BEWARE OF VERY ROUGH FIRST DRAFTS. Don't expect anything too pretty or polished. I'm simply trying to squeeze out some rough ideas across the face of this blog. These musings may or may not find their way to the pages of my book. But as you will see, I'm taking certain liberties in voice and style that deviate from my published writings. I hope you enjoy, in spite of all of that.
Monday, November 17, 2008
As many people have found, it doesn't take very long for me to steer any and all conversations towards the topic of OURS, which is, in my (not-so) humble opinion, the best band nobody's ever heard. Frontman Jimmy Gnecco has a falsetto that might just give Satan the chills. Not to mention a supernatural stage presence that makes you wonder how the hell everyone in the world doesn't know his name. The band is, in two words, 'criminally underdiscovered.'
It was the fall of 2001 when I accidentally encountered OURS. I had just moved to San Francisco for grad school and ventured to see Pete Yorn at Bottom of the Hill. But the opening act, it turns out, was mucho mas impressive. By the end of, oh say... the first chorus, I was reeling with the thought, "Pete who?" I had never seen or heard anything like Jimmy Gnecco in my life. Not on an album. And certainly not live on stage. Not ever. It was like the opening scene in "Almost Famous" when the big sister kicks down her albums to the film's impressionable hero. It was nothing short of a revelation. I remember thinking, "I need to know him." I always think that when someone inspires me. And I usually try inventing myself into their lives, hoping their greatness will just, I don't know, rub off on me?
Take for instance, the time I met David Sedaris at a book signing...
"David! You can't believe how happy I am to meet you!!! You're such an inspiration. I write stories about myself too! I just published one in JANE about bedwetting." He nodded slowly, suspiciously. I passed him a bottle of Roshambo zinfandel and a story I wrote about its owner (and my now-ex-girlfriend) Naomi Brilliant for NYLON magazine, hoping, I don't know, to be memorable? And then I pitched him, "Say, I would really love to talk to you." His face tightened, as if bracing for a morning breath kiss. He knew what was coming. "Do you think we can hang out after your reading?" Right. As if I was the only genius who cooked up that plan. Yup, just me and David Sedaris kicking back cold ones. "Maaaaybe," he winced, "for like... a minute."
Fortunately, Jimmy was more receptive to me.
When I met him afterwards and expressed my mad crazy enthusiasm, he was kind enough to offer a ticket to the following night's show. This was their first tour in support of "Distorted Lullibies," an album which I would come to listen to compulsively - which is to say that for a full month it was on repeat. All day. Every day. When I fell asleep and, of course, when I woke up. And naturally, every time OURS came to San Fran over the years, I made it a point to catch them. After one show at Bimbo's 365, I mentioned to Jimmy that I played didgeridoo and thought it would work great with their sound. He said something safe along the lines of, "I'll keep that in mind." I didn't think anything would ever come of it.
During OURS' next tour, in the spring of '03, I invited him out after a show and, much to my surprise, he said "Sure." All I could think was, "pinch me!" It was the start of an unexpected friendship, and one that really flowered when he called me a few years later to ask if I wanted to record didgeridoo on the band's new album - the Rick Rubin-produced masterpiece, "Mercy: Dancing at the Death of an Imaginary Enemy." Needless to say, my didgeridoo schedule was pretty wide open at the time.
Notwithstanding the "pinch me" experiences - like touring with Marilyn Manson or headlining the Bowery Ballroom with 25 of my East Coast friends and family in the crowd - he's the kind of friend who will do anything for anyone, and has, at my lowest points, helped steer me away from the darkest corners of my mind. In both his music (and requisite knack for writing sweeping songs of struggle and freedom) and in our conversations. Simply stated, he's one of the good guys. A dedicated musician, a dedicated great father. Someone you just want to root for.
I suppose I'm posting this because a) I'm working through a bad bout of writer's block or brain freeze at the moment, and b) because, at risk of sounding pretentious, I think it's important to share the things that flip our worlds and ricochet through our hearts. A lot of storytelling has to do with weeding out the banal, the plain mundane, and finding that which glints in the rough.
