No more half-naked eighteen year olds
Today is the last meeting of my last class for the LIS program through UNC-Greensboro that meets at the campus of UNC-Charlotte. I will graduate from UNC-G and I have no idea what the campus looks like. Is that wrong?
The best reason, besides learning, to come to this campus is all the half naked eighteen year olds parading around with their butts and boobs exploding out of their clothes. Girls didn't dress like that in my day. They had more modesty and were not the trollops that pollute today's college campuses. Thank god I started college late or I would have missed this lovely poontain parade.
Sexism aside, wow! I mean, wow! Just take a gander at all them gams.
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
Sunday, July 28, 2002
A former hazer parks his car.
I rode my bicycle up to a convenience store this eveningg to purchase some adult refreshments. This guy comes in as I am leaving. He's got the almost shoulder length curly brown hair, a cheeseball moustache and that jaunty walk only seen in those that spent their senior years of high school giving freshmen swirlies and puttying icy hot in their jock straps. The kind of guy that really only fit in this word between the years of 1974 and 1978.
As I am riding through the parking lot and heading for home I notice a car that can only be his. I see one of those new shitty Camaros that have less metal in them than a Matchbox car and is has been parked halfway in the parking slot. The ass end of his car is jutting into the parking lot. I have always been confused by the mentality of those that are so important that they have to park differently than others.
This meathead's parking job reminded of a sergeant I knew when in Okinawa when I was in our glorious Marine Corps. He drove a Skyline which is a very nice car that has never been sold in the states. I think it was made by Toyota. It was a model of car favored by Okinawan and American gearheads. This guy used to drive while leaning over. He leaned over so far as he drove that his head was almost directly beneath the rear view mirror. He, too, was very cool and could not park like an average mortal. He used to park diagonally in front of the barracks and take up about two or three spots. I had a crappy 1978 Toyota Corrola that I bought for $500 bucks that I completely trashed. My Corrola is the only car I know of that actually had cockroaches. I drove it for over six months with a dead battery and used to push start it or park on an incline. I used to park next to the sergeant's Skyline. It was a silent protest. I'm surprised he never kicked my ass or at the very least gave me a nipple twist.
I rode my bicycle up to a convenience store this eveningg to purchase some adult refreshments. This guy comes in as I am leaving. He's got the almost shoulder length curly brown hair, a cheeseball moustache and that jaunty walk only seen in those that spent their senior years of high school giving freshmen swirlies and puttying icy hot in their jock straps. The kind of guy that really only fit in this word between the years of 1974 and 1978.
As I am riding through the parking lot and heading for home I notice a car that can only be his. I see one of those new shitty Camaros that have less metal in them than a Matchbox car and is has been parked halfway in the parking slot. The ass end of his car is jutting into the parking lot. I have always been confused by the mentality of those that are so important that they have to park differently than others.
This meathead's parking job reminded of a sergeant I knew when in Okinawa when I was in our glorious Marine Corps. He drove a Skyline which is a very nice car that has never been sold in the states. I think it was made by Toyota. It was a model of car favored by Okinawan and American gearheads. This guy used to drive while leaning over. He leaned over so far as he drove that his head was almost directly beneath the rear view mirror. He, too, was very cool and could not park like an average mortal. He used to park diagonally in front of the barracks and take up about two or three spots. I had a crappy 1978 Toyota Corrola that I bought for $500 bucks that I completely trashed. My Corrola is the only car I know of that actually had cockroaches. I drove it for over six months with a dead battery and used to push start it or park on an incline. I used to park next to the sergeant's Skyline. It was a silent protest. I'm surprised he never kicked my ass or at the very least gave me a nipple twist.
Saturday, July 27, 2002
An old friend returns
For this to make any sense I have to preface this. You know how certain things become a soundtrack for cetain years of your life? I do that and so do many of my friends. It's hard for me to identify with people that don't get excited about music in some type of format. Music doesn't have to dominate your life but you should feel strongly about some sort of music. If you hate all forms of popular music but you claim to whistle a lot we can still talk.
I mention that because I adore Bill Cosby when he does standup. I grew up listening to his first few albums from the sixties. The albums I devoured initially were the five albums he put out between 1963 and 1967. I did that the usual kid thing with something you like and listened to them repeatedly. At one point in my life I could do the Chicken Heart routine by Cosby from start to finish. Chicken Heart is twelve minutes long. I remember entertaining Alan Popa in the lunch line some time around the fourth or fifth grade. I may not have done the routine perfectly but I did it pretty good.
The material from that time period spent a lot of time covering idealized stories about childhood. A very romantic urban existence is portrayed where drinking fathers were not mean but merely oddly scary and kids had adventures together that played like fairy tales. I used to record these albums off my uncle's old scratchy vinyl copies with a microphone that fed into one of those old portable cassette recorders that are now only sold at Radio Shack. Who in the fuck still buys those things?
