January 2009 Archives

Hey kids! It's time for a bright new era of ceaseless hilarity, courtesy of yours truly, The Gargoyle. For those of you who aren't yet in the know, here's how it works: I'll be regularly posting a healthy dose of all things "arty." This means that you get even more high-quality cranial seepage straight from our mentally unstable staff. Better than a truckload of Turkish corn gruel? We think so. Enjoy!

 I stepped into Jon's Ford Taurus, vastly under-prepared for an interview.  Jon informed me that he had spent most of the day answering questions in telephone interviews by various papers around the state.  The interviews were to publicize a number of concerts they had planned around the state before going on tour.  All of them asked him the same exact questions: "How did you get your name?" and "What genre would you classify your music as?"  None of them knew anything about the band. 

I quickly threw out half of my prepared questions and asked Jon about my favorite song, "Friendship."  It starts with the line: "I froze my hands, broke my fingers off, gave them to my friends as a gift 'cause a rift has formed between us.  I froze my hands, broke my fingers off, gave them to my friends as a gift but two of them were misinterpreted."  I asked him if the lyrics in the song were true.  Jon smiled, held up his hands and waved his fingers.  He lowered his head and I thought I heard him mumble, "I wish I had gone through with it."  I immediately regretted the question.  He lifted his head and explained that the lyrics and the music had been written independent of one another.  "One day, the band started playing the music and I jumped in and it fit."

Before arriving at the bowling alley, Jon told me a story about moving a piano with four very large men.  One of the very large men, who had an infected lung, had recently been in a road rage-related fight with a much smaller man.  The short driver got out of his car and punched the very large man in his infected lung.  This angered the large man, causing him to knock the short guy out cold.  

Jon added that he was especially bad at moving pianos, though he had moved many of them, "My job is to make sure it doesn't tip.  There is no reason for me to even help." He delivered that statement with a surprising pain, as he sighed.  I compared his piano moving exploits with my own pool table-moving stories, trying to cheer him up, but the man was blue through and through.

We all arrived at the alley and found out to our dismay that it was a league night and completely packed.  We reconnoitered, made a few quick calls, and decided to pick up Matt Thomson and proceed to Bel-Mark Lanes on Jackson Road.  The adventure's plot thickened.

When we arrived at Matt's house I was slightly disappointed to find that Mason Proper did not, in fact, live in a grass-carpeted apartment à la the Beatles in Help. Jon and Matt discussed a few points of band business, though it sounded suspiciously like it was spoken in code.

"The falcon has finished its gig, the shipment will arrive at the drums sometime next Tuesday. Tell Pancho there is a cash bar in the club." Quickly changing the subject, Jon pointed out to me that Matt had bowled competitively in high school.

We got turned around a few times on the ride before arriving at the second alley.  Noting the various men in black trench coats riding in the cars around us and Jon's erratic driving, I began to get an eerie sense that we were being followed. At 7:39 pm, Matt saw a shooting star out the car window. Jon was convinced it was a helicopter.