Please watch this music video and check out OURS' intentionally raw website. (It's all about the music for Jimmy... not scottkeneally.com style self-promotion =) Find the song, "Ran Away to Tell the World." My mother loves it. And so does Justice, my five-year-old-sorta-stepson from my last relationship. (In fact, he's taken to singing the hook from his car seat on the way to kindergarten. ) It's a song for YOU and me... and everyone we know. It's a song for the ages. Listen to it with your eyes closed... and then run away to tell the world about Jimmy Gnecco of OURS.
posted by Scott Keneally @ 1:16 PM
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Okay, so I'm not *actually* on the billboard, but I will be hitting the road with OURS. With my didgeridoo. I will probably get booed off the stage. But that's their problem. Freaks.
posted by Scott Keneally @ 7:50 AM
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Coming Soon...
posted by Scott Keneally @ 2:10 PM
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Dearest reader (ie. my Mom and the 2 other people that visit this site),
I must admit to you that there are some days (much to my dismay) that I feel so Goddamned useless and depressed and self-destructive that I seek validation in good ol' Google. Call it blatant narcissism or sad solipsism but there are those times when I will incessantly Google myself. Hopefully (and I fear that I'm reaching here) you share this kooky character flaw??? If so, you might understand that I am the kind of guy who knows that tonight, say... you were to Google "famous bedwetters" or "sexiest sweaty pits" you'd be directed to my site - scottkeneally.com. (Currently, I'm Google's 3rd hit for "famous bedwetters" and the 5th for "sexiest sweaty pits"!!!!) While this certainly tickles my tits, I have recently discovered a darker side to my self-Googling habit.
Snarky Bloggers.
Say you were to Google "Scott Keneally" right now... the 6th hit would be from a popular gossip Gawker Media blog named Jezebel. Well, apparently the folks at Jezebel.com don't fancy my brand of self-deprecating humor. In fact, they fucking HATE it. Enough to blog about how pathetic I am, suggesting my Jane story about being a hypersenstive guy who cries at TV shows and commercials is "the kind of twaddle you find on a teenage MySpace blog."
What's funny about their take on me is that they've completely missed the boat in their assessment. They suggest I share my Jane Magazine confessional stories in a "whimsical fashion," asserting: "Look at him, doesn't he just scream whimsy. We picture him spending Sunday mornings on a rooftop in Williamsburg, reading Rimbaud in the original French before heading off to a poetry slam on the Lower East Side with his best friend Dave Eggers, before heading home to bash out 1,000 words on how crap he is for Jane, which will one day become the book about how he has issues with his Dad."
A few counterpoints of interest...
#1) I don't know a lick of French... nor do I possess even the slightest clue of how to pronounce Rimbaud. In fact, when I read Jezebel's post to a friend over the phone, I said "Rim-BAUD" phonetically, rather than the more socially acceptable "Rim-BO." Duh!
#2) I don't live in fucking Williamsburg, or NYC, nor do I hang out on rooftops as much as by firepits in the rolling hills and vineyards of Sonoma County wine country. And while I've met Dave Eggers on several unique occassions he is certainly not my best friend. Nor would he even recognize me. So... Ha!
#3) If you read anything of mine, it would be patently obvious that my issues are NOT with my Dad, but my MOM.
And lastly, despite your declaration that I'm a pathetic cinematic sap and girls (like you) would never want to sleep with me, I'm doing just fine. Thanks for looking out though!
In closing I'd like to say, have a great life Snarky Jezebel Blogger. Enjoy twaddling in other people's lives, making cursory assessments of their personalities and assumptions about what drives them, I'm sure that's just... OMG!!!... totally fulfilling. Oh, and by the way, with that whole "reading Rimbaud on a rooftop in the original French" angle, I hate to bust your bubble, but I think you inadvertantly made me look much, much cooler and savvier than I actually am.
So... XXOO!
posted by Scott Keneally @ 2:47 AM
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Back in the spring of 1983, Ronald Reagan addressed reporters in New York City about the cresting crime wave. The Daily News had just begun spotlighting ordinary heroes for the “Crime Fighter Of The Month Awards,” and as my family watched his speech over microwaved meatloaf, we were aglow when the president boomed, “And those who say we’re in a time when there are no heroes, they just don’t know where to look… I wish all our people could read, as I have, the accounts of your individual acts of heroism… how Mrs. Keneally, a grandmother, collared a pickpocket by his neck scarf and gave him the back of her hand until the police arrived.” He chuckled, adding, “I liked the picture of that one more than anything.” He was talking about my Nana, who clearly earned her $1000 reward and fifteen minutes the hard way.
This was an early life lesson that suggested the Keneallys, even the very old Keneallys like Nana, were proud Irish folks who batted back adversity with guts, courage, and the back of our hand, if necessary. Take no shit from nobody! That was the hidden message in Reagan’s words, the Keneally way.
