Malcolm In The Middle of the Earth

A few days ago pop Svengali Malcolm McLaren died. He’s best known as the manager of the Sex Pistols. In the 70s he also ran a successful boutique with famous designer Vivienne Westwood, and in preparation for his Pistols stint he orchestrated the last gasp of proto punks the New York Dolls.

Today as his corpse lay rotting McLaren is remembered as a trendsetter and visionary. Last week most would’ve said scumbag, crook, opportunist. All are correct descriptions.

Through his shop Let It Rock (later renamed Too Fast To Live Too Young To Die, then Sex, then Seditionaries) he and Westwood created the deconstructed look of torn t-shirts, safety pin earrings, bondage trousers, mental patient haircuts in day-glo colors - in fact organic versions of all the shit you’d see in the Hot Topic shop at your local mall.

With The Sex Pistols McLaren created – created - a band of true misfits who’s playing was barely adequate, who’s demeanor was the ultimate in anti-social behavior, and through his promotional duties he got them banned from almost every live music venue, TV studio and radio outlet throughout the UK. When they scored a recording contract, workers refused to press the records. When the record finally got released and shot straight to number 1, the music press wouldn’t even list it. The number one spot was displayed as a BLANK line. Then they came to America for a week or so and broke up. From cradle to grave all of this took 18 months. And for that brief time they were the absolute greatest f#%king band EVER.

Today this uber-bad boy shtick seems commonplace. Back then, none of this had ever happened before. No, not Elvis or Stones. Not even close. And it was all down to McLaren. ALL of it. But he was no mere Colonel Punk Parker or Blank Brian Epstein. McLaren did other things, too.

In the early 80s he recorded some of the first hip hop/rock sides that would later become commonplace. He used bagpipes, recorded phone conversations and scratching to give his tracks a more global feel. He produced a dancefloor friendly version of Madam Butterfly. He was instrumental in creating the New Romantic movement that America most obviously saw manifested in Boy George. He did a lot of other things, but I’m tired of writing about him. Look it up on the internet.

Trust me – whoever you are, and no matter how little you may be familiar with “punk”, you know about it because of Malcolm McLaren. He came to New York in 1976 and took a small underground movement back to the UK and mixed it up with fluorescent paint & beer and puked it up into the faces of youths worldwide.

Read this – Roger Ebert and Russ Meyer were involved in a Sex Pistols film that never quite got off the ground. It's a great piece.

http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2010/04/malcolm_meyer_rotten_vicious_m.html

End Of Intermission

In the immortal words of Sly Stone: heard you missed me, well I’m back.

I used to do all my blog entries from work, but everything’s been locked down since January, including all blog sites. I can’t stream music – no WWOZ Nawlins. no WFMU Jersey. no XFM London. I can’t listen to Rodney Bingenheimer live from LA on Sunday nites. I can’t stream from Sirius. Facebook and Ebay have been blocked. But I can create a Word doc, email it to my Hotmail account, pick it up at home & Bob’s Yer Uncle, an updated blog.

Who really cares what’s been happening with me since last summer? Let’s get on with the here & now.

IMPORTANT: Record Store Day is fast approaching. FYI it’s this Saturday, April 17, 2010. PARTICIPATE! This is the day for all the existing record stores to strut their stuff & hopefully make some money. I fully support the in-person record buying experience, even though I hate most of the people shopping along side of me (hey, you're too close, step back!). Boy, if I had a record store it’d be like Studio 54 - not everyone’s getting in. Sure, I wouldn’t make money, but I ain’t doing it for the money. Art does not equal commerce for me.

This year I’m excited about the special Record Store Day releases. A bargeload of artists are releasing very limited runs of 7” singles to be sold on RSD only. The chance of getting what you want is probably a hell of a lot better if you’re in, say, London, NY, Chicago or Portland (the latest city of choice for cultural lemmings – sorry, Williamsburg). The Fall have one. Daptone has one from soul queen Sharon Jones. The Stones have an “Exile On Main St” era unreleased track on offer. Even the bloody Beatles are re-releasing Paperback Writer/Rain, and Elvis has some crap out, too. Some of these quantities number in the hundreds, some more, some less. And who knows what the distribution setup is? You pays yer money, you takes yer choice.

