Crime and the City Solution

Poking around the comics/graphic novel section at work the other day, I found CRIME, a big bound volume of '50s crime comics. With a title like that, you gotta take a look.

Crime!

The library has a few bound collections like this - big color reprints of horror and crime comics that caused a stink in the '50s. Enough of a stink that there were Senate hearings and comic burnings.

They're not even storing them in plastic sleeves before burning them!

Soon rock and roll would take the heat for juvenile delinquency and fun, and comics were off the hook for a while.

As a librarian and a fan of entertainment with no redeeming social value, I've always been against the censors and banners of the world. And who the hell gets that worked up over some comic books, anyway?

Well, uh...maybe those squares from the '50s had a point. Holy crap, were those things gory. You've probably seen stuff from the horror comics, where bad people get their ironic comeuppance, like a greedy guy gets drowned in molten gold or whatever. The funny thing is, a lot of the 'bad' people didn't really deserve their fates. Like, for the crime of dancing with another man a woman gets mummified by her jealous husband, or a guy who is rude to waiters gets eaten by vampires. Kinda makes getting your hand cut off for stealing seem quaint.

That's to be expected in horror comics. What I didn't expect was how gory the crime comics were. Everybody's getting machine gunned or stabbed or shot on just about every page, all in beautiful detail. As in the horror comics, there is a moral at the end, where the criminal is either shot or led to the electric chair or noose. All of this is illustrated with lots of bright red blood, popping eyeballs and jumping tears of sweat.

I suppose the publishers could say that by demonstrating that crime doesn't pay, the comics were actually moral instruction. Possibly, although the only instruction I've gotten out of them so far is some cool slang, like, "Aw, go peddle a herring," and "Wot a night, baby! Dancin' wit you is like wrasslin' with a feather!" Which is answered with "Yeah, Slug! Ain't that music the nuts?" Look for me to drop those phrases in conversation the next time we run into each other. It'll be the nuts.

So with all this gore, violence, and outdated slang, I have to give CRIME Googoomuck's highest recommendation. Five stars, two thumbs up, 12 tommy guns blazing. Seriously, it's the nuts.

Tales of Rock and Roll Glory

A disclaimer: as with many of the stories here, I can not 100 percent verify the following tale's accuracy. I'm almost positive one of the band members told it to me right after the tour, but my age-ravaged memory could be making that up as well. I don't want to submit it to my usual thorough, hard-hitting investigative reporting, because I really like this story, and want to believe it is true.

Let's proceed.

Panthro United UK 13 were a Gainesville punk rock band in the late '90s/early '00s with a long name. They were awesome.

Jimmy the bass player had been growing a beard on one of their tours. One day out of boredom or funniness, he shaved it all off except for a mustache. The band pulled up to play a show at some little bar in the middle of nowhere. While the opening bands were playing, Jimmy sat silently alone at the bar with his mustache and some aviator glasses, drinking, and occasionally blurting out, "Don't look at me. I'm an undercover cop."

Now I might be a simple country lawyer, but I'm pretty sure most undercover cops don't usually yell out their status in bars.

Here's Jimmy in some snazzy blue pants. Picture by elawgrrl.com.

Most of the people at the bar/show were younger than the band, and they were starting to get seriously weirded out by this older mustache guy. They were pretty sure he wasn't really an undercover cop, but he was still being a big ol' mustached weirdo down there at the end of the bar.

Meanwhile, the rest of Panthro is getting ready to play. The kids are still eying Jimmy, wondering if they're gonna have to do something about this guy before the band starts. Finally, Jimmy finishes his drink, runs up to the stage, puts on his bass, turns around to face the bar, hits a chord, and the kids start gong nuts. Crazy undercover cop guy was a rocker!

I'd like to think that those kids learned a lesson that night. That maybe even the quiet square (or weirdo calling attention to him/herself) might be an undercover star, ready to rock faces off at a moment's notice.

Even if they didn't learn a lesson, they still got to see an undercover cop play bass.

EXTRA BONUS STORY!

Since I can't completely verify that story, here's another Jimmy story from an earlier tour with Don's Ex-Girlfriend and Highway 66 that is 100% true:

This tour was so long ago we used covered wagons to cross the country, and once we got to Chicago Jimmy was running out of money. We were in Chinatown and he's counting his remaining funds, and says, "Alright, I can't buy any more stupid stuff." Ten minutes later he bought a $15 T-shirt with a big smiling face of Andy Lau, with huge letters saying ANDY. Of course, the largest shirt they had was designed for a Chinese girl, so you could see his lungs working through the thing. He wore that shirt for years, and it was always awesome.