I remember a Saturday afternoon at my home with my grandparents, my parents and me. We were sitting around listening to my audio cassette version of Cosby's album, Himself. I was a teenager then and very familiar with old time radio and families gathered around a radio. The Cosby bit, Chickenheart, revolves around old time radio. That afternoon my jambox was sitting on top of our televsion. We sat and listened to the whole album. Forty minutes worth, three generations, all laughing very hard and enjoying the performance together. I had initially started playing the tape so the adults could hear the first piece on the album and they reluctantly indulged. After the first track ended no one asked me to shut it off. We all silently agreed to let it play. I have never had a similar experience. One of those very true and unforced inter-generational moments.
With all that being said, Bill Cosby may have contributed more to my world view than any other artist.
The reason I mentioned all that is because I just finished watching Bill Cosby do about ten minutes worth of stand-up on tonight's episode of Late Night with David Letterman. He did a great bit about his wife getting mad at him for watching tv and "doing nothing." He then acted out his wife not letting him do anything around the house because he does things wrong so he feels safer on the couch. Things like washing the wrong clothes together and running the dishwasher when it's only half full. As is standard with Cosby the material was pretty generic but his storytelling ability and his way of seeing the little funnies in every day enounters were what was really on display. Heck, it was just good to see Bill doing stand up. For the first time in a very long while Bill Cosby made me laugh and it took place just a few hours ago. That makes me feel really good.
Also, earlier this evening Durktle, Bookpimp, Dutch and the Lesbian Straightener came by and, uh, listened to some music. That's all. Just listened to music and watched Sci-Fi. I forgot to play Tipsy but maybe we can do it again, fellas.
For this to make any sense I have to preface this. You know how certain things become a soundtrack for cetain years of your life? I do that and so do many of my friends. It's hard for me to identify with people that don't get excited about music in some type of format. Music doesn't have to dominate your life but you should feel strongly about some sort of music. If you hate all forms of popular music but you claim to whistle a lot we can still talk.
I mention that because I adore Bill Cosby when he does standup. I grew up listening to his first few albums from the sixties. The albums I devoured initially were the five albums he put out between 1963 and 1967. I did that the usual kid thing with something you like and listened to them repeatedly. At one point in my life I could do the Chicken Heart routine by Cosby from start to finish. Chicken Heart is twelve minutes long. I remember entertaining Alan Popa in the lunch line some time around the fourth or fifth grade. I may not have done the routine perfectly but I did it pretty good.
The material from that time period spent a lot of time covering idealized stories about childhood. A very romantic urban existence is portrayed where drinking fathers were not mean but merely oddly scary and kids had adventures together that played like fairy tales. I used to record these albums off my uncle's old scratchy vinyl copies with a microphone that fed into one of those old portable cassette recorders that are now only sold at Radio Shack. Who in the fuck still buys those things?
I remember a Saturday afternoon at my home with my grandparents, my parents and me. We were sitting around listening to my audio cassette version of Cosby's album, Himself. I was a teenager then and very familiar with old time radio and families gathered around a radio. The Cosby bit, Chickenheart, revolves around old time radio. That afternoon my jambox was sitting on top of our televsion. We sat and listened to the whole album. Forty minutes worth, three generations, all laughing very hard and enjoying the performance together. I had initially started playing the tape so the adults could hear the first piece on the album and they reluctantly indulged. After the first track ended no one asked me to shut it off. We all silently agreed to let it play. I have never had a similar experience. One of those very true and unforced inter-generational moments.
With all that being said, Bill Cosby may have contributed more to my world view than any other artist.
The reason I mentioned all that is because I just finished watching Bill Cosby do about ten minutes worth of stand-up on tonight's episode of Late Night with David Letterman. He did a great bit about his wife getting mad at him for watching tv and "doing nothing." He then acted out his wife not letting him do anything around the house because he does things wrong so he feels safer on the couch. Things like washing the wrong clothes together and running the dishwasher when it's only half full. As is standard with Cosby the material was pretty generic but his storytelling ability and his way of seeing the little funnies in every day enounters were what was really on display. Heck, it was just good to see Bill doing stand up. For the first time in a very long while Bill Cosby made me laugh and it took place just a few hours ago. That makes me feel really good.
Also, earlier this evening Durktle, Bookpimp, Dutch and the Lesbian Straightener came by and, uh, listened to some music. That's all. Just listened to music and watched Sci-Fi. I forgot to play Tipsy but maybe we can do it again, fellas.
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
As an avid stealer of music off the internet I love to come across stuff that I can download that doesn't cut into anyone's profits. Just recently I downloaded a show by the Who from January of this year. It's one of the last shows with Entwhistle on bass and it's looose loose loose. They are obviously playing in front of a few thousand people but the band's between song banter is as loose as Lenny Federal's at the Double Door.
There is a great article linked from the This Modern World site today concerning a bill that might allow record companies to legally hack into your 'puter to search for copyrighted material. Fucking Fascists.
There is a great article linked from the This Modern World site today concerning a bill that might allow record companies to legally hack into your 'puter to search for copyrighted material. Fucking Fascists.