Please go out & buy some CDs or records on that day. It may not matter to some, but the record store is a dying business, and to see it disappear as a haven for music lovers is a shame. Hey, I buy from Amazon & Ebay too, but absolutely nothing compares to rifling through racks of music and actually holding them in your grubby mitts, or getting a headache from rolling your eyes repeatedly from overheard nerd conversations about Wolfmother and Beach House. Give me a frikkin’ break.

I'll be going now

The time has come to take a hiatus from the slang-fest that is GGMSW. I have many last-minute tasks to attend to. Shave the head, loofa the feet, cut the nails, and (sob) hang the bike up. It didn't get used very much this season. And of course guilt is part of my make-up, so I'll be obsessing about it for awhile. Until the meds kick in.

Quite possibly in a month or so I'll be back, both here & on Facebook, to delight and astound with my spot-on insights and bullshit opinions.

And now, let the show begin.

Garages Are For Bands

Didja ever see this? A person has a nice deck built off the back of their groovy condo, and yet... they sit in the garage on an old lawn chair!!

Well, they do that in my neighborhood. A lot. And they're not even practicing with their band.

Look, I'm like Lolita in my neighborhood. Most of my neighbors are retired. Aside from the young couple next door and myself, everyone watches Matlock & eats linner.

But this garage thing has me stymied. Maybe it's the equivalent of sitting on your front porch, like back in the old days when Bill Kennedy & Marc Avery were your primary entertainment moguls. You'd plop yourself in your webbed aluminum chair and toss a wave to your neighbor & congregate out front for a cold coca cola, or just idly watch the passing parade. Well, no one really is passing around here. I take that back, because some folks walk their old people dogs. You know, those Rat Terriers that have spindly little legs like their owners - at least the owners who don't have that bloated leg dilemma happening.

Here's the thing: these decks didn't come with the place, you had to get 'em separately, like an afterthought. So do they only get used when the grandkids come by?

I'll be honest with you: I also have one of them there decks, and it doesn't get used near as much as it used to. But I'm not in my garage, no sir. I'm laying on my bed, watching my flat screen tv. If I'm not there, that's usually where I wish I was.

Now hear this: As of next week I'm looking at 2 months off work due to foot surgery (not related to the bloated leg thing). You've heard me rattle on about it ad nauseum. At any rate, I'm planning all these relaxing activities, and due to my immobility they all revolve around my bed. It's summer & I have a deck but I haven't given much thought to sitting out there drinking the day away in the sun. For one thing it's further from the bathroom, and that in itself is gonna be one interesting journey. I mean, there's that ground level obstacle at the junction of outside & inside to navigate. And I want it as easy as possible. Maybe the 3rd week or so.

I do have a small front porch. Maybe I'll go tres retro & set up a chair out there, with my transistor & a cooler full of Faygo Uptown.

Oooh! Oooh! Of Thee I Sing!

It's time for pyrotechnics, for drinking too much & accidentally shooting something or someone, for hotdogs and warm potato salad, for ... well, anything. It's time to celebrate your independence!! And it comes to you smack dab in the middle of the weekend!

America: Baseball. Springsteen. Rhapsody In Blue. Cedar Point. Swimmin'. Grillin' Killin' (I just threw that last one in there to see if you were paying attention). (And actually Cedar Point could be replaced with Wildwood, Palisades Park, Six Flags, Geauga Lake, etc.) (But not Disney) (Not that Disney isn't American, I mean, Christ, it's like the love child of Betsy Ross & George M. Cohen, but it's just not "Our Town" enough)

What state is this world of ours in where our country is one major clusterf$%k yet it's still the best place on earth? Bermuda doesn't even seem to be a dream destination for me anymore, what with the wiggers there. Wait, that's not quite right.

