I Could Use A Genny Cream Ale Right About Now

Here I am, fresh from a weekend one could describe as a very sobering experience. I went to a baby shower - shut up - and I both arrived & left sober. Then I went to a party, and I left it sober - ??!!?? - How does that happen when you bring your own boatload of drinks? Well, I'll tell you how - because I left early when one of my crosstown passengers got the rockin' pneumonia and/or the boogie woogie flu. I won't say who, but he got my daughter pregnant (you know who you are). Then after all that I broke my toe. It's the one that if you could give the finger with your foot, that's the toe you'd use. Yesterday it was black, today it's purple. Tomorrow, probably green & yellow, if this is America.

Interesting fact: over the weekend I found out hundreds of people read this blog, but they're not commenting because they're holding the laptop with one hand & wiping with the other. True story. (Fishsticks: holla back)

Another interesting thing I discovered: you can win a shitload of olympic medals even when your mouth looks like a bunch of pumpkin seeds in a squeezy change purse. Somebody better call 1-800-dentist, and by someone I mean you Phelpsie!

So I really don't have anything else to say right now, so I'll cut you all loose & as soon as I have something to say about nothing which apparently is how some of you like it, I'll post another tirade.

All Hail The Queen

Today marks my first daughter's birthday. Presley died 3 days after she was born. He had to make way for her. The world couldn't continue to spin with both of them in it. So be it: Adios, loser!

When she was little, she was bald & beautiful. Then her hair grew in, and she continued to be beautiful. I never talked to her with that "eechi-weechi-koochi-koo" shit, and maybe that's why she never needed a diction or elocution coach.

At different stages in her life she did things I didn't understand, and while it would occasionally mess my head up, it was a valid part of life & that's kinda the way it should be. If you can read through this statement, kids should discard everything their parents do & parents should in turn hate whatever their kids embrace. Like I said, see through the cultural meaning of that statement.

There were more differences between my prior generation & me than hers & mine. Imagine life with no rock & roll or tv; sex & drugs & gay life were taboo & kept hidden in the dark crevices of life; no one paid attention to women unless they were stripping; no shopping on Sunday; no meat on Friday; no VIP sections at clubs. And all phones had cords, although phone booths apparently were a youth culture oasis.

When she was born I was in the throws of nascent Punk culture. I mean, I had a job & all that, but if stuff wasn't Punk-oriented, I didn't want to know. 1977 was year zero for Punk. I had a friend cut my hair short - SHORT - and she was dumb-founded. "You don't want it styled?" No, just CHOP THE SHIT OFF! And I remember The Clash playing on the stereo - repeatedly, since at the time all they had was one UK single. I tossed all my flairs and bell bottoms. It wasn't easy finding any other kindsa pants. But you could get straight leg jeans at Kmart, for the farmers, I guess. I actively sought out all Punk music. No one knew about any of it. Some things never change. I bought my first Punk records by mail order from New York. They arrived addressed to "occupant" - how blank-generation!

I wondered what would happen after I had kids. You certainly go through changes; you have to think differently about some things, but I was still the same person I was in most ways. And to this day, I still am. I remember back when I was single, taking my niece to the Thanksgiving Day parade, and getting her back a bit later than expected. My sister & brother-in-law were furious. They always thought I was an irresponsible hippie. "Wait till you have kids", my brother-in-law said as I walked out of their house. "not like you, motherf#%ker", I remember thinking. And I never was.

Somewhere there exists a cassette tape of me teaching my daughter how to say "rastafar-i" and "are we not men? we are devo!" She was maybe two.

So now my daughter is older than I was when she was born. And despite creaking bones and such, I'd like to think I'm the same as I was back then. I wish she could've experienced some things I did that don't exist anymore. Just like my mother might've, I guess. It's a tough world nowadays, mostly because of money and jobs. You gotta be strong. And that's certainly what my daughter is.

After all, she brought about the death of Elvis.

Bad Mutha...

Here's why Chef is dead: he got all shirty about South Park. It put food on his table. And while I usually believe in biting the hand that feeds you, I gotta believe he HAD to have fun doing what he was doing. Nothing was to be taken seriously, and he had to be hip enough to know that. I think he was looking for an out, so he could revive his "Black (old man) Moses" persona. Or maybe reprise his role as Truck Turner.