Tuesday, July 23, 2002
Writing in my blog is much more fun than that paper up on the screen in my room right now.
I am a dangerous terrorist
I am in the Harris Teeter at Park Road Shopping Center about a week ago. As I am checking out the security fuck comes over says to me "The next time you come in here you need to leave your bag at the front." Someday I will have to write a rant on why I can't stand security guards and ain't too fond of cops neither.
Just yesterday I am the Eckerds in the same shopping center and one of the employees comes down an aisle and tells me I need to leave my bag at the front of the store. He explained to me that they had to do it for everybody now so they wouldn't be discriminatory. I guess things have gotten so dangerous in this new world we live in that the Harris Teeter and Eckerds stores in Charlotte are now primary targets. Really now, how many important U.S. landmarks would have to go kaplooey before an Eckerds became an attractive target?
I bought a cheap piece of shit Casio wristwatch at Radio Shack yesterday for $4.97. Can I spot a deal or what? I keep it in my purse...er...I mean my backpack. It helps me catch the bus and also to time how long it takes douche bag security guards to track me down and detain me and my man purse. Do you think they would leave me alone if I explained to them that it's not a bag but a purse and if they try to take I yell "Hey, mister, let go of my purse?"
Listened to on the bus: Nothing. I'm on vacation, biatch.
I am a dangerous terrorist
I am in the Harris Teeter at Park Road Shopping Center about a week ago. As I am checking out the security fuck comes over says to me "The next time you come in here you need to leave your bag at the front." Someday I will have to write a rant on why I can't stand security guards and ain't too fond of cops neither.
Just yesterday I am the Eckerds in the same shopping center and one of the employees comes down an aisle and tells me I need to leave my bag at the front of the store. He explained to me that they had to do it for everybody now so they wouldn't be discriminatory. I guess things have gotten so dangerous in this new world we live in that the Harris Teeter and Eckerds stores in Charlotte are now primary targets. Really now, how many important U.S. landmarks would have to go kaplooey before an Eckerds became an attractive target?
I bought a cheap piece of shit Casio wristwatch at Radio Shack yesterday for $4.97. Can I spot a deal or what? I keep it in my purse...er...I mean my backpack. It helps me catch the bus and also to time how long it takes douche bag security guards to track me down and detain me and my man purse. Do you think they would leave me alone if I explained to them that it's not a bag but a purse and if they try to take I yell "Hey, mister, let go of my purse?"
Listened to on the bus: Nothing. I'm on vacation, biatch.
Friday, July 19, 2002
I have been told, often by coaches other authority figures justifying their positions, that the training for and playing of a game is good for your character, builds physical and mental strength and teaches you things about yourself. I agree. I learned very early that I hated football practice so I ruled out immediately any plans on making the NFL a career choice. Can this apply to such things as playing games online at sites like It's your turn and Global Combat? I think so. I have learned that I am a very bad chess and Risk player. Again, ruling out any decisions as to whether or not I should become a chess master or buy a Star Wars Risk set.
Thursday, July 18, 2002
Hillbillies Holding Signs
One of the least mentioned perks of living in the south is the frequent contact with those that are so religious that they have the need notify the world. I know it's been asked before but has anyone ever walked past some fat guy with thin shoes holding a big sign about judgement day and fallen on their knees like one of those teenage witches in those Chick comics begging god to forgive their past transgressions and hand them a hand-lettered sign?
One of the least mentioned perks of living in the south is the frequent contact with those that are so religious that they have the need notify the world. I know it's been asked before but has anyone ever walked past some fat guy with thin shoes holding a big sign about judgement day and fallen on their knees like one of those teenage witches in those Chick comics begging god to forgive their past transgressions and hand them a hand-lettered sign?
Wednesday, July 17, 2002
Sometimes, and today being one of those times, I look at my cats curled up around each other and licking their own butts and I just like the mom in E.T. during that Halloween scene. Oh, how cute, let me get my camera.
I went and saw Minority Report last night. I wanted it to be great and it turned out to be merely pretty darn good. I read a review beforehand that mentioned its similarities to L.A. Confidential and he was right. I felt a little cheated by that aspect of it. The last half hour need work. Much like A.I. The last half of that flick doesn't need work so much as it needs a movie form of urban renewal.
I went and saw Minority Report last night. I wanted it to be great and it turned out to be merely pretty darn good. I read a review beforehand that mentioned its similarities to L.A. Confidential and he was right. I felt a little cheated by that aspect of it. The last half hour need work. Much like A.I. The last half of that flick doesn't need work so much as it needs a movie form of urban renewal.
Tuesday, July 16, 2002
Beard Status: Not so much ugly as it is lame.
Growing a beard reminds me of how I tried to grow a moustache in high school. I didn't have a moustache in high school, I had a dust bunny stuck to my nose. Some people didn't even know I had a moustache. They probably thought my lip was cloaked.