As I inch closer to my extended summer vacation & The Intl Film Festival (special screenings of classic beach movies, cult films, horror classics and a manicured handful of rock&roll gems), I am reminded of the inimitable words of the great Joe E. Ross:

Do you mind? DO YOU MIND?

I don't know what that means, this is just stream-of-consciousness shit while I'm listening to Dave The Spazz so it just made sense.

Four Dead In Ohio (and elsewhere)

I don't care about Michael Jackson. I don't think I ever "cared" about him. He started out in the early 70s but will forever be representative of the '80's.

(a whole big giant paragraph deleted. some things are better left unsaid.)

Farrah Fawcett & her nipples never thrilled me. I never used her as a "prop". I was more a Joan Collins/Grace Jones guy.

Billy Mays: what can I say. Quite a ball player.

Sky Saxon - Sky "Sunlight" Saxon - grew into a reclusive strange-o as his legacy progressed. In 1966 his band The Seeds were all over LA and will forever be linked with the Sunset Strip crowd that also spawned Love, The Doors and Buffalo Springfield. Saxon left us with a number of great songs, most notably "Pushin' Too Hard", today revered as one of the original garage "nuggets". When I first started getting into the internet I came across Sky Saxon's email address (I don't know how), and sent him a gushing missive. And he replied, which I printed out & have it put away in my archives somewhere.

Now...back to our regularly scheduled program.

I Have So Much In Common With Me

This is not just me being contrary, Mary. I don't know what most people are talking about. Or why. And I have little or no interest in the lion's share of it.

Here's the thing: As with a lot of people, most of my waking hours are spent at work. I work with two other people. That's it, two people, no one else is around. Most of the shift is spent with a pair of earbuds screwed into my head, sometimes with nary a word uttered for hours. Wait, did I mention I work midnights? Yeah, and it's great.

So I live in my own little corner of the world. Then when I come home, I'm alone. When I wake up I spend maybe two hours with my wife, then it's off to work again. And so on.

On the offchance that I mix with other people in a social setting, I try to keep it light. Light, airy & brimming with kicks, laughs & jovial witticisms. Because it appears that my views - especially - ESPECIALLY - when it comes to matters of the world - are quite singular. How can it be that virtually all of the people I see in those social settings possess views that I consider reprehensible? Is it me? Because it sometime seems like it is. They certainly make me feel like it's me.

Maybe it's my insular daily routine. Maybe it's that I have the same morals and ideals I had back when most of these other people had the same ideals, but since then they've had a change of heart. And that's being kind.

I hate talking about work with people. But I understand why people do it, since we've established the fact that most of your time etc. But honestly I don't give a shit about your job. I also hate talking politics because of the reasons previously stated. What's left, religion? HAH! That's the one thing no one (including myself) has any interest in discussing.

I'm a card player. And a smoker & a drinker.

I have had so many experiences where people have strongly - STRONGLY - voiced their choice on something and ... wow, have I gotten off topic.

Back to my original thought: I don't know what people are talking about.

But I do know this: we are NOT going to turn into a socialist country. Don't be an asshole. To be honest that's the thing I hear most from these people I come in contact with. Yeah, it seems really bad now but didn't you ever have to clean up after your dog took a shit on the rug? OK then, you know what I'm talking about.

Now cool the f$#k out.

Summer Still Means Fun

As my wife begins her 6-8 weeks off work due to foot surgery (yeah, her too) I'm getting psychologically ready for a summer of leisure. AFTER I wait on her day & night. My daughter said, as my birthday came round at the end of May, "why does his (meaning my) birthday always have to be like he's eight?" And y'know, she's right. Although I'd put it in the eleven to something-teen range. Here's why my birthday is so recreation-friendly: I was born on May 29, a Friday, at 3:30 which I consider to be just in time for school to let out not only for the weekend but for summer vacation. It's kinda the way I'm wired. I have trillions of summer memories. Hey, it was the sixties, then the seventies. It was capital f-u-n. I am looking forward to my own stretch of footlessness (mid-july to mid-september) which I'll fill up with stacks of cheezy fun movies, poptastic books, six days worth (without nary a repeat) of rockin' summer jams on my iPod (which I should name), and plenty of pizza deliveries and any-ole-time-I-want drinkin' and smokin' schedule. Cuz I'll probably die soon. We all will. The one thing I'll miss is my baby Mozella. No bike ridin' for me in three weeks. Well, maybe in October for awhile, if Dr. Bombay gives me the high sign.