AND THEN ... or actually EARLIER...

Bernie Mac, who I think is kinda funny even though he talks like he has a mouth fulla bar-b-q alla the time (he's whitey-approved) gets sick & up and dies.

Ike & Mac are co-starring with Jules from Pulp Fiction in an upcoming movie - two corpses, the negro "Dark Knight"?

WATCH OUT SAM JACKSON! MAKE THAT DR APPOINTMENT!!

Yeah, I know, two posts in one day. Sorry, I couldn't help it. I mean, here's Deborah Harry. 60-year-old Deborah Harry. Former Playboy bunny "watch me dip" Deborah Harry. Mature Deborah Harry. Or so I thought. Grandma, HELP!

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS???

This magazine should be called "WTF" !! Here's Kate Hudson looking like a Patrick Nagel drawing, that is, like a Duran Duran lp cover, that is, like a cheap piece of "art" in a furniture store.

That's all, just wanted to show you this ridiculous thing.

But Enough About Me...

Sigh. This stupid world of blogs. I think about it and, I mean, what is this really but just an avenue for my opinions on stuff & a way to make people read them rather than listen to me tell them. Nobody wants that. Because if you do THAT, people glaze over & drift off & start thinking, "who cares? wonder if there's any chip dip in the fridge? I need to pee..." But given the fact that no one actually reads anymore except for the internet, blogs give people a chance to reply to one's tirades with a thumbs up, thumbs down, or an entirely different opinion that is or isn't related to what they're replying to.

And unless you're Bai Ling (look it up), who's actually responding to your blog? Your friends, if you have any? Your family, if they can be arsed? Maybe blogging is just another form of keeping a diary, but a bit more random than "day 13: today I finally pushed away from the dinner table..."

I don't care. Did I figure everyone would tell everyone else about my fab blog site, & people everywhere would read it, and somehow Dave Berry or David Sedaris or somebody would catch wind & start commenting back to me. To ME. And, y'know, the page wouldn't have to change because it's MY blog and the reason they're all reading it & commenting is because it isn't themselves. But maybe they can relate. Or the total opposite. Any reaction is better than none at all. Isn't that right, Bill O'Reilly?

I had a pretty involved post going in draftland, about how Lindsay Lohan isn't gay (she isn't, y'know) and how her friend is a Pete Doherty wannabe and the sister of "gee I'm lucky, I hope no one finds out how talentless I really am" producer Mark Ronson, then I started thinking "does anyone even know who Pete f#*king Doherty is? or Mark f#*king Ronson?" It sucks when no one gets what you're writing about. And that's not a comment on people's intelligence, it just means most stuff really doesn't mean anything to anyone. Like I'm surprised I even know who Bai Ling is, except I she was popping up in some of the stuff I read online (indicative of what?), & I felt the need to look her up (she seems enigmatic. also she's fairly stupid and shallow. I like that, but I don't actually like her).

Blogging is the 21st century t-shirt. Way back when, the t-shirt was the way to let people know you were pro-Foghat. Before that it was the bumper sticker - "Vote 'yes' on 'C'". But now, we have become such complex beings that it takes a whole series of promotional shitfests to get people to get us.

Back in the punk days it was so much simpler, I honestly didn't care who got me. I got me. Maybe my friends got me, grudgingly. Now my friends who got me are dead, and there isn't enough time for new friends to get me. That's why we have blogsites. You can get me at your leisure, that is if I'm telling the truth.

New Found Freedom In Suburbia, ca. 1964-65

The see-saw ride that is "yay summer" / "boo hiss summer" continues. This is a "yay" post; not that the last one was a "boo hiss" one, but it DID deal with death. This one doesn't. It's very much about life.

Without fail, my summers always resurrect memories of summers gone-by, and most always two years in particular: 1964 and 1965.

The summer of '64 is very special to me. My father died the previous March. It was my first summer out of the lower east side ghetto that made up my first 10 years. Also The Beatles had exploded onto the US scene just before spring. You may not think their arrival is such a big deal considering the way stuff happens now, but there was literally nothing happening since 1959; Neil Sedaka, Bobby Vinton and Del Shannon. Dire. Five years of crap (because Phil Spector was just getting it together). The British Invasion added to my other new beginnings and you have an importance on my life that you couldn't believe.