Last night I had a glorious night's sleep. I stayed up too late on Sunday all because of Robin Williams. Nothing else. So last night I got back from class about nine or so. There is nothing comparable to plopping yourself down on your couch after a 13 hour day. I decided to enjoy my exhaustion. I watched a little bit of the Cubs' game. It was a rarity, a night game at beautiful Wrigley Field. Had a couple of beers, played a little guitar with Super W and after having to blink to keep my eyes open, crashed like a speed freak. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh, my bed. Luxury.
Listened to on the bus: Emergency and I by Dismemberment Plan.
Speaking of Dismemberment Plan, why don't you own any of their albums?
From the being an idiot at work files: Ok, a guy comes up to the internet desk to, obviously, get on the internet. There is another fella with him and I don't have him sign up like we are supposed to. One of them gets on the internet and starts surfing while the other guy stands behind him. I forget the faces and I think the unsigned guy is surfing so I go over and do the usual spiel about only the someone who is signed up can use the internet. The internet user looks at me and says, "I did sign up." I realize he's right and slink off. God, I feel like a dipshit.
Growing a beard reminds me of how I tried to grow a moustache in high school. I didn't have a moustache in high school, I had a dust bunny stuck to my nose. Some people didn't even know I had a moustache. They probably thought my lip was cloaked.
Last night I had a glorious night's sleep. I stayed up too late on Sunday all because of Robin Williams. Nothing else. So last night I got back from class about nine or so. There is nothing comparable to plopping yourself down on your couch after a 13 hour day. I decided to enjoy my exhaustion. I watched a little bit of the Cubs' game. It was a rarity, a night game at beautiful Wrigley Field. Had a couple of beers, played a little guitar with Super W and after having to blink to keep my eyes open, crashed like a speed freak. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh, my bed. Luxury.
Listened to on the bus: Emergency and I by Dismemberment Plan.
Speaking of Dismemberment Plan, why don't you own any of their albums?
From the being an idiot at work files: Ok, a guy comes up to the internet desk to, obviously, get on the internet. There is another fella with him and I don't have him sign up like we are supposed to. One of them gets on the internet and starts surfing while the other guy stands behind him. I forget the faces and I think the unsigned guy is surfing so I go over and do the usual spiel about only the someone who is signed up can use the internet. The internet user looks at me and says, "I did sign up." I realize he's right and slink off. God, I feel like a dipshit.
Monday, July 15, 2002
July 15, 2002.
This weekend I decided to grow a beard so I could be as much like bookpimp as possible. Why should he have the only shitty beard in our department? Growing a shitty beard is not that hard and I am here to prove that.
Who watched the Robin Williams' special on HBO last night? We laughed our asses off. He was all over the place with his references. He was especially brutal when it came to the douche bag in the white house which made me happy. At our place watching the special: Super W, me, the one big loud guy, the dancer and Lenny and Jill. I don't have a strange nickname for those two yet. I can't call Lenny the Kid like Polecat does because he's been around longer than me. OK, he's older. Jill's training to become a massuese maybe I can call her 'hands.'
I spent a good chunk of the afternoon working on a short paper that isnt' really done yet. I haven't ever finished a paper. That is either because I am a perfectionist or lazy. You decide.
Listened to on the bus: Suicide Invoice by the Hot Snakes
Read on duh bus: the last part of Ball Four by Jim Bouton that has been sitting on my floor for a couple of weeks.
This weekend I decided to grow a beard so I could be as much like bookpimp as possible. Why should he have the only shitty beard in our department? Growing a shitty beard is not that hard and I am here to prove that.
Who watched the Robin Williams' special on HBO last night? We laughed our asses off. He was all over the place with his references. He was especially brutal when it came to the douche bag in the white house which made me happy. At our place watching the special: Super W, me, the one big loud guy, the dancer and Lenny and Jill. I don't have a strange nickname for those two yet. I can't call Lenny the Kid like Polecat does because he's been around longer than me. OK, he's older. Jill's training to become a massuese maybe I can call her 'hands.'
I spent a good chunk of the afternoon working on a short paper that isnt' really done yet. I haven't ever finished a paper. That is either because I am a perfectionist or lazy. You decide.
Listened to on the bus: Suicide Invoice by the Hot Snakes
Read on duh bus: the last part of Ball Four by Jim Bouton that has been sitting on my floor for a couple of weeks.
Thursday, July 11, 2002
July 11, 2002
Today I was accused of looking like a roadie for Bon Jovi. Is it because I'm fat or because I have long hair or because I'm old, fat and have long hair? Maybe Rogan accuses me of looking like a roadie for Bon Jovi because he secretly admires Bon Jovi and is really giving me a compliment. Maybe he's in love with me and I should watch my ass when he's around. Maybe he used to give members of Bon Jovi hummers when he was in high school and they were nobodies. How many licks does it take to get spandex pants off a heavy metal drummer? We'll probably never know but I bet Rogan could tell us.
