SCOTT: Circa 7:01 a.m. my phone rings and I get it on the third ring. It's Ed calling to tell me to get downstairs. It takes me a second to figure out where I am, who I am, what day it is, who is Ed, where is my guitar, what's going on...okay, got it. Rolling...

I grab my best green and orange hawaiian shirt from the hamper where it landed two weeks ago and throw it back on. I find a new yellow paper clip to replace the one I lost out of my glasses. I check my bedhead in the mirror - hhhmm...good, but since it's getting longer, it doesn't have the standing power it used to but it will do for another day at the docks. I wake the dog, grab the camera, set the camera down, grab our signage (a manila file folder) and I grab a pair of leopard print frames with orange lens sunglasses for Ed. I race downstairs, hand Ed my guitar for tuning and I take the dog to the bushes. Ed is sporting a stiff, white, perfect button down shirt and jeans. He puts on a pair of "Blues Brothers" sunglasses after opting out of the orange leopard print ones I brought. Ed dons a bright red feather boa in a moment of throwing fashion caution to the wind with a perfect spiral into oblivion. We go to our corner and, standing up, we begin with G.

Ed breaks a string....the "A" string, smack dab in the middle. Nothing can stop us. It's Friday and our public awaits. We start to play and from somewhere in the predator space of my mind, I've got the "boom-chicka boom" strumming down. Hhm. Practice must've helped. The dog is lined up facing the crowd instead of turning his back to them. This helps with the smile factor today. I start yelling "GOOD MORNING!!!" to passersby. We play, we rock, we enjoy this thoroughly.

The broken left index finger of mine still hurts, dang. But nothing can stop us. I try a new move from out of nowhere. I do a full-on rockstar low crouch, Chuck Barry walk right into the middle of the crowd as they are coming through the crosswalk. Nothing can stop us. We play and play. I bust a string...the "A" string and we are now nearing the end of our morning concert of massive entertainment. I pull on the string and then hold my guitar up to take a closer look at the broken string. I feel a tug on the top of my head and somehow, in a moment of pure whack...my hair is now caught in the broken string. So there I am, my guitar held up to my face like a starving man eating from a plate with no fork. I beg for help. Ed can only look and laugh and say, "wow, that's really caught in there!"

I grit my teeth and pull a tuft of hair out to free myself from the string of evil. The string had somehow "spun" itself near my hair and there is a neat little ball of of Q-tip shaped blonde stuck to it like an elk-hair caddis fishing fly. I can do naught but laugh at the randomness of the event thinking I'm the only rockstar in musical history to ever get my hair caught in a broken string.

It's time for coffee and we wander to Torrefazione on Occidental, chatting about music, calling my girlfriend LoLo, chatting about books, life experiences, breaking the rules, breaking out of our society-hardened shells and just being alive. We sip coffee for 40 minutes on a perfect morning at the quintessential table under a huge leaf-filled tree as the dog snores away at our feet. We walk back to Ed's car near my loft and find he has escaped 40 minutes of meter-maidness and his windshield is naked with nary a parking ticket in sight to our grand delight.

I bid Ed a good morning and he is on his way to work, with red boa feathers still stuck to his formerly perfect white shirt which has now lost its former innocence. The dog and I walk to our door as my flip flops continue the "boom-chicka boom" rythm on the pavement. Life is good, I tell you. If you love something, set it free. Yea, baby. I love life and mine has been set free.

"Boom-chicka Boom."

AXL: Two weeks ago, I was dragged from a squirrel chasing dream and out onto the noisy street. Yea, it was perturbing all right. I ended up sitting on the cement, with my back turned toward the relentless onrushing crowds of "morning peoples." Ug.

I watched Scott and his friend Ed make fools of themselves. Well, actually Ed sounded somewhat like real music and all, but Scott did his best to mow that down in his usual manner. I really don't know what is with this guy, but he's a consistent source of food and walks and all said and done, I meet a lot of women when we're out. Considering he knows how to work the doorknobs and elevator buttons, I stick by him like a high powered executive sticks by his chauffeur, chef and valet.

I fear the worst is yet to come since the noise emanating from Scott and the big hollow wood thing has increased its intensity the last couple of days. He told me tonight that tomorrow was going to be another big day for our band. I'm not sure what a band is nor do I care as long as food is somehow involved along the way.

If you are reading this and happen to see me with these two characters, please know that I was dragged into this mess without a contract nor any approval from my agent that I know of. I fear that my image which I've worked so hard to build over the years will be shattered should a single member of the papparazzi spy me with this gruesome twosome of noise making. If you can somehow help me, I beg of you to please do what you can to facilitate my escape. I run a multi-dollar dog treat business and your financial reward will be quite substantial, I can assure you.

SCOTT: Aaah. There's nothing quite like the feeling of anticipation. Tomorrow morning is to be the second showing of Silly Puppy only this time, I'm armed with a newly installed and technically called "strap button," which Ed insisted was a "post" but the guitar shop said I could even call it, "that little thing that screws into the neck so that you put a strap on it."

For all intents and purposes, I think the crux of the matter is I now have a strap which means we will not be sitting on our butts in the dirt, but rather we are upright homo-sapiens, fully evolved species members, eye to eye with our fellow humans. I just got done practicing strumming while standing which is not a far reach from chewing gum while walking. I have a feeling Ed will need to shorten my strap to the right height because this just isn't feeling right at all. Not that I have any natural feeling for guitar other than the wood looks nice and I know how to turn the tuning knobs.