I'll Lose A Friend Tomorrow

I didn't know about him. Maybe you did (and you didn't tell me??!?). His name was Huey Long, and he played guitar accompaniment for The Ink Spots.

And he was 105 years old.

Bill Kinney, the main cat for the 'Spots, caught Huey & his trio at the Three Deuces on 52nd Street in 1945 & asked him to join up. This was in the 'Spots heyday. So he did, and stayed with them for a scant 9 months. Then the cat he was replacing, Charlie Fuqua, came back from the war. (Charlie was Moonglow Harvey's uncle)

One of the cool things, I thought, was that even though he was a "Spot" for only 9 months, he played Detroit in that time frame.

Huey also played with Fletcher Henderson and Earl Hines, and had performed with Sassy, Bird & Diz before starting his own trio, just before the Ink Spots gig.

After the Ink Spots he played with Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis' Be-Boppers, and did some USO gigs.

Huey recorded a number of sides with The Ink Spots. among them the tune from which I pulled the title of this post.

105? I don't know, I thought I would've heard of him before his death, I mean, you hear talk of the oldest living folks, and I'm sure I would've remembered Huey. Just a bit late, but my hat's off to you, Mr. Long.

Woke Up This Morning, Lucille Was Out Of Sight

When something gets under my skin, I just can't seem to get the correct salve to take away the pain. And sometimes that pain hurts so good.

That's the deal with Lucille.

I'm talkin' 'bout Lucille Cataldo, whose 1984 clip from the New York public access program "Stairway To Stardom" is way under my skin. And much like the cute animated phlegm in the medicine commercial, she isn't planning to leave anytime soon. Lucille, replete in Angie Bowie drag, sings her own composition, "Hairdresser" on a clip I watch over & over, and checking the interweb, so do a lot of other people with time on their hands.

Check it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QdJwcKFDo3o&feature=channel_page

I sing this song all day long. I can't wait to get in front of a computer screen so I can watch it. Over & over again. Like Brett Michaels getting flattened on the Tonys (just can't get enough, that shit better win an emmy).

Here's how I found this: WFMU played the audio track, and that particular show's online playlist gave a link to the video. That's all it took.

With each viewing, I find little nuances that just put me into hysterics. I can't tell you what they are, my mind is not wired like most humans. I wanna start up my old band again just so I can do a cover of this song - in this key - with all the same vocal inflections.

If you listen to this song - I mean, really listen - her lyrics are quite clever. It's like a laundry list of salonisms. Or maybe not.

Watch it. Watch it again. Go back to it tomorrow.

There's an entire page of clips from Stairway To Stardom:

http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=sharpeworld&view=videos

Find the one where the kid sings "Wash That Man..." holding a photo of my nephew Dan; or the rapper singing "Crackhead"with his afro sticking out the era hole of his ski mask.

But wait: there's more.

I was gonna wait for another post to tell you about this new find. Her name is Icy Spicy Leoncie. And she is super-groovy.

Here are my two favorites. First off is "Man! Let's Have Fun!":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gyptl-BQNBk&feature=channel_page

Then "Sex Crazy Cop":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G35vnbsAoYs&feature=channel_page

Also she has a CD out called "Radio Rapist-Wrestler". http://cdbaby.com/cd/leoncie

I'm gettin' it.