Today I was accused of looking like a roadie for Bon Jovi. Is it because I'm fat or because I have long hair or because I'm old, fat and have long hair? Maybe Rogan accuses me of looking like a roadie for Bon Jovi because he secretly admires Bon Jovi and is really giving me a compliment. Maybe he's in love with me and I should watch my ass when he's around. Maybe he used to give members of Bon Jovi hummers when he was in high school and they were nobodies. How many licks does it take to get spandex pants off a heavy metal drummer? We'll probably never know but I bet Rogan could tell us.
Wednesday, July 10, 2002
July 10, 2002
Last night we watched the all-star game. Sup W. went to see Road to Perdition and got back early enough to watch most of the game with us. Him say the movie is OK but it's hard to believe Tom Hanks in the role of a hitman. I was surprised. You'd think if he could play a fish fucker he could pull off a hitman. I'll have to check for myself.
I knew the Fox coverage of the game was going to be obnoxious but I had no idea they were going to go superbowl on me. I don't know why some events have gotten so sentimental after 9/11 but it seems to be the case to me. They supposedly were going to showcase baseball's greatest thirty moments which turned into about 5 great moments before TV, 5 before color and the 20 greatest moments of the last ten years. Major League Baseball licking its own ass on my television. Everything is now exciting and historical. It no longer can just be. I need to read more.
Listened to on the bus: Powerage by AC/DC (I was jamming like a MoFo).
Read on the bus: Freakin' homework.
Last night we watched the all-star game. Sup W. went to see Road to Perdition and got back early enough to watch most of the game with us. Him say the movie is OK but it's hard to believe Tom Hanks in the role of a hitman. I was surprised. You'd think if he could play a fish fucker he could pull off a hitman. I'll have to check for myself.
I knew the Fox coverage of the game was going to be obnoxious but I had no idea they were going to go superbowl on me. I don't know why some events have gotten so sentimental after 9/11 but it seems to be the case to me. They supposedly were going to showcase baseball's greatest thirty moments which turned into about 5 great moments before TV, 5 before color and the 20 greatest moments of the last ten years. Major League Baseball licking its own ass on my television. Everything is now exciting and historical. It no longer can just be. I need to read more.
Listened to on the bus: Powerage by AC/DC (I was jamming like a MoFo).
Read on the bus: Freakin' homework.
Tuesday, July 09, 2002
July 9, 2002
Last night in class we discussed culture. Pretty exciting stuff except the opinions of most people in that class are about as interesting as the opinions of actors that appear on Leno and Letterman. I guess that's not entirely fair. It's not that most of the people in class are uninteresting, it's just that the most vocal are the least interesting. Maybe there is a formula where the worth of what you have to say is inversely proportionate to how often you speak up. Or I could just be completely sick of library school.
There is an interview here with Gore Vidal, a very important American thinker.
Since I am linking and since you are reading this, at the very least, you don't hate web logs, the creator of This Modern World has a very good one here. He links to all kinds of good Anti-American commie pinko liberal propaganda.
I sat with Super Wendell and the One Big Loud Guy last night and watched the home run derby on ESPN. I now enjoy the home run derby more than the all-star game. Probably because the Fox coverage of the all star game is going to be noisy and "in your face." Everything the coverage of the home run derby on ESPN last night wasn't. Mike Piazza, superstud Mets' catcher, was doing color commentary and actually made a reference to the movie The Natural when Sammy Sosa stepped out during his turn to get a new bat.
Listened to on duh bus: Hunky Dory by David Bowie.
Read on duh bus: A short story by Arthur C. Clarke.
Last night in class we discussed culture. Pretty exciting stuff except the opinions of most people in that class are about as interesting as the opinions of actors that appear on Leno and Letterman. I guess that's not entirely fair. It's not that most of the people in class are uninteresting, it's just that the most vocal are the least interesting. Maybe there is a formula where the worth of what you have to say is inversely proportionate to how often you speak up. Or I could just be completely sick of library school.
There is an interview here with Gore Vidal, a very important American thinker.
Since I am linking and since you are reading this, at the very least, you don't hate web logs, the creator of This Modern World has a very good one here. He links to all kinds of good Anti-American commie pinko liberal propaganda.
I sat with Super Wendell and the One Big Loud Guy last night and watched the home run derby on ESPN. I now enjoy the home run derby more than the all-star game. Probably because the Fox coverage of the all star game is going to be noisy and "in your face." Everything the coverage of the home run derby on ESPN last night wasn't. Mike Piazza, superstud Mets' catcher, was doing color commentary and actually made a reference to the movie The Natural when Sammy Sosa stepped out during his turn to get a new bat.
Listened to on duh bus: Hunky Dory by David Bowie.
Read on duh bus: A short story by Arthur C. Clarke.
Monday, July 08, 2002
July 8, 2002
Absolutely nothing happened yesterday. Yesterday was like a Seinfeld episode without all the humor and backstabbing.
Wendell and I got some breakfast before I had to work. I had to be at work by 1 pm. We went to Athens which always seems to win awards as Charlotte's best late night eatery but it's pretty good during the day also. I think the secret to their late nite success is all the grease they use. Nothing tastes better when you are loaded than grease-laden diner food. MMMMM...grease-laden diner food.
