Thomas Mahoney

Casper is in a new band. They are called White Arrows. Check them out on July 11th.

(This is one of those blog posts I had reservations about making public, so enjoy it before I freak out and pull it down.)

“I remembered everything.” – The Cure

“I remember nothing.” – Joy Division

In June 1998, after my sophomore year in college, I turned 20. It would be my first full decade as a completely operational adult (I’m sure there’s a healthy percentage of people out there who’d claim I still haven’t reached any reasonable form of maturation). As I hit the big three-oh this week, it’s time to look back on the past 10 years of my life. I still feel mostly shitty when I write anything vaguely autobiographical, but fuck it, reflection is an important part of the life process, right? So, anyway:

I lived through Y2K. Fuck yeah!

I met thousands of people. And I was fortunate enough to like a handful of them.

I lived in four different cities: Portland, ME; Seattle, WA; Boston, MA; Los Angeles, CA.

I had 3 ½ serious relationships. The ½? Hard to explain; she knows who she is and that if I weren’t being honest, she wouldn’t even be counted.

I played in 3 bands and contributed to several others. That equals zero gold albums, zero hits, and zero money made, but as the credit card promises you, certain things have value exceeding any monetary stamp.

I owned 4 computers: 2 laptops and 2 desktops. And all made by a company with a logo Eve took a bite out of.

I traveled to 43 states and 3 countries. Still haven’t been to Alaska, but I love it.

I didn’t eat one ounce of red meat. But all the cows I didn’t eat still went to heaven.

I started off the first three years of my 20s the way I entered them: straightedge. After a brief breaking in period, I then made up for a quarter century of being sober by drinking all the poison I could handle. Thankfully, I’m not thirsty anymore. Or better, thankfully for YOU I’m not thirsy anymore.

One fractured rib. One dislocated shoulder. One cracked skull. A broken knuckle or two. You doing the math on this? Because it equals one giant hospital bill that ain’t ever getting paid. Oh, and one broken heart. No worries on that one; I’m just glad no one ever got to the nose! Add in 17 tattoos (Rick Ta Life might just call it one) and you have several lifetimes of mostly self-inflicted pain.

I read at least 250 books, saw probably as many movies, and listened to at least 3000 albums. The veracity of these numbers is open to debate, but whatevs, you get the picture.

I worked for a record store, a newspaper, several record labels, a denim company, a movie studio, a social network, and various dotcoms and marketing companies. And thankfully, I’ve never let any of them define me as a person. Work is what I do, not who I am.

I witnessed 6 championships by 3 out of my 4 favorite teams, including a tears-filled night in Nashville, TN on the evening of October 27, 2004. The sports bar featured a plaque of Babe Ruth in pinstripes, and the bar had a server from Biddeford, Maine in a Red Sox jersey. The end of 86 years of collected New England frustration is the most cathartic group exhale I’ve experienced, including 18 of my own years holding my breathe after witnessing the most crushing play in the history of sports. Billy B., everything is muy bueno now.

I lived through almost 8 years of arguably the stupidest and most evil president in the history of the United States. Cheers to January 2009, motherfucker. By the way, I’d still have a beer with you, and maybe even a line.

I remember clearly being inside Dunkin’ Donuts at 9:03 AM on the morning of September 11th and seeing the second plane hit the tower, an event of mythological proportions that some, including myself, see as a symbol of the Holy American Empire’s crumbling facade collapsing under its own weight. Yeah, Towers of Babel are doomed to fall, since we collectively can’t remember history. We’ll get back to this topic in about 15-20 years and figure out who was right and who was wrong. I mean, I hope I’m living on a palatial estate and not in some Mad Max dystopia. Well, unless I’m guaranteed some tickets to Thunderdome. Then I may be down — I’d like to see the sons of Kimbo Slice wreck a few dudes.

I went from believing in absolutely nothing to understanding that I should be open to the idea of absolutely everything. Because the older I get (read: the more wisdom I collect), the less I’m willing to adhere to any one set of beliefs, especially those that systematically reject ideas beyond our collective comprehension. There really isn’t an idea or belief or object or action that is wrong; it’s just simply the people surrounding it, using it, or otherwise evangelizing it that are the problem.

My plans for the next ten years should be more of the same: working, writing, making music, and exploring the world both through travel and the output of its creative forces. I’d like to try to eliminate the “work” part from my routine. Maybe I’ll have a kid or two. I still haven’t decided if it’s better to not bring anyone into the 21st century AD, or if it’s my duty to combat all this nonsense by creating some people who want to make a difference. I guess that is all going to be dependent on two key variables; how sexy she is and how little we fight. I’m still convinced any woman I settle down with will have to have a very poor understanding of the English language — I’ve never had a problem that didn’t start with language.

I’m a cranky Irishman, just like my ascendants. I’m a work week pessimist but a weekend idealist. And perhaps I’ve mellowed out since my teenage years — I’ve got at least 3 dudes in Los Angeles who’ll veto that notion at the get go — but I’m still a closet anarchist, a punk rocker, a violent non-conformist; basically, a motherfucker who doesn’t like to lose or be told what to do.

What I’ve learned thus far is this. Read everything you can. Never lose yourself in another person. Go everywhere you can. Don’t let fear stop you. Don’t set self-imposed restrictions which prevent you from going somewhere new. There’s nothing you can’t apologize for (but try real hard not to behave like an animal). Drinking never helped ANYONE do anything good, ever. (Except Bukowski. And except Hemingway. And, well, I better stop before that thirst comes back).