Leisure Means Work

Throughout my tenure in the workforce, especially in recent years when I've accumulated a nice parcel of vacation time per annum, I would frequently wonder what it would be like to take all my vacation at once, say in the summer months. Then I'd come to my senses realizing all of my incidental time would be gone. Then what would I do when I'm hung over from the previous night's shot-downing marathon or maybe at xmastime when I'd like to enjoy the unparalleled glittering festiveness the season brings.

This year is the test.

I'll be off work from mid-July to mid-September due to a much-publicized foot surgery. While not quite an entire summer, it's pretty dang close. And it's the longest warm-weather break I've had since 1976.

I've enjoyed buying up cult & b-movie collections on Amazon, and stacking the books I have ready to read, but there's another side to this coppertone-scented coin.

Real-world preparation.

I have someone coming in to paint at the end of July. I have to strip the room, 35x22, of all the wall hangings, the knick-knacks, the ephemera as it were, before my leave. Believe me, that is one major chore.

My wife is also scheduled for surgery next week, and I'll be her "Hazel" until it's my time. So I have to try & figure out how to cook. I thought I knew, but I'll be cooking for a pro, so manwich ain't gonna cut it. Luckily we're near a lot of places that have curb service.

I had been wondering how I was going to tune in to my regular scheduled radio programs (they're all web-based - for me, anyway), but my wife's laptop has a wireless network card so I can stay current with Dave The Spazz & Fool's Paradise & Rodney On The Roq & Breakfast With The Beatles etc. What a relief. And if you know me, that was a real concern of mine.

I also need a surplus of bourbon & cigars. No, this isn't ridiculous. It's summer! And I have to pull up hundreds of cds from the basement due to the fact that I won't be able to climb the stairs.

And I've got a month to cruise the streets with Mozella. Then it's back on the hooks for another year.

And what about this blog? And what about my farm on Facebook?

So yeah, I'm off for the summer, but it's got it's price.

Next time? THERE'LL BE NO NEXT TIME!!!!

One of the hippest, wildest, swinginest, rockinest cats EVER has cut out.

Sam Butera, longtime foil for Louis Prima and bandleader of The Witnesses, the greatest lounge band ever, died June 3 at the age of 81. That's Sam pictured above with the band, in the white cardigan blowin' sax, with Louis Prima & his trumpet on his left. That's either Jimmy "Little Red" Blount or Lou Sino on 'bone. Looks like a redhead, so maybe it's Jimmy. But he doesn't look too little.

Sam was from Nawlins, and true to form he rocked like a motherf#%&er. He was a killer sax player & his vocals displayed that black vibe that surely came natural coming up in Nawlins like he did. His band was ALWAYS tops, and Sam was as great a musician as any of those classic cats who walked through the doors of Cosimo's studio on the corner of Rampart & Dumaine.

As time went on, he became less known for his Nawlins thing and more for his Vegas thing. At one time he & Prima were the biggest attraction in Vegas, drawing huge crowds at the Sands and Sahara, and that crowd was frequently packed with stars. You should check out those old recordings; that band truly rocked.

Almost a year ago, July 5 2008 to be exact, WFMU's Michael Shelley interviewed Sam on his radio program - you can hear that right here http://www.wfmu.org/playlists/SH

Sam was audibly moved that people still cared about him as much as they do. He had nothing but praise for Prima & was gracious throughout.

I am very fortunate to have his autograph hanging on my wall of fame. My sister got it for me in Vegas, of course.

By the way: the title of this post refers to Young Jesse's hit "Next Time". It became Sam 's spotlight tune in his live sets, first with Prima and then on his own with The Witnesses and his most recent band, The Wildest.

Funny thing: not too long ago I was thinking how great it is that Sam was still around, since it seemed like all my unsung heroes of r&b were merging with the universe at an alarming rate, especially the Nawlins cats.

What more can I say? Louis & Sam, back together again. The wildest.

Gonna Pitch A Wang Dang Doodle All Night Long

They called her "Queen Of The Blues". Yeah, her and how many others? (remember Dinah Washington? Her I'd believe)

Koko Taylor died this week at 80 years of age. She found fame in Chicago at Chess records, where she landed a contract thanks to Willie Dixon. He saw her perform live on the south side & that was enough for him. He penned her biggest hit "Wang Dang Doodle", a million seller.