That's it, I ate breakfast, I worked, went home and downloaded a Beastie Boys concert from 1998, watched two episodes of the Simpsons and went to fucking bed.
Listened to on the bus: A copy of this kick-ass mix CD I made for AJ in Spain. I am going to give this copy to another friend. What can I say? I am a giving person.
Absolutely nothing happened yesterday. Yesterday was like a Seinfeld episode without all the humor and backstabbing.
Wendell and I got some breakfast before I had to work. I had to be at work by 1 pm. We went to Athens which always seems to win awards as Charlotte's best late night eatery but it's pretty good during the day also. I think the secret to their late nite success is all the grease they use. Nothing tastes better when you are loaded than grease-laden diner food. MMMMM...grease-laden diner food.
That's it, I ate breakfast, I worked, went home and downloaded a Beastie Boys concert from 1998, watched two episodes of the Simpsons and went to fucking bed.
Listened to on the bus: A copy of this kick-ass mix CD I made for AJ in Spain. I am going to give this copy to another friend. What can I say? I am a giving person.
Sunday, July 07, 2002
July 7, 2002
Lenny Federal had his CD release party at the Double Door last night. There were a lot of people there and we all had a very good time. In attendance was me, Super Wendell, Snow, Joe and Vic from the Stroke and The One Big Loud Guy. For an important Lenny show the usual crowd of relatives and friends were there.
The band consisted of Bill Walpole on slide, Lenny on 'lectric, Michael Federal on acoustic and vocals, Butch on bass and Big John Wicker on drums and vocals and Wendell of Federal Bureau of Rock 'n' Roll fame on the soundboard contributing the occasional back up vocal. They played a reserved first set with merely set the stage for the blistering jamming that took place for the rest of the night. It really was a lot of fun. Super Wendell stole the show near the end with some manic dancing that you don't get to see too often outside of Mississippi juke joints and electric chairs.
I bought a CD which allows me to say Listened to on the way to work: All the Good People by Lenny Federal!!
This may be news to you but Bookpimp has been sporting a beard lately. I have been trying to decide what a bearded Bookpimp reminds me of and I just figured it out a few minutes ago. He looks like Jim Morrison right before he died.
Lenny Federal had his CD release party at the Double Door last night. There were a lot of people there and we all had a very good time. In attendance was me, Super Wendell, Snow, Joe and Vic from the Stroke and The One Big Loud Guy. For an important Lenny show the usual crowd of relatives and friends were there.
The band consisted of Bill Walpole on slide, Lenny on 'lectric, Michael Federal on acoustic and vocals, Butch on bass and Big John Wicker on drums and vocals and Wendell of Federal Bureau of Rock 'n' Roll fame on the soundboard contributing the occasional back up vocal. They played a reserved first set with merely set the stage for the blistering jamming that took place for the rest of the night. It really was a lot of fun. Super Wendell stole the show near the end with some manic dancing that you don't get to see too often outside of Mississippi juke joints and electric chairs.
I bought a CD which allows me to say Listened to on the way to work: All the Good People by Lenny Federal!!
This may be news to you but Bookpimp has been sporting a beard lately. I have been trying to decide what a bearded Bookpimp reminds me of and I just figured it out a few minutes ago. He looks like Jim Morrison right before he died.
Saturday, July 06, 2002
Friday, July 05, 2002
July 5, 2002
Last night we did our part in the war to defeat terrorism by shooting off a shitload of fireworks made in China. It was the first time I spent that much dough on Chinese products without going to Wal-Mart.
The guys that live above us had a bunch of fireworks also. Diana H. came over. Snow came over. Chris had been there since the night before. Scott from one building over came by with a small cooler full of Budweiser. Actually he was full of Budweiser, the cooler was almost empty by the time he came to watch us blow up the parking lot.
For those of you that don't know I live in a three story brick apartment that was built in the late sixties.
The tax info to my apartment is located here
It has six apartmens and is divided by a stairwell. On the third floor lives the Crazy Ole Bitch Upstairs (COBU). Anyway, COBU calls 911 about once every two weeks, sometimes more if the voices in her head tell her to. Every six months or so she gets carted away in an ambulance. She often can be seen walking around the complex with sandwich bags on her hands. I've suggested rubber gloves but she doesn't listen to me.
As is usual, last night COBU attempted to ruin our fun by calling the cops. Since she has cried wolf a million times the officer walked right past us and merely commented on how much shit we had and how she thought we were going to set the trees on fire. She then hauled her butt up the stairs to talk down COBU. After about twenty minutes the cop came to our apartment door and asked us to not shoot in front of the building anymore. She explained that she didn't want to end our fun but would have to if COBU called again. We moved around the corner and continued unmolested.