However, over the years I’ve discovered that there’s a fine line between an obligatory call to arms like Nana surely felt, and the inherent thirst for confrontation that leads most of my immediate family astray. With one exception - Libby who was a shy and hypersensitive thumbsucker through much of her adolescence – the immediate Keneallys are elitist and impatient, blunt and rude. Pacifism is a recessive gene. Waiters and other service industry types be warned; don’t cross us or you may find yourself starring on the receiving end of a public temper tantrum.
Never is this more apparent than when my family ventures out to dinner. The service or food, or both rarely live up to our unreasonable standards, and the restaurant’s shortcomings often dominate the dinner conversation. It’s almost as if we assume our waiter’s destiny has led up to this incredible opportunity to serve us food. Libby wilts faster than a time-lapsed flower when we start grumbling amongst ourselves about the service. Because she knows what’s coming.
At first someone wonders aloud, “Where are the menus?” or “Why is there no ice in the water.” And then someone points out how “the table over there sat down ten minutes after us and they’ve already received their bread basket. Is the waiter blind or ignoring us?” And what initially begins as hush hushed voices quickly crescendos throughout the meal to blunt force confrontation when one of us finally snaps to the waiter.
“Does this steak look rare to you?” Mom grills. “I said I want it to moo on my plate.”
“This isn’t Diet Coke,” Kelly adds. “I asked for Diet Coke.”
“Didn’t you say I could swap the marinara for vodka sauce?” I complain.
“Maybe you should write down our orders instead of memorizing them, hotshot,” Chris says.
And as if our verbal assault isn’t enough to make any waiter reflect upon his English degree, Dad sees the check as an opportunity to vent. On the tip line the waiter might encounter a note: Your tip is on the other side. But rather than jotting down a dollar amount Dad leaves a narrative: You want a tip? Here’s a tip. Stop by the table once in a while to check on us. Oh, and next time, don’t bring me my entrée after my family has already finished eating. There. That’s two tips for you.
And this is in assuming that we actually have to pay a bill since an uncanny number of family outings climax with the manager being summonsed and checks being waived. I imagine we’ve received more free meals than some homeless people.
But what is most disconcerting is how we treat foreigners, specifically people of Arabian or Indian descent. Every time I call Kelly she is seemingly berating a cab driver: “No, you idiot! I told you to take Lexington. NOT Madison! Can’t you hear beneath that turban?” She says cabbies are “shifty people” and I find myself dreading the day that her strangled body washes up on Coney Island.
And when gas prices spiked up over $3 per gallon, Chris became a sort of petrol-vigilante, pulling into to the most expensive stations just to yell at the serviceman.
“Should I fill her up?” the man might suggest.
“You mean here?” Chris said, pointing to the price on the pump. “What are you outta your fucking mind?”
When the man was sufficiently confused, Chris added, “Don’t you know that gas is fifty cents cheaper two blocks down?” Mission accomplished, he would then shut his window and tear out of the station. Maybe it’s because of the horrific news stories about suicide bombing in the Middle East, but I can’t help but wonder when one of these immigrants will become so fed up that he’ll finally say ‘fuck it,’ and drop a match under Chris’s car.
This is not to say that I’m exempt from these unseemly (and rather racist) family tantrums. My fuse may be longer than most in my family in public, but over the phone, like when booking travel with United Airlines, for instance, all bets are off. Frustration sprouts during the first five minutes of voice recognition futility, and only spirals once the call is beamed to someone in the Third World who can’t understand me any better than the computer software. “No! For the last time I said Newark! Not New York!” I snapped. “Don’t you have maps in India?” And when I’m really at wits end, I demand, “Can I please speak with a Goddamned American who will speak to me in plain English?” Fortunately this horrid side of me rarely rears its ugly head. And this is because I’ve chosen to spend most of my time in the entrancing beauty of Sonoma County, far away from the minefield of city living. Around these parts I find much less to fuss about.
Sure, whenever I take Justice to a toy store and all he wants is a ball, ball, ball! I grind my teeth and consider dragging him by his ear to the LeapFrog Learning Toys aisle. But I think better of it. Fortunately, with the help of California’s Proposition 215 and my medical marijuana prescription, I can smooth out my stress quasi-legally. Unfortunately, however, when I’m in other states my cannabis card is every bit as useful as my maxed out credit cards. And so I don’t travel with the weed. Though I suspect I should, especially when I’m in the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple.
Just ask the “crackhead” that I scolded one winter night on Wooster Street. I was house sitting at a friend’s spacious SoHo flat, and up late writing when the buzzer began incessantly ringing. This person was holding down the button and wasn’t letting go. Who the hell? I raced over to the video door phone to find the fish-eyed image of a middle-aged woman with ratty hair and a dirty hoodie. She looked homeless and I imagined that she was randomly buzzing in hopes that someone, anyone, would let her in so that she could sleep in the heated hallway. The lady was grinding her teeth, glancing around impatiently, talking to herself, and I noticed that she might be missing a tooth. She looked like one of those woodsy chemical freaks that seemed to outnumber grapes in Northern California.