After Chess was sold like so many other independents, she left for blues label Alligator Records, where she stayed until her death. She won so many awards that I can't be bothered listing them.

But, notably, she had a role in Blues Brothers 2000.

She did the festival circuit like so many other bluesies, but right up until the end they dug her the most in Chi-town.

In 2008, the IRS determined she owed them $400,000. Guess the joke's on them.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

I must be honest with you all out there (all 2, maybe 3 of you) and say that I had the best weekend I've had in a long, long time. No cynicism, no bitching, no smarmy comments. It was Fabtastic.

I went to a wedding on Friday, and the bride looked like what would appear if Tinkerbell was getting hitched. Cute, petite, blond & did I say cute? Yeah, well she certainly gained points with me when I noticed the guest favors were NOT jordan almonds, NOT bubbles, but a shot glass with the wedding date printed on it - which also happens to be my birthday!! It turns out the bride & a lot of her female family members like to drink Lemon Drops, which are some vodka/seven up concoction that taste not too much like booze. But I pulled a fast one, because those shotglasses also work with bourbon. And if that weren't enough, you could smoke in the hall! Party Time!! And they gave me a special birthday cake & played - what else - Beatles Birthday. And everything I wore looked great - for an old fat man.

Then on Saturday, I celebrated my birthday in my own home, barefoot, relaxed, with my head up my ass and again with the bourbon & cigars. Also my favorite ice cream cake! But also my very special guest My Grandson, who can have anything on earth he wants. In total, my eight kids/stepkids/grandkid. Fun! Laughs! Food! Booze! Gifts!

Sunday's bill of fare took a very low-key route. Booze- and smoke-free with of course a lunch at Five Guys.

Yep, summer is off to a pretty good start.

Ain't no cure

Well, it's officially here. Not technically here, but officially. "Socially" officially. Like yes you can wear white clothes official. Last weekend I planted, mulched, fertilized, assembled, laddered, and at the end of each day I was so beat & my ground pads were in such misery that I never ended up doing what I really wanted to do over the weekend: plant myself in front of a mixer with two cd players with a pair of headphones, some smokes & a jockey of bourbon for a couple hours. I had the opportunity, but for some reason sleep seemed nicer, laying on my back with the breeze flowing overhead.

Ah, Summer.

My bike, which I've christened Mozella (aka Bloody Mama), was totally ignored. She sat there & looked at me as I repeatedly passed her, rakes and brooms and hoses and trash bags and plant food in hand and ... well, you get the idea.

But this coming weekend will be different. It's my birthday.

Something will happen which I will regret, I'm quite sure. My mouth's brain (and my brain's mouth) is too carefree - until it's too late, then responsibility hits. Hard.

F#%k it. It's been the same way since I've had a conscience and a memory. You can't teach an old dawg new tricks. Get your own birthday.

Meeting The Devil At The Crossroads

I was reading an interview with Jarvis Cocker, and he thinks, as do I once I sit & capitulate, that it's odd how blues has become the middle class middle-aged guy's music of choice. Especially since it's the sound of black slaves dealing with their "situation".

White guys, like me, with an adequate job & some sort of normalcy in their lives - wife, kids, mortgage, multiple TVs & cars - digging - playing - de blooze. They remember with fondness their youth: Cream, Fleetwood Mac (UK version, not Cali cokehead version), Savoy Brown - wait, aren't these all from the UK, where the working class is truly lowdown & the caste system is still in full effect today? Wait, I'm not done: Canned Heat, Paul Butterfield, Johnny Winter (talk about white). All those guys got their data from those first- and second-generation American negroes. Today's blooze fan doesn't know Son House from Dr. Gregory House.

(OK - this is not really another one of my posts showing how people are root-ignorant; that's not what this post started out to be. People certainly don't have to be down on their luck to dig the blues. As always, it's nice when the originators get credit.)