Better Homes and Gardens

I spent a lot of time dreaming about my future house. Before falling asleep, or during long rides in the car, I'd fantasize about all the different rooms and passageways the adult me was going to enjoy.

This was in the old days before smartphones and back-seat DVD players, so I had a lot of time to design my future digs. Come to think of it, even if that stuff had been invented back then, most parents would probably have banned them on the theory of, "Why should I be bored driving when the kid gets to watch his Space Wars foolishness?"

While I admired the all-around design of the Addams Family house, or Disney World's Haunted Mansion, I felt my house should be more normal looking on the outside, only to BLOW VISITORS' MINDS once they got inside. Plus, a big creepy, Psycho-looking house might give people the wrong idea. I didn't want to be a villain or a creep, just a dude with an awesome house.

Exposure to kid mystery shows and books made me realize I needed hidden chambers behind bookcases and hidden passages to different rooms. Ideally, the house would also be over a secret cave I could firepole down to and ... I dunno, plot and stuff.

I didn't really see the need for those oil portraits with the eyes cut out where you could watch people, but figured I had to have them as part of the overall decor. Plus, I'd probably get a deal on them if I installed a firepole.

I definitely wanted a secret laboratory, even though I didn't really know that much about science. I would have to keep a gorilla down there, since based on old movies and comics, gorilla brain transference operations were pretty routine in secret laboratories.

I'd probably want a Tor down there as well.

But while secret chambers and labs were cool, what I really wanted was an outdoor room.

I have no idea how I came up with this plan, but I really wanted a bedroom that was full of grass with a pond in the middle. Maybe some boulders scattered around, also. To make myself fall asleep at night, I would concentrate on the carpentry and stuff I'd have to do to accomplish this.

I'd have to saw the door about a foot from the floor, then make some sort of liner to accommodate all the dirt. I was also going to stock the pond with fish, so I could catch some every once in a while, or maybe just look at them while relaxing in my outdoor room. I think I might have actually written some blueprints for this room at some point.

While the outside room was going to be my home's shining architectural achievement, I had a second act - an upside-down room, where all the furniture, outlets and everything would be up near the ceiling. While the outside room would have been functional (sort of), this would have been just for weirdness' sake. When friends came over I could casually say, "Oh yeah, you can stay in the room down the hall," and watch as they caught a debilitating case of vertigo.

I thought about this stuff for years. When I got older I didn't think as seriously about having an outdoor room or an upside-down room, since that stuff seemed sort of outlandish, but I did fantasize about having a living room that was a huge half-pipe, as that was much more grown up.

I think a lot of this came from hearing about the Winchester House, with its stairways leading to nowhere and false doors and ghost traps and whatnot. Plus, a lot of TV shows at the time, like Real People and That's Incredible celebrated weirdos who lived in crazy houses or drove cars covered with lightbulbs or whatever. So I was really sort of in tune with '70s culture.

I never got a chance to design my cool house, but there are places in my hillbilly shack where you'll probably go through the floor if you stomp, and my ancient windows let in about as much heat or cold as standing outside, so you could say I'm fairly close.

An Artistic Catastrophe

Remember in school when you'd hear about people rioting when they first heard "The Rite of Spring" or went all crazy over some Picasso paintings or beat up Ornette Coleman? And then you'd go experience the art that got everyone so pissed off and you'd just sort of shrug and wonder why people were so much more excitable back in the old days?

Maybe you even thought that those reactions you heard about years later were exaggerated; I mean nobody really goes that crazy over art that you could just as easily ignore, you know?

I am here to tell you that some art is still so ahead of its time, so revolutionary, that the masses erupt in rioting and poor behavior when confronted by it.

I speak, of course, of the cat circus.

Years ago, my ex-wife (who was my wife at the time) called me at work and informed me that there was a cat circus that weekend, and we were going.

I might have put up a bit of a fight just to keep things interesting, but I was intrigued. Plus, it was only five bucks and in a hot sauce store, so how bad could it be?

The hot sauce store was very small. Probably about twice the size of my living room. When we arrived with our friend Keith and his daughter, the place was packed. I guess they underestimated Jacksonville's love of art and culture.

They had to schedule a second show because there were so many art lovers. It was tight, but we were able to squeeze our way up front. As we made our way up there, we could hear people loudly complaining trying to get their money back because of the poor conditions.

The complaining would only grow louder.

So we watched the cat circus. It was pretty much what I wanted to see. From what I remember, some cats walked on a little tightrope. A rooster did...something or other, and I think there were some rats doing some stuff. It was hard to see. I think they rang some bells or something.

