Music Video Final Cut

I've been up for three hours calling in all my extras, what a logistical nightmare. Ridiculously, almost everyone can make it, which shocks me to the core to be honest. I'm still not sure it'll be enough, but with the miracle of select camera angles it shouldn't be impossible to create the illusion of a huge rave.

The last scene I need to shoot that requires other people is happening today at ten pm. WOOT! I can't tell you how gratifying it is to attempt to cram a bunch of people into the same awful office space for a satirical take on modern music videos. Promises to be lots of fun.

So no more spoilers. All I needed was to vent my excitement somewhere without giving away the entirety of the video.

Seriously so excited! I had a concept, wrote out a screenplay, experimented with and revised the screenplay, did a lot of the filming myself already, got my little brother to help with scenes I needed a cameraman for. It's been rad. Just rad. As an utter newb to the industry, I'm thoroughly enjoying myself. After today all that'll be left is a few edits, one scene and a smattering of beats I can mostly do on my own. Cheers to the miracles made possible by modern home studios.

Sue Young's Anti-Writer's-Block Book

I have a secret love affair with my mailbox. Every now and then when no one's around and it's late at night I'll wander over and start slowly rotating the lock over my little square of joy. Right three times, left twice, then gently, oh so gently I slide it back until that timeless, barely audible *click* sounds. I take a moment let go of the breath that's caught in my throat and whisper at the edge of the door, 'What have you got for me today beautiful?'

Well she didn't disappoint the other day, I'll tell you that. The rest is between us...

Admit it. You're jealous.

The Comprehensive American Rhyming Dictionary is a rather brilliantly designed piece of work that acts as a fine augmentation to the process of any poetic creation. Whenever I'm struggling to find a word that rhymes with another and requires thematic cohesion, this is where I go. Obviously, it's preferable to read a lot of good literature and pick things up that way because you learn more about context. Still, this is a nice, distant second in a pinch. Especially if you're pressed for time like I am more and more these days.

Sue has come a long way since her debut work, the "Comprehensive Middle-High English Rhyming Tome".

There are several people who have tried to capitalize on this concept. One might think this would be both an easily sell and execution in a world increasingly saturated by artists trying to become the next big thing through their poetry and prowess. And while I'd argue the former is true, most authors digging away at this niche have struggled with the the fundamentals of organizing a dictionary of this variety.

Damn technocrat hit the thermostat so I'd pass the hat to mah hobie cat and we'd tit for tat cuz that's where it's at, pullin' out from underneath him Sprat's welcome mat. NOW DROP THAT BEAT *bwaaaahh*

As you might have surmised, every author runs into the same problem with setting this type of dictionary in alphabetical order- that order does not account for rhyming whatsoever. Whatever word comes after 'umbilical cord' in Webster's isn't going to rhyme with umbilical cord. So you've got a lot of mashed up, garbled nonsense put together by a number of would-be authors who probably sniffed out what they thought would be an easy opportunity, got to the hard part and buckled under the pressure of actually trying to make something cohesive, intuitive.

Sue succeeds magnificently through a rather ingenious blending of onomatopoeia in alphabetical order, and then putting every conceivable word under that onomatopoeia in alphabetical order as well. It might seem tricky to navigate at first, because looking for words based on sounds, word-endings and beginnings rather than standard word structure isn't what any of us grew up doing. But trust me, a few weeks with this beauty and you'll be thinking in terms of prefixes and suffixes no problem, putting M&M to shame more than he already has himself.

Cheers!

Sad Day on The Freeway, A Productive One At MDH Central.

Thousands of officers in their vehicles took to the I-15 today to honor their fallen comrade Doug Barney. It was quite a sight. I've never seen such a vast showing for the death of a single individual before in person. It started with a host of roughly 40 police motorcycles riding in lines before a steady trickle of police vehicles began pouring in from every exit south of Murray.

*Insert something tasteful here*

I was awe-struck by the scope of the procession and maaaaay have been slightly late to work because of it. But I'll live.

I got home later that day and jumped back into work on a song I'm really getting into. Here's a small sample of it. Sort of reminds me of a certain Queen classic, but I can't help myself. Queen was rad.


Yeah, every time I hear it, there's a small voice in the back of my head screaming, "WEEE WILL WEEE WILL ROCK YOU!"