Later this summer if all goes well with a foot surgery scheduled for July I'm supposed to go to an outdoor blues concert featuring blues giant B.B. King and Robert Cray - neither of whom I like. But here's something interesting: B. B. goes back 60 years. He's a contemporary of most of the blues cats I listen to, and normally that would be good enough for me, but B. B.'s so ... Jerry Lewis Telethon. He's up there singin' & playin' the blues (however not at the same time) in a sparkly tux that would make Marc Bolan envious. Shit, he's loaded, and I don't expect him to wear one-strapped overalls, but he's just too damn slick for my liking. His blues has morphed into the Vegas Blues. Not so strange then that I don't get any soul from him. The reality is he transcended all his down home funk & he's not gonna front. Normally I would consider that great. But his Quincy Jones-type shit just doesn't happen for me. And Robert Cray is truly an exceptional artist, but that experience for me is like listening to your college suitemate play a gig on the diag. As some bald-domed cat once said, it is puzzlement. Personally I don't wanna live a destitute life, bad luck & trouble followin' me wherever I go, but psychologically that's what I expect from my blues artists (if they're British, of course, then all I expect is delta influences & bad teeth). Different strokes, is all I'm sayin'. And as usual, my favorite strokers are dead.

If my demographic is blues's ideal audience, then so be it. My peers could have chosen young country over blues. Most black folk don't dig the blues because it reminds them of bad times. Me and my peeps can't relate, we just wanna look over yonder wall and dust our broom, bottles in hand: one cheap whisky, one Purell.

Waiting For The Man

Summer's comin' on like a pimple on my ass in May (go figure). And I know that in recent months my posts have been less than stellar, and not very interesting to say the least. But before I go any further, I must say that I warned you about that. I think it's in my blog heading. But these recent posts have even bored me. I'm phonin' it in, folks. I went back in the post archives, to last summer, for inspiration. All I had to do was read one of them & I could feel the difference between then & now.

Can I credit that to any of the crap that's happening to the world nowadays? I mean, gas is back up to 2.50 a gallon. No one has a job. Therefore, no one has any money. I have both, but not a lot of the latter. And I'm waitin' to be inspired.

I can get inspired by the writings of Michael Musto and Kinky Friedman, or the paintings of Miro and John Currin, and I used to think the diatribes of Lester Bangs. Recently I've been reading a collection of Bangs' articles, called Psychotic Reactions & Carburetor Dung, and now I consider him juvenile, stupid & just plain boring. Everyone in pop journalism pisses themselves over his stuff. Bangs this, Bangs that. He was just the first to write as if he didn't care about anything, as if Leave It To Beaver or bologna was more important than whatever he was supposed to write about. Just the first, like Presley in his field (I don't like him, either).

But he inspired people, I guess. Me included. And now there are smart-assed journalists the world over that make his writings wither on the vine.

I used to wonder if I didn't like certain writers or painters or artists because I was too simple minded to understand what they're doing. Now I'm comfortable with the realization that they don't move me, man. I mean, I may still be simple minded, but I'm cool with that.

No sacred cows.

Someone told me don't be a hater. I say don't be a lover. There's a lot of shit, and I do mean shit, out there. There's a lot of great stuff out there, too, except you gotta hunt it down. Most people can't be bothered. They settle, or they decide it's not important. Books, films, music (especially music), et al. If you dig it, go for quality. My main man Tom was great for that. You'd try to hip him to something, & he'd just say "oh yeah? so?" I loved it, and it infuriated me. But it kept me real.

So what this boils down to is this: while the summer of my 11th & 12th year are quite memorable to me, and I find myself replaying those memories in my head every solstice, the reality is once you've shared that with someone, it becomes irrelevant. Do you wanna hear someone else's old stories over & over? No. So I won't bore you with mine. Because the vibe won't be the same.