I have to admit that at first, I was rather sinisterly amused by the spectacle. As I watched her fidget at the front door it was a little like being a fly on the wall of flophouse. But this show quickly lost its charm thanks to the buzzer’s blare. I searched in vain for a mute button so that I could continue laughing at her in peace and quiet, but eventually the grating noise overwhelmed me. In an instant she went from funny to grotesque and I considered storming downstairs to confront her. I imagined myself theatrically screaming, “Who do you think you are? I oughta call the cops on you.”
But I thought better of this plan. Why risk confronting an edgy addict up close when I could simply shout her down from the safety of the flat? So I opened up one of the seven bay windows that lined the living room and craned my neck outside like a turtle. I couldn’t see her but I could still hear her. And then I unleashed the beast.
“Hey BUZZ OFF already! I’m not opening the gate, you fucking crackhead!”
The echo batted back and forth between the buildings of the quiet, cobblestone street. That’ll grab her attention, I thought. The buzzing stopped and she stepped back into view.
I didn’t let up, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” This was considerably more confrontational than the initial “Who do you think you are?” approach that I had in mind, but I was without my marijuanxiety medication for two weeks, in a city that prides itself on its hard edge. When in Rome, right?
And then she spoke, “Your music is too loud.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “That’s interesting because I can hardly hear a Goddamned thing over that fucking buzzer.”
“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “I’m your upstairs neighbor. I own the flat right above you and I can’t sleep because your music is too loud.”
Oh. Interesting.
I tried to apologize but it came out wrong: “Well why didn’t you knock on my damned door and tell me to turn it down.” Perhaps I was still clinging to the hope that she was lying, but she had her reasons.
“Because each floor is secured and I can’t get to your door,” she huffed.
Perfect.
Three points for you, Scott.
I considered diving head first down to the street. “I’m sooooooo sorry!” I said, reeling back into the room. I drew the shades and flipped off the music, and then trembled and sweat. I was appalled by my ignorance, especially since my little “crackhead” owned a multi-million dollar flat in SoHo. Who was I to be so judgmental?
I’m a Keneally, I thought. And we don’t take shit from nobody.
Though we sure do dish it out.
posted by Scott Keneally @ 3:45 AM
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
If you’ve ever read my very first Roshamblog post (or anything on this site for that matter) then you probably know me as an attention-starved writer desperately clawing for fame, even if it means being spotlighted as People Magazine’s “Sexiest Bedwetter.” Maybe my Mom and Dad made me feel too smart and special as a child, or perhaps I’m the byproduct of an era when Time Magazine declares me to be the "Person Of The Year," but I have banked on the notion that my life is fascinating or interesting or funny enough to read about, talk about, watch and follow. Was I the only one in the theater seething with envy during “The Truman Show?”
Well, as crazy and deluded and humility-challenged as I may be, there are some blokes who think that the life we are all living here at Roshambo is nifty enough to document for global broadcast. We are still a ways away from signing any deal, but there’s a decent chance this television show will materialize. And if it does and airs in the summer of ’08, I suppose I will have achieved some of that fame that I’ve been shamelessly angling for ever since I wrote Ronald Reagan about my Presidential dreams back in ‘84. After all, your beloved Roshambuddies will be in the hearts and homes of millions of folks spanning 160 countries and 37 languages.
Whooohoooo! Right?
Well, not so much anymore.
Click this link to read why I'm weary of fame...
posted by Scott Keneally @ 10:34 AM
Thursday, February 22, 2007
There was a time early in my relationship with Naomi when we picnicked in her vineyards and she said, “I just can’t find anything wrong with you.” It was of course that honeymoon phase, the first few hallucinatory weeks when everything is as light and effervescent and fun as a flute of champagne. And while I tried to savor her sweet sentiment, I couldn’t help but dread that impending day when reality set in and the happy thought bubbles stopped rising so rapidly to the surface.
Well, I’m here to report that this day is now upon us. And it’s especially noticeable when we are dining out. Naomi says that my indecisiveness and high level of specificity when ordering food annoys the servers and embarrasses her. And so sometimes when I hem and haw and stall with the menu, or ask for my bagel “lightly toasted,” or request the vodka sauce from one dish to be replace the marinara on mine, I can expect a “love tap” under the table and the ensuing black and blue and sore shins the following morning.
