

So, we move from pastels to actual paint next week, so if I've learned anything in these last two weeks, it's that not only will my painting look like the desperate smearing of a dyslexic five year-old, but I'll get some in my eye. But hey. At least I'm having fun. And not drinking. And leaving work early on Mondays. And that's more than enough for me.