T Shirts Cutoffs & A Pair Of Thongs

I can't wait for summer to get here. Psychologically it's already landed & set up shop in my head. Ice cream trucks, lawn sprinklers in the afternoons (which is bad, because mornings is the ideal time for that activity but who's up at those hours unless you haven't gone to bed yet), beach party and love boat flicks.

And of course a perfect soundtrack.

My iPod has undergone a summer makeover. Gone is most of the current pop & rock stuff. Also gone is most of the jazz stuff. We're promoting a light, breezy and very organic mood here. So we're left with a lot of sixties "AM Gold" stuff, but nothing too flaky. Mostly seldom-heard gems that evoke fun, sun and , y'know, kinda the whole beach vibe. The kind of music that once was, or should've been, all over the radio dial. Perfect for riding one's bike under a periwinkle sky.

However, there's still a LOT of soul, r&b, jump blues, rockabilly and of course The Fall and Zimmy on that thing. I mean, I'll be listening at night, too.

I'm looking forward to that point of the season where memories of my favorite summers take full flight - 1964, 1965. That'll probably come with pain killers in July. Or you could just check last summer's archive posts.

It's just like that Belle & Sebastian song: "get out of the office & into the sunshine". Enjoy your Memorial Day weekend. Throw away your socks. Switch over to mojitos or VTs. Summer's such a gas.

My Pal Foot-Foot

Sorry, I haven't been posting as frequently as usual. Blame it on facebook.

I get an email every time someone who is my "friend" makes a comment on ANYONE'S facebook page. Also whenever anyone makes a comment on MY page. Also whenever someone wants me to work on their farm. Or when they want to send me a gift for my farm.

It's exhausting.

And I know, I know, I said so many negative things about facebook in the past - see, I don't even capitalize it. I still feel negatively about it. But it gives me the opportunity to say a bunch of stupid fictitious stuff about anything at all. Like the lists of five. Five favorite toys from your childhood, five favorite beers, five cars you owned, stuff like that. And of course I always lie to make the outcome funny - or at least my idea of funny. Unless it's something that I want people to actually know that I dig. And how are they supposed to know which stuff is facetious and which stuff is true? I don't know; I don't care. BUT - my audience is much bigger than my blog audience. Hell, I may as well just write emails instead of do this stupid page.

But in about 8 weeks, I'll be off all of this for, well, about 8 weeks.

Foot surgery will have me laid up, totally off my feet. I always wanted to know what it would be like to take all my vacation in one piece in the summer. Guess I'll find out. My estimate is that I'll be out of work from mid-July to mid-September.

I'll be having triple arthrodesis surgery. They'll fuse the 3 major bones in my foot together, bone-on-bone, and screw them all in place. This is big stuff, according to my dr, my wife's dr, and much of what I read on the web.

I'm starting to think about my video consumption for that time frame. Also refining my iPod content. Also, I need to stock up on booze & cigars.

El Porko Mal-something

It's finally here - Cinco de Mayo. Andale'! Arribba!

Cue the low groan.

So patient zero is a five-year-old boy. What would they do if he were an animal? Like Barney Fife would say, nip it in the bud.

And now some people are saying, "do you know how many people die from unswine flu? blah blah blah?" Don't they understand we need this kind of fear? It gives us something to hate.

No, but really, what do you do with this kid? Do you punish his parents? Is he just relegated to the pile of sad-newsworthy saps stinking in the corner like Octomom, Michael Phelps, Joe DePlummer and Vince Shamwow? I smell reality show!

I had Mexican food last friday. My throat hurts a little & I keep blowing my nose. Hopefully my boss is reading this; I won't be in tomorrow. Oink .. uh-oh, what was that?

You need to know: after one week, Bob Dylan is still on the stereo. He'll move to the iPod in a couple days. Whadda yarn spinner. Woody Guthrie mixed with Will Rogers filtered through Raymond Chandler marinated in Jack Kerouac. You gotta understand him. He's simple but always, as the kids say, right on.

Don't forget to call your mother this weekend. Unless your estranged. Then screw it.