There is a great firework called a Seven Shooter that I would recommend to anyone that likes a bit of random danger in their fireworking. The Seven Shooter looks like a big firecracker and, once the fuse burns down, a small intense flame about one inch long shoots out. After about three seconds the piece then jumps in the air in no direction in particular and then ejects seven firecrackers which fly out in no direction in particular and then explode. These may be the only truly random things in the universe. Anytime you light one there is a chance someone could get hurt. We bought a lot of them.
Listened to on the bus: Born to Laugh at Tornadoes by Was (Not Was)
Reading: Brother Termite by Patricia Anthony
Last night we did our part in the war to defeat terrorism by shooting off a shitload of fireworks made in China. It was the first time I spent that much dough on Chinese products without going to Wal-Mart.
The guys that live above us had a bunch of fireworks also. Diana H. came over. Snow came over. Chris had been there since the night before. Scott from one building over came by with a small cooler full of Budweiser. Actually he was full of Budweiser, the cooler was almost empty by the time he came to watch us blow up the parking lot.
For those of you that don't know I live in a three story brick apartment that was built in the late sixties.
The tax info to my apartment is located here
It has six apartmens and is divided by a stairwell. On the third floor lives the Crazy Ole Bitch Upstairs (COBU). Anyway, COBU calls 911 about once every two weeks, sometimes more if the voices in her head tell her to. Every six months or so she gets carted away in an ambulance. She often can be seen walking around the complex with sandwich bags on her hands. I've suggested rubber gloves but she doesn't listen to me.
As is usual, last night COBU attempted to ruin our fun by calling the cops. Since she has cried wolf a million times the officer walked right past us and merely commented on how much shit we had and how she thought we were going to set the trees on fire. She then hauled her butt up the stairs to talk down COBU. After about twenty minutes the cop came to our apartment door and asked us to not shoot in front of the building anymore. She explained that she didn't want to end our fun but would have to if COBU called again. We moved around the corner and continued unmolested.
There is a great firework called a Seven Shooter that I would recommend to anyone that likes a bit of random danger in their fireworking. The Seven Shooter looks like a big firecracker and, once the fuse burns down, a small intense flame about one inch long shoots out. After about three seconds the piece then jumps in the air in no direction in particular and then ejects seven firecrackers which fly out in no direction in particular and then explode. These may be the only truly random things in the universe. Anytime you light one there is a chance someone could get hurt. We bought a lot of them.
Listened to on the bus: Born to Laugh at Tornadoes by Was (Not Was)
Reading: Brother Termite by Patricia Anthony
Wednesday, July 03, 2002
July 3, 2002
A scary thing happened to me yesterday evening. I was re-stringing my guitar and I tightened a string too much while trying to tune it and the string snapped and nicked my eye socket and cut my left hand. Who knew that guitar playing was such risky bidness?? That might be why many guitar players have long hair, to protect their eyes when a string breaks.
I wonder if breast implants decompose? Maybe future archeologists will be digging up graves in a, hopefully, rubble-strewn ancient Los Angeles and all they will find is dust, pieces of bone and hair and plastic balls of silicone and salt water. Maybe they will deduce that these were offerings meant to allow the deceased to learn how to juggle with one hand in the afterlife.
A scary thing happened to me yesterday evening. I was re-stringing my guitar and I tightened a string too much while trying to tune it and the string snapped and nicked my eye socket and cut my left hand. Who knew that guitar playing was such risky bidness?? That might be why many guitar players have long hair, to protect their eyes when a string breaks.
I wonder if breast implants decompose? Maybe future archeologists will be digging up graves in a, hopefully, rubble-strewn ancient Los Angeles and all they will find is dust, pieces of bone and hair and plastic balls of silicone and salt water. Maybe they will deduce that these were offerings meant to allow the deceased to learn how to juggle with one hand in the afterlife.
Tuesday, July 02, 2002
7/02/2002
I go to Wrigley on Thursday, June 27th.
I have been putting off describing Wrigley Field in Chicago because I can't. I think Steinbeck could describe it in an essay and almost get it. Shakespeare could write a poem about the park and David Lee Roth could lay it down and make it feel like a real woman.
I went with a father and son who both professed to be White Sox fans since they lived a portion of their lives in the southside of Chicago. Wrigley is in the northside of Chicago but they appreciate the desire to spend an afternoon at Wrigley. It was nice to spend the afternoon with two people who appreciate that sitting in a ballpark is a relaxing way to spend your time. No forced recreation out of those two.
We walked about a mile from our car to the ballpark. The streets are lined with trees and very narrow multi-storied houses. Each lot is very tiny and is valued at around a million dollars, I was told. On every block is a restaurant that looks like it could be exceptional. On every block is a bar that looks like it could be a great hang out. Running parallel to our path is the EL that does run, as Elwood said to Jake, "so often you won't notice."
Unlike most stadiums Wigley doesn't dominate the neighborhood. It's part of the neighborhood. The only hint that we were approaching a baseball park is that foot traffic increased and I started to see "Welcome Cubs' Fans" signs in the windows of bars and merchandising stands magically appeared. Then we walked up to an intersection and there it was right across the street like it has been since the early stages of World War I.