P.S. That app up there is pretty awful. Sorry about that. If it's giving you trouble just hit the refresh button and remember, I in no way suggest you use podsnack. I'm pretty sure there are like, 10 better options out there, but I was lazy and wanted something quick today so I settled for this heap of insidious crap because it at least didn't have malware.

Cheers!

'He's Mister White Christmas, He's Mister Snow. He's Mister Icicle, He's Mister Ten Below'

I've wondered if my attempts at writing a legendary Christmas song the likes of which hadn't been heard since 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day' weren't curtailed by bitter weather (lacking sufficient skill and life-experience aside). I love the snow, personally, and I even get a sick pleasure from rainy days and Mondays (yes, even combinations of the latter two). But for some reason my ability to experience the thrilling rush of joy that Christmas is for me gets cut short some when I can't feel anything underneath my shins. It's pretty much the pits.

This is what my legs feel like. Pizza boxes included. 

The truth is that despite living in Montana for two years, getting saturated by the east coast's humid freezes, and surviving the frozen valleys in Utah, I'm still a west coast baby who craves constant sunshine. A Californian, to my increasingly great shame as I notice disaster after disaster from that part of the country make headline news. 

Unless I was allowed to live in the middle of that giant sequoia tree. That's the only exception.

All that being said, there's good reason to write music in this oppressive atmosphere. I usually find when things are unpleasant outside and I'm increasingly frustrated by futile attempts to write philosophically grounded music inside, that my capacity for whimsical fun increases by a factor of roughly 2 billion. It's true. I measured it on a scale that I invented myself. The scientific article documenting our research team's findings will be shortly published and distributed on JSTOR under the heading,"Why All Nutritional Data is Subjective."

I take a lot of my inspiration from a selection of C.S. Lewis books that no one's ever heard of in order to keep the hipster mystique alive.

The Realities of Aging.

Fear mortals, for the night of Dracula's power approacheth. One centimeter of receding hairline a day.

I refuse to accept this. I'll get hair plugs if I have to.

'How stunning are the changes which age makes in a man while he sleeps!' murmured Mark Twain darkly one morning after seeing his newly bedraggled, ruin of a face in the mirror. That's what I imagine evoked this quote from no prolific reader's favorite author. My body can relate Mr. Twain, though its complaints have less to do with my face (which some still feel makes me look 23) and more to do with my legs (which some still feel makes me look like I accidentally locked myself in my room for a month). 

And other things, if I'm honest. So I made a New Year's resolution (cue jeering snickers) to not necessarily work out every day mind you, but at least make an appearance at the gym. Note the significant distinction. You see I have faith in my capacity to make that first step happen every day. I don't believe for two seconds that I would actually follow through on BOTH steps more than three days straight. Yet, I do believe that if I only think of the first step and commit to that, that some logical part of me will awaken enough from that journey and urge me in the door once I reach my location of choice. Time will tell.

Those aren't Star Wars socks. I have no idea what you're talking about.

So I did leg day and ow. I'd forgotten how much I don't  like going to the gym. Then came that moment afterwards when you finish, feel so good, and write a revisionist history in your mind about how you think the gym is great, only to realize the next morning when it's time to go again just how untrue that sentiment was.

Still, go I must. If not for my own health, for the sake of the small degree of athleticism required for competitive musical performance. I mean, If I can't dance like Beyonce while playing like Charlie Parker without breaking a sweat or losing my breath, do I even have a realistic shot at anything in life? No, definitely not. Certainly nothing music-related. I doubt I could even get hired on as a garbage man without making a pronounced self-adulatory hip-thrust.

All that aside, it's increasingly crucial for exercise to factor in as a part of my daily routine in order to improve regulated breathing, support, lung capacity...and y'know, to prevent the inevitable future back problems everyone with 4'0 long legs suffers without regular maintenance. 

The George Lucas in me surrenders.

I don't like collaborating with other people over my creative ideas. When I have a vision for some improvisational fun I hog it the same way I did flank steak those rare days my parents put it on the table. 'It's mine, MY OWN!' And no one else can touch it! You could put a refugee fleeing ISIS at the same table with me those days and even then for every slice they took, a part of my soul would have died.

People who say love is the stuff dreams are made of never cooked this properly.

Well reality collided with my vision of fun the other day when I realized I can't both act and move the camera at the same time in the music video. Before admitting defeat I literally day-dreamed about how awesome it would be to have an extra set of long, invisible arms so I wouldn't have to get anyone else involved.