Now I’ll be the first to admit that taking my order can be a tedious and tiresome task. Not only because three tables could turn over in the time it takes me to order, but because there’s a strong possibility that once I finally do make up my mind, I will chase you down two minutes later at the computer and order something entirely different. But none of this bothers her as much as me poaching off of other people’s plates, though.
For some reason, whatever is on your plate is always more appealing than what’s on mine - even when we’ve ordered the same goddamned thing. I’m a food vulture. I’m that annoying friend whose fork harpoons your home fries before you’ve even finished buttering your toast, and the guy who gawks at your last bite of food. “You seem pretty full, huh?” I might suggest. And for this reason, nobody likes to sit near me at the dinner table.
Being that guy around family and friends is one thing, but for some bizarre reason I have no qualms about poaching from complete strangers. At wine tasting dinners or weddings, for instance, I’ve been known to nudge the random man to my left and say, “So, um, what’s going on with those mashed potatoes? Not your favorite, huh?” Even worse, I’ve been caught eating food off of other tables. To be fair, when the woman sitting next to us at the sports bar grabbed her belongings, dropped her napkin on her plate and left, both Naomi and I thought she was leaving.
“She didn’t even make a dent in those nachos,” I said, my eyes drooling.
“Don’t even think about it,” Naomi scowled.
“What? I don’t see any reason to dump those in a landfill when I can dump ‘em in our toilet later tonight,” I joked.
She wasn’t amused.
“Seriously,” I said, “They’re still piping hot.”
“We can order our own,” she said.
“Yeah, but only want a few, don’t worry.”
“Do you want me to walk out of here right now?”
“No, stay put, I’ll tell you how they are.”
And so I reached over to her table and started snacking. How was I supposed to know she was only going to the bathroom? And it’s things like the little altercation that unfolded when the woman returned to find my fingers in her food that make Naomi nervous about bringing me out. “You have no boundaries,” she said on the ride home. In fact, she’s said it so often it’s become a sort of soundtrack to the relationship.
If only she knew just how few boundaries I actually had, she wouldn’t have let me through the door. How should I put this? Have you ever opened your medicine cabinet and had the bizarre sensation that something was a little off? Maybe the floss was on the wrong shelf or your nail clipper was facing the opposite direction. Or perhaps the bristles on your toothbrush were unexpectedly wet. You might have closed the mirror and thought you were losing it because, really, who would use another person’s toothbrush? But just as you were about to walk out, something would catch your eye and you’d lean in close to your mirror and shriek at the sight of white spittle on the glass that vaguely resembles toothpaste, or worse, plaque! Suddenly nauseous, you might have hovered over the toilet in case you got sick and only felt sicker when you saw someone’s crusty toenail trimmings circling the bowl. What the fuck?!? And then it would whip you like a wet towel. Somebody was freelance grooming with your toiletries.
And that someone was probably me. Until I started dating Naomi I didn’t have regular access to fancy nail tools. My teeth trimmed just fine and I was still flexible enough to bite most of my toenails. But then again, if I came across a clipper in your cabinet, I’d sometimes peel off my socks and tame my toes over your toilet bowl. (Sorry if I forgot to flush). And I certainly didn’t waste money on Q-Tips. I’d wait until I had trouble hearing the highs and lows on your stereo, and then I’d sneak off into your bathroom and fill your waste bucket with caramel-coated sticks. Hygiene was something I said to my landlord, Gene, not something I practiced with any regularity.
Fortunately however, there’s something about not wanting to get dumped by your dream girl that greases your chain and makes you grow up at a faster clip. And now that I’m living with a woman who has things like floss and nail cutters and expectations for the type of guy she shares her bed with, you no longer have to worry about Windexing my white stuff off your mirror. Now I do that stuff within the boundaries of my own bathroom.
And while Naomi needles me about the food poaching, my honest-to-God guess is that she secretly relishes in my immaturity. I’m her little fixer upper, her pet project. And that day when I got caught nacho handed, I could swear I saw her crack a smile that said you’re dangerous and unpredictable and sexy. A smile that said since I can’t take you out in public, not ever, we should just stay in bed and ravage each other like animals, like chimps, like beasts. But I’m not sure she’d be so keen on kissing me again if she ever knew that sometimes, like if I’m at your house and my tongue feels fuzzy, I will still secretly use your toothbrush. It’s okay that the honeymoon has ended and she’s found some things wrong with me. But she certainly doesn’t need to know everything.
posted by Scott Keneally @ 6:28 PM