My mother and I spent 2 weeks visiting relatives in Pennsylvania that summer. Week two was spent at an aunt's cottage and it was there that I met the first girl I had a crush on, I can't remember her name but her brother was a DJ at WNEW in New York. They had a shitload of records at their cottage. He gave me a DJ copy of The Beatles' "And I Love Her", probably to stop me from hanging around him & asking questions. I clearly remember playing some card game for matchsticks at their cottage alot & they repeatedly listened to "The Womenfolk" lp (early folk singers http://www.amazon.com/The-Womenfolk-Vol-2/dp/B001A3CN7E ), especially "Little Boxes" (yeah, from "Weeds") Anyway, I got sympathy from a lot of those relatives 'cuz I was single parented. Whatever.

That first summer, using directions from my neighbor I walked, by myself, to Eastland, an "outside" mall like they try to "niche up" nowadays (they didn't go indoor until the mid 70s). It was a little over a mile away (remember, I was 11). Such were the times, nothing to fear as long as you weren't totally stupid. When I got there, I went straight to the record shop and bought two singles: "Tell Me" by The Stones and "The Girl From Ipanema" by Stan Getz. Why at 11 did I buy that one? One could say why at 11 did I buy any? That's me. Then I had no more money & lots of time to kill, walking around with that bag.

The following summer, 1965, I got a brand spanking new bike for my birthday, a 3-speed racer that I kept in my room for quite awhile. I rode that thing everywhere, and if you remember from a previous post I mentioned how I rode it to Eastland (same place) & it was stolen. Again with the record shopping, too (My Generation).

I could go just about anywhere within reason. My friend across the street and I used to ride to school playgrounds & play with matches, smoke cigarettes we stole from parents, and make up dirty rhymes & songs (He had a favorite: "Goddamn motherf$*ckin' blue-balled bitch/ Hang around me you'll get your big ass kicked" - claims he heard that from his older brother).

We had a drug store on the corner that carried everything a 10 or 11 year old boy could want: candy, model cars kits (paint too), sunglasses, comic books (and then of course Beatle magazines and even for a short time "Rave" - which was like a British "Tiger Beat"; they ran really ace color photos of people like Small Faces and The Pretty Things - fantastic!

http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/Beatles-Harrison-Various-Rave-No-5-60s-pop-magazine_W0QQitemZ130196468567QQcmdZViewItem?_trksid=p3286.m20.l1116 ).

When Beatle collector cards came out (like baseball cards), we'd buy them all the time, at a nickle a pack.

(http://cgi.ebay.com/Beatles-Gum-Cards-from-Liverpool-UK_W0QQitemZ190238022271QQihZ009QQcategoryZ156521QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem)

Then right around the corner the mother of the drug store owner had a little grocery shop with a penny candy counter. A few blocks away was Anderson's, all I remember them selling was stuff like trick matches, onion gum, whoopie cushions - like the back of a comic book. Kid heaven!

Every saturday and sunday we talked someone's parents (or my sister - my mother didn't drive) into dropping us off/picking us up at the movies. Two or three movies that ran continuously until about 5pm. There were about a half dozen theaters we'd go to, and on weekends during the day they were ruled by kids. Absolutely no adults coming in to catch a flick, now that I think of it. Can you imagine what that was like? It was the precursor of going to the mall, and for me & my ilk it was the precursor to going to rock ballrooms every weekend six years later or so (we didn't hang out at the mall).

After those first two summers in the suburbs I entered junior high, and grudgingly welcomed self-consciousness, self-doubt and self-loathing. All the fun kid stuff I was wrapped up in was now closely scrutinized and a very extreme "keep/discard" system was applied. And from that point forward the opinion of the opposite sex was always a factor. Gone were the days of "can I eat all five of these snickers", or "I can belch the theme to The Flintstones", or even "I can pretend this tennis racket is John's Rickenbacker and when I put this Beatle wig on I'm him".

Girls don't dig that stuff.