Believe in what people do, not in what they say. Trust is a valuable commodity, so when in doubt about its value to another person, don’t talk.

And there is no gun more powerful than words.

Trust me.

Whenever I talk about the music business, the name Bob Lefsetz usually comes up, or at least some of his ideas. Lefsetz is reviled by most people in the industry, but I find his combination of anger, feigned shock, and common sense to be irresistible. He’s not really saying anything extraordinary; he’s usually just telling it how it is. And in the last year or so, there has been a marked increase of insanity in his writings. Whether he’s going off about some stupid ski trip or threatening to kill rock stars and music executives, Bobby is always worth reading.

Case in point: The Lefsetz “Enemies List.” Please read. Bobby is fucking pissed! He may not understand the current ubiquity of Lil’ Wayne, but anyone who claims the head of Universal Music should be dead is cool in my book.

Infinity Destroyer is proud to announce our new favorite MLB player: Houston Astros pitcher Shawn Chacon. It might be hard to image a former Yankee ascending to the top of a list that includes Millionaire Milton Bradley, Officer Jeff Kent, Gabe Kapler, Pedro Martinez, Julian Tavarez, Richie Sexson, and Jason Varitek, but it has happened.

According to just about every reputable sports source this morning, Chacon was, “suspended indefinitely by the team Wednesday for insubordination after reportedly grabbing general manager Ed Wade by the neck and throwing him to the ground” (ESPN.com).

Chacon had been forced to the bullpen after recent pitching woes, and Wade apparently interrupted him during dinner, sternly telling him the two had to talk. Chacon said, “You can tell me whatever you got to tell me right here.” Wade then started yelling at Chacon, including telling him that he had to, “look in the mirror,” which was the final straw.

This is no doubt the biggest choke out since Latrell Sprewell went off on P.J Carlesimo. In an improbable year of baseball, the awesome has indeed happened. What would happen if all employees began choke-slamming their bosses? Probably great things.

Also, collective mental note: do NOT mess with Shawn Chacon while he is eating.
Milton, what you got for us, boooooyyyyyy?

Cam just sent me Mark Botill’s blog. You’ll find it linked over in the right column.

Mark Botill is a strange case. He is equal parts ripped cage fighter, Indian sub-continent explorer, hard drug addict, closet homosexual, out of the closet bisexual, hot tub legend, and indie rock fanatic. I was introduced to the concept of Botill last autumn, when all the Chico/Paradise boys realized that Botill and I are both space aliens from extreme galaxies.

Botill’s first interaction with me was a voicemail I left for him. It went on for several minutes and detailed how I was going to find him, drug him, sex him, kill him, and otherwise terrorize him.

Botill has James, John Ringer, and the entire Norcal weirdos documented on his blog. I can’t wait until I’m back up in the Bay area in July.

Oh, and to clarify, WE’VE NEVER MET.

Did I mention it’s called Down to Pound? So sick! I love it!

I’ve never bothered to listen to Be Your Own Pet, but I may after reading what singer Jemina Pearl said in regards to the Warped Tour, which they just quit. From Pitchfork:

“I just associate it with a certain look and a certain style and the kind of kids at school that I thought were– this is really bad, I’m sure– the kind of kids that were dumbasses wearing Rancid t-shirts who thought they knew what punk rock was and threw things at people in the cafeteria. So it’s like, okay, now we’re going to be performing for these people.

Our label is under the impression that we’re going to play one date and then automatically sell 100,000 more records. They gave these examples: ‘This band did it, and they sold this many more! They had this many more digital downloads!’ And it’s all these bands that seem like they fit with the Warped Tour.

Maybe I’ll be eating my words later, but all those bands [on Warped Tour] have this very specific look and sound and style. It’s like the new hair metal or something. There are like 10 different rules about how you write a song and what everything sounds like and looks like. I’d like to imagine that we’re very much the opposite of that….”

Attention Warped Tour bands and fans (and I know several of you): this is called getting NUKED.

Wired is running a cover feature titled, “The End of Science.” The magazine proclaims we have finally entered the “Petabyte Age,” marked by cloud computing and defined by whatever the data says.

Wired editor Craig Anderson’s overview, “The End of Theory: The Data Deluge Makes the Scientific Method Obsolete” is required reading for anyone interested in a brief synopsis of why a future only recently imagined is already surrounding us.

A key point Anderson tries to make is that the two major factors in understanding the world are the huge collection of data we have amassed and the application of mathematical concepts to this data. Case in point, this little company called Google:

At the petabyte scale, information is not a matter of simple three- and four-dimensional taxonomy and order but of dimensionally agnostic statistics. It calls for an entirely different approach, one that requires us to lose the tether of data as something that can be visualized in its totality. It forces us to view data mathematically first and establish a context for it later. For instance, Google conquered the advertising world with nothing more than applied mathematics. It didn’t pretend to know anything about the culture and conventions of advertising — it just assumed that better data, with better analytical tools, would win the day. And Google was right.

I found the sections “Spotting the Hot Zones” and “Pricing Terrorism” to be most interesting, especially when reading them through the eyes of a Malcolm Gladwell or a Seth Godin or anyone else who will undoubtedly make parallels between these concepts and doing business.