My strumming tonight sounded like a tired folk strum rather than the MTV Unplugged acoustic edge sound I'm longing for. So what, I'll start with old west cowboy and work my way up to present day rocker. I've been alive for about 1,182,317 seconds now and not many of those have been spent in musical effortudes. (Yea, that's my word, "effortudes" and you're more than welcome to spread it throughout slang-land all you wish.)

I bid you goodnight, my future fans and sure, it's before midnight and all, but hey, I'm saving some energy for the tour and all night bus parties.

SCOTT: So it's now Tuesday night and I apologize that there was not a posting for last Friday. Magically, Ed and I both slept through our alarms and missed the return to Coleman Docks for Silly Puppy. Seeing as I still think about the experience we're creating even when I'm not there, I figured I would post to this journal.

My guitar has had a busy week, moving from place to place throughout my loft. It enjoyed some time in the "pappasan" chair where it could see out the windows. It had a little vacation over by the fish tank against my office wall. It was strummed a few times but moved more times since work, dishes, laundry, the gym, feeding and walking the dog and a visit from my San Francisco based girlfriend all beat out the guitar for quality time this week.

In fact, as I write, I'm not even sure as to where the thing is residing currently. Aaah...there she is! Hiding against a large floor to ceiling support beam in the corner. Fifteen minutes have now elapsed and I try to type with numb fingers on my left hand from holding down the strings. I caressed my baby like petting a cat backwards with my awkward strumming. My fat, soft fingers touch more than the desired strings and frets and my pick hand is as gentle on the strings as a weedeater is on tall grass. As I set her down against my office wall with a smile, I sense a shudder of relief coming from her curvacious body.

Ever since my first day as a Skinny Puppy band member, I've started to notice street musicians more. I'm utterly impressed with their talent that they garnered from somewhere. Some of them are homeless and drunk, displaying signs like "Save The Winos" as they belt out perfect chord after perfect chord while singing along in tune. I'm thorougly dreading the moment I attempt to add vocals. This is a lot like juggling. I have trouble just putting one chord down, finger by finger without strumming. Once I have the chord set, I then have trouble just strumming. Changing chords smoothly during mid-strum is something I hope to accomplish in the next year but for now, I'm (somehow) happy just stopping the off beat rythm of my strumming to take thirty seconds to readjust my chord hand to a new chord before I pick up strumming again.

It's odd that I can coordinate my two hands to churn out eighty words per minute on a keyboard, yet I can't even put three or four fingers on a chord and then move them while doing nothing more then waving my right hand up and down the strings. But I did have a break through tonight. I was actually able to strum the G-chord for a bit and add some spice to the rythm before the pain in my left hand overcame me. I guess Brian Adams wasn't joking when he talks about buying an old six-string and playing it until his fingers bled back in the summer of '69.

Which reminds me, my bike has a flat tire. Now there's something I can do right using two hands.
Now you have a glimpse into the exciting rockstar life I lead.

Friday, where are you? I'm almost ready and waiting for you.

SCOTT: So it's now Tuesday night and I apologize that there was not a posting for last Friday. Magically, Ed and I both slept through our alarms and missed the return to Coleman Docks for Silly Puppy. Seeing as I still think about the experience we're creating even when I'm not there, I figured I would post to this journal.

My guitar has had a busy week, moving from place to place throughout my loft. It enjoyed some time in the "pappasan" chair where it could see out the windows. It had a little vacation over by the fish tank against my office wall. It was strummed a few times but moved more times since work, dishes, laundry, the gym, feeding and walking the dog and a visit from my San Francisco based girlfriend all beat out the guitar for quality time this week.

In fact, as I write, I'm not even sure as to where the thing is residing currently. Aaah...there she is! Hiding against a large floor to ceiling support beam in the corner. Fifteen minutes have now elapsed and I try to type with numb fingers on my left hand from holding down the strings. I caressed my baby like petting a cat backwards with my awkward strumming. My fat, soft fingers touch more than the desired strings and frets and my pick hand is as gentle on the strings as a weedeater is on tall grass. As I set her down against my office wall with a smile, I sense a shudder of relief coming from her curvacious body.

Ever since my first day as a Skinny Puppy band member, I've started to notice street musicians more. I'm utterly impressed with their talent that they garnered from somewhere. Some of them are homeless and drunk, displaying signs like "Save The Winos" as they belt out perfect chord after perfect chord while singing along in tune. I'm thorougly dreading the moment I attempt to add vocals. This is a lot like juggling. I have trouble just putting one chord down, finger by finger without strumming. Once I have the chord set, I then have trouble just strumming. Changing chords smoothly during mid-strum is something I hope to accomplish in the next year but for now, I'm (somehow) happy just stopping the off beat rythm of my strumming to take thirty seconds to readjust my chord hand to a new chord before I pick up strumming again.

It's odd that I can coordinate my two hands to churn out eighty words per minute on a keyboard, yet I can't even put three or four fingers on a chord and then move them while doing nothing more then waving my right hand up and down the strings. But I did have a break through tonight. I was actually able to strum the G-chord for a bit and add some spice to the rythm before the pain in my left hand overcame me. I guess Brian Adams wasn't joking when he talks about buying an old six-string and playing it until his fingers bled back in the summer of '69.

Which reminds me, my bike has a flat tire. Now there's something I can do right using two hands.
Now you have a glimpse into the exciting rockstar life I lead.

Friday, where are you? I'm almost ready and waiting for you.