In the end it behooved me to get an extra cameraman so I dragged my soon-to-be-married brother down to a few filming areas and had him do the three or four beats on my schedule. He was unexpectedly competent, a phrase much more frequently used to describe me than him. I don't know why I ever doubted his ability to swivel a large object on a fixed platform. I mean just look at all that studly swagger.

"I'll swivel you as suavely as I did that fossil of an HDV."

At some point, we possibly went a little overlong. He kept cursing under his breath, muttering,"There wouldn't be so much time for him to waste if HE would get married too...", and "If I ever get home to my sweet fiance I'm going to hang a charm on my phone, warding away loafers with too much equipment and playtime." Someday brother, someday. Despite all that, it was still a pretty good time, and the footage turned out great even in the low-light environment.

I'm pretty sure my i5 can shoot better in low-light conditions.

My mouth. In great pain it was. Thank you silver nitrate.

So if you're like me, as soon as you start really digging deep into your vocal practice you wake up a week later with a canker the size of Lake Erie sitting right on one of those skin folds next to your uvula. The flap that ALL your food touches and all air grazes as it passes through.

Every

Single

Time.


It's the worst. And it gets bigger, your head feels like it's about to explode, you forget everything, you start walking into stuff. And before you know it, your whole mouth is consumed by the most annoying and least life-threatening virus of all time. What's worse, if you like all things citrus and sip any quantity of orange juice exceeding half a teaspoon, a nuclear war erupts inside your face, leaving no survivors in its wake. It's the most brutal apocalyptic experience your mouth can feel, aside from gingivitis, certain types of fungal infection, herpes, blisters, pizza burns, cavities, root canals, any trip to the dentist that doesn't have to do purely with aesthetics, and so on.

So maybe it's not the worst, but it's pretty far up there. Especially if you sing, or like to eat three times the quantity of food your recommended daily intake suggests. Every time I ate something I could hear Alec Guiness muttering,"It's as if millions of nerve endings cried out, and were suddenly silenced...I fear something terrible has...-" Then me interrupting with an inflectionless but strongly pronounced, "OW."

I was going to just wait it out like I always do and bask in the misery, but the planets aligned this week and I found myself sitting in a chair while an experienced individual basically burned a small crater in my mouth where the canker was and left me feeling remarkably relaxed, at ease, and without symptoms (six hours later, mind you. Five and a half for me, cause' genes. Thanks Mom&Dad <3). I was even more surprised at how little it hurt. I've felt some remarkably painful things in my life, but this was not one of them. It didn't feel hot really, or sharp like a needle. It just felt like a little more pressure on a painful spot for like, two seconds. That was it. Barely as bad as popping a pimple.

I'd post pictures, but since I know one of my readers is already feeling woozy because of the above description, we'll have to forgo that happy opportunity. Sorry!


Anyway, yeah. Have the worst canker in the world? BURN that sucker! With a licensed professional, y'know. See a doctor, it's easy. They all know how to do it.


Cheers!


-Merk

Music Video Preview

I'm trying to be a bit more expeditious these days, so here's a preview of what's to come. I hope you like the video!

P.S. Sorry about the sound quality, but blogger doesn't like videos bigger than 100mb. The final product will sound much better on YouTube.

Writing Screenplays is HARD.

I've been writing a screenplay for 'Dance That Noise Away'. Holy shlamolie. My appreciation for all things Spielberg has been augmented with each beat, scene, and act I've struggled to make in an entertaining, coherent way. It forced me to start perusing the internets for interviews and school sessions featuring analyses of cinematography's best directors and their methods. Writing for a camera and associated scenes is hard man! Learning the jargon and techniques isn't particularly difficult, just time consuming, that's not the hard part. The hard part is realizing how many awesome options there are for filming in a modern age and deciding from that myriad of options which one works best not only overall for each act, but  each scene. Filling every single beat in a way that feeds into one's overall vision of expression. And I mean, me writing this stuff and complaining about how hard it is is the gym equivalent of me going to the gym and complaining about how hard it is (haven't worked out lately), but it's still enough for me to recognize the hard work that does go into something masterful, like pretty much everything Steven Spielberg has touched. And Mad Max: Fury Road. =)

So yeah, three hours into writing and my head feels like it's going to explode, but it's a good kind of stress. I'm loving it.