Our seats were near the edge of upper deck on the left field side of the field. Initially I was disppointed that we had to sit so high up but from where we were sitting we could see the whole ballfield and the Waveland Ave which runs outside the leftfield wall. It's the first time I have been inside an arena and could hear and see what was going on outside the park. We were facing the east and I could see a distant chunk of Lake Michigan which changed color throughout the day as the cloud cover moved through. The El which runs parallel to the rightfield wall ran all day. I could look down at the bleacher bums, I could look behind and look west across the city, I could see the people sitting in the bleachers on the apartments to my left, I could see the manually operated scoreboard in left field, I saw Sammy Sosa sprint out to right field in the top of the first to a standing and roaring ovation from fans in the bleachers, I saw Sammy hit a monster dinger into left-center that would have left the whole stadium if the wind hadn't been blowing in, I saw Moises Alou make a great play off the wall in front of me in left, nailing the runner at second, I had some peanuts, we followed the White Sox score, sang take me out to the ball game, climbed down to field level to piss, saved the cup that I drank coke out of, got a Cubs Pez dispenser, bought a hat outside the stadium, took a bunch of pictures and marvelled that every spot in the stadium I stood in was worth a good look. The whole place was interesting, even the urinals.
It's a goddamn fairy land. It doesn't really exist and a major league park of this type can really never exist again. Nostalgia and functionality like this cannot be manufactured. Tiger Stadium sits deserted and the demise of Wrigley was actually seriously contemplated as was the desertion of Fenway. Money has always been king. The destruction of what is treasured isn't going away and someday Wrigley will fall but it just makes me feel good that it's there right now being used and loved. It reminds me of what Tom said about Dylan when I asked Tom to go see Bob with me and some friends. First he said, hell no. I axed why. He said he just feels better knowing Dylan is touring and in town.
I go to Wrigley on Thursday, June 27th.
I have been putting off describing Wrigley Field in Chicago because I can't. I think Steinbeck could describe it in an essay and almost get it. Shakespeare could write a poem about the park and David Lee Roth could lay it down and make it feel like a real woman.
I went with a father and son who both professed to be White Sox fans since they lived a portion of their lives in the southside of Chicago. Wrigley is in the northside of Chicago but they appreciate the desire to spend an afternoon at Wrigley. It was nice to spend the afternoon with two people who appreciate that sitting in a ballpark is a relaxing way to spend your time. No forced recreation out of those two.
We walked about a mile from our car to the ballpark. The streets are lined with trees and very narrow multi-storied houses. Each lot is very tiny and is valued at around a million dollars, I was told. On every block is a restaurant that looks like it could be exceptional. On every block is a bar that looks like it could be a great hang out. Running parallel to our path is the EL that does run, as Elwood said to Jake, "so often you won't notice."
Unlike most stadiums Wigley doesn't dominate the neighborhood. It's part of the neighborhood. The only hint that we were approaching a baseball park is that foot traffic increased and I started to see "Welcome Cubs' Fans" signs in the windows of bars and merchandising stands magically appeared. Then we walked up to an intersection and there it was right across the street like it has been since the early stages of World War I.
Our seats were near the edge of upper deck on the left field side of the field. Initially I was disppointed that we had to sit so high up but from where we were sitting we could see the whole ballfield and the Waveland Ave which runs outside the leftfield wall. It's the first time I have been inside an arena and could hear and see what was going on outside the park. We were facing the east and I could see a distant chunk of Lake Michigan which changed color throughout the day as the cloud cover moved through. The El which runs parallel to the rightfield wall ran all day. I could look down at the bleacher bums, I could look behind and look west across the city, I could see the people sitting in the bleachers on the apartments to my left, I could see the manually operated scoreboard in left field, I saw Sammy Sosa sprint out to right field in the top of the first to a standing and roaring ovation from fans in the bleachers, I saw Sammy hit a monster dinger into left-center that would have left the whole stadium if the wind hadn't been blowing in, I saw Moises Alou make a great play off the wall in front of me in left, nailing the runner at second, I had some peanuts, we followed the White Sox score, sang take me out to the ball game, climbed down to field level to piss, saved the cup that I drank coke out of, got a Cubs Pez dispenser, bought a hat outside the stadium, took a bunch of pictures and marvelled that every spot in the stadium I stood in was worth a good look. The whole place was interesting, even the urinals.
It's a goddamn fairy land. It doesn't really exist and a major league park of this type can really never exist again. Nostalgia and functionality like this cannot be manufactured. Tiger Stadium sits deserted and the demise of Wrigley was actually seriously contemplated as was the desertion of Fenway. Money has always been king. The destruction of what is treasured isn't going away and someday Wrigley will fall but it just makes me feel good that it's there right now being used and loved. It reminds me of what Tom said about Dylan when I asked Tom to go see Bob with me and some friends. First he said, hell no. I axed why. He said he just feels better knowing Dylan is touring and in town.
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