4-17-03, 5:30 PM -

Late, late, so very late. Been busier'n a flaming tarantula for the last 2 weeks, but now...

Finished. It seems an odd word to me, yet it's one that I find I must use at long last. The last three years have been about caveats: "Almost there...", "Done, except for...", "Now I just have to...", "Once I can...then I'll...", & so forth. But as of this moment, the matthew show's debut album, texas, is mixed.

Caveat time: Now for the mastering. This is not much of a caveat, since I've got a line on three different places to perform the task. I've already visited one who was quite good, but in the next few days I'll be checking out the others just for comparison's sake. Then a decision will be made, the master tape handoff will take place, and whammo, it's time to send it to the duplicator for pressing.


This is as good a time as any to announce my cunning plan to pay for mastering: A pre-sale!!

Sorry, I try not to use exclamation points, but "cunning" sounds a bit like "evil", so there you go. I guess.

But the pre-sale!! For a low, low price, you'll get the matthew show's debut CD before anyone else, mailed right to your home (shipping is covered), signed with love by His Honkiness himself. Plus there's cursing.

PLUS...in gratitude for covering my otherwise over-daunting mastering costs, you will receive a bonus disc of outtakes, additional tracks, and just generally interesting stuff that you can sell to record shops in 15 years for a buttload of cash. That's right, I said a buttload.

I calculate that if everyone on the Letter From NYC mailing list buys at least one disc in this pre-sale, mastering will be covered and I can concentrate presently existing capital on the pressing. Thus, my life will not have been lived in vain.

(though all of the above is completely useless now, since the disc has officially been released...have a look - ed.)

So there's that.

Been an interesting couple of weeks. Apart from the above developments, we had SNOW last week. What the hell? April 7th, and there's snow. Just when I'd broken out my thin black jacket with the ugly-ass Hawaiian Punch lining, there's snow all over the goddamn place.

Spring keeps threatening to show up, but winter persists. It's like that last squeeze when you thought it was--no, that's too detailed.

This is Passover, apparently. I know this not only because I can actually find a seat on the rush-hour R train, but because my workplace is damn near empty. Of course, the way our workload's divvied up, I suspect there'll be a backup from hell next week. See, Bigass Bank splits us into Teams:

Team 1 - The Yarmulke Squad: Framed pictures of Jerusalem, Hebrew-inscribed desk statuary, and kosher deli menus. These guys are serious.

Team 2 - Babushkas of America: Eastern European women, photos of fat children, and Whitman's Samplers. These women are serious, too.

Team 3 - Queen Latifah's Posse: Black sassy women, with the sole exception of myself and Herb, our lone Hispanic representative. Me & Herb stay plugged into the headphones all day so as to dodge the flying sass missiles. Which are serious.

So it's mostly Team 3 this week, which has been...well, still pretty loud. Not that I hear 'em much with my headphones on.

And now, random bits:

Lots of news up here about that Houston sodomy case before the Supreme Court. Hell, let 'em poke it in the poop chute, see if I care. Prostate exams by large-handed doctors are legal, after all. See, that's too detailed again. I can't analogize anymore. And that doesn't sound right either.

So yesterday, before Spring gave way to Winter once again, I enjoyed a leisurely lunchtime stroll through downtown Brooklyn's Columbus Park. Whilst there, I spotted our Borough President Marty Markowitz in front of Borough Hall, proclaiming to the cameras that the kids to his right were "the future of Brooklyn". Looked like a buncha little hoodlums to me, but then I think that about all New York kids. And you know, they care a lot about what I think.

On my way back to work, I was a bit alarmed to see a truckload of firemen running down the sidewalk. They all filed into this building that used to house the offices of the Brooklyn Dodgers back in the day or something. Earlier, from my 9th floor office window, I had spotted a few tie-wearing guys wandering around on the roof and pointing. Wonder if they found something nasty. Probably some alien that escaped from Governor's Island. Can't trust them green ones.

Speaking of racial harmony, the Wifely and I treated ourselves to a performance by Las Rubias del Norte the other night at Freddy's. I really hope they record something soon so you all can hear what they do. (they just did; check it out - ed.) Old South American songs, cowboy tunes, and a few German love dirges, all performed with a very consistent sound & energy. Quite enjoyable, and free besides. Excepting the alcohol, of course.

Speaking of, Wifely cracked my ass up last night. I look over from my busy computering to see what she's watching on the tube, and I'm rather surprised to see her dumping a pack of Splenda sweetener into a bottle of Pilsner Urquell beer. I'm even more surprised to see the resulting concoction erupt into a fizzing volcano of angry suds, spilling out all over the floor. She said she was trying to make the beer "less skunky". That Wifely, she's a card.

Got this offer in the mail for a Master Songwriter computer program. It's got a Rhyming Dictionary, a Pop-Culture Dictionary, an Idioms & Phrases Dictionary, and "the only Alliterations Dictionary in existence". Aw, shaddap.



We also got invited to a screening at NYU for my cousin Petra's new film project, Sam & Joe. We seldom hang with the cool kids, so it was damned interesting. Another film of hers, XX/XY, is now playing in New York and possibly elsewhere in the country, so you'd do well to check it out. Or I'll fucking kill you.

Okay, so we're coming home after the Las Rubias del Norte show, at about 2AM on Sunday. I open the front door, keeping quiet for the neighbors' sake, and who do you think is sitting in the dark on the hallway staircase? OG, that's who. He's just sitting there, staring at the front door at 2AM. That's some serial killer shit right there, I'll tell you what.

After stifling a fearful yelp, I figure what the hell, I'll give him an obligatory "How's it going?" so he can ignore me again. But this time, he ups the ante and gives me the world's most contemptuous thumbs-up. And then he says "Hi" to Wifely!

Motherfucking sack of shit. Goddamned asshat-wearing dickweed. Why must people make life unpleasant for no good reason? I just wanna live in my crappy little squat in peace, and ol' Bluto's gotta start up some inter-apartmental Intifada. Fucker. I'd hit him, but I don't have a can of spinach. Or decent insurance.


Okay, that's all the ranting I have in me. This Saturday will mark 5 years of marriage between the Wifely and I, years that have definitely been better than those preceding them, so I must invoke positivity and wish you all a happy My Anniversary. Eat some cake.

AND...buy your very own copy of the matthew show's debut CD, texas. It's so good, you'll slap your mama. For which I am not in any way liable.



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the matthew show