And yeah, some of the tricks were a little rusty, like when the lady sort of had to coax the cat onto the tightrope, but still, she got a cat to walk across a tightrope. That's more than I've ever done. And I wasn't really expecting to see cats flying out of cannons or catching each other on trapezes, you know?

But the cat circus was just a warm up to the main event. The cat band.

Check 'em out! Cats rocking the house!

I've seen a lot of bands in my time. I've seen bands at house parties where condensation was dripping off walls and the floorboards creaked as people danced. I've seen amazing, cathartic sets at the Hardback, when it seemed like the whole crowd and band was one pulsating organism. I saw The Who finish up "Love Reign O'er Me" as a rainstorm started in Tampa Stadium. I saw the Jesus Lizard and Fugazi in their prime, multiple times.

But none of these bands could hold a candle to The Rock Cats. Never have I felt such primal energy combined with musical talent as I did from those three kitty cats that night in the hot sauce store.

OK, not really. It was three cats playing instruments. What did people expect it to sound like? Beethoven? King Crimson? It actually reminded me of that post-college time when people started playing "sound sculptures" or "experimental music" or "noise" instead of playing music that was all full of fun and rock and roll. That stuff is a lot more tolerable coming from little kitties than from arty musicians.

I guess the band rubbed people the wrong way, too. People were going crazy, demanding refunds (a whole five dollars!) because the show wasn't "professional" enough.

Me, I got my five dollars of entertainment out of the thing.

I felt sorry for the hot sauce store owners, having to put up with people angrily shouting, complaining about the poor conditions and lack of  professionalism in the cat circus and band. I also felt sorry for the cat circus woman, who was only trying to expose our fair city to some art.

But most of all I felt sorry for the crowd. These people were experiencing some of the greatest, most groundbreaking art of the 21st century and all they could do was complain about the temperature in the room or the fact that three cats couldn't play "Eruption" or "A Love Supreme."

I wept as I started the car and we drove home. I wept that our city could not appreciate the power, the art, and the majesty that was the cat circus. I wept that years from now, children would not understand that the cat circus was ahead of its time. Would they judge us harshly? I hoped not. There were some of us who got it, some of us who were hip.

I pray that history remembers us.

The Earl of Eatin'

Who doesn't love a sandwich? Got some meat or a piece of cheese that's been sitting in the refrigerator that you're not too jazzed on? Put it between two slices of bread, slap some condiments in there, and it instantly becomes exciting!

The Earl of Sandwich, with the original sandwich recipe.

I've eaten my share of sandwiches over my life - day after Thanksgiving turkey sandwiches, exotic treats like the banh mi or the torta, reubens, Cubans, and grilled cheeses galore. Put it between some bread, and I'll probably take a chance.

I've noticed that some of  you aren't as adventurous as I am, however. In fact, just the mention of one of the sandwiches I grew up on is enough to nauseate many of you.

I speak, of course, of the banana sandwich. Not the peanut butter and banana sandwich of Elvis fame (although I've had a lot of those, even if they were unfried), I mean the other banana sandwich, the one I thought my mom made up, just based on people's reactions through the years.

Basically, you take a ripe banana (and who can eat those brown mushy bananas? Ugh.), cut it into sections, sort of like big coins, spread mayonnaise on two slices of white bread and arrange your banana coins on one slice of bread. Slap the other slice of mayonnaise bread on top, and you have the banana sandwich.

Through the years, so many people have expressed so much disgust at this recipe that I began to think that my family and I were the only people in the world who experienced this treat. But now with the internet, I see that it even has a Facebook page. I don't exactly know if it's a Southern thing or what, but it's nice to see that other people have eaten them.

I think the main thing holding people back from enjoying a banana sandwich at their favorite restaurant is the lack of a striking name. How about Tropical Surprise? Mayonana? Ape's Delight?

I haven't had a banana sandwich in years, and I can't say that I miss it, but every once in a while I'll think about one. Trust me, once you've had an Ape's Delight, it will lodge in the pleasure centers of your brain.

Days of Fish and Death

So my girlfriend arranged a whole Valentine's Day surprise for me. She wouldn't tell me anything about it, only that the day had a theme. I would find out later the theme was "fish and death," which there's no way I would have figured out. Oh, don't act like you would have got it, you would have been as clueless as me.

Things got off late thanks to my drive the night before, since I sort of hit a deer. I guess. It was in the middle of the interstate and I thought it was a log. I heard this huge crash when I hit it and pulled over to the creepiest gas station ever, surveyed the damage and drove the remaining 2 hours in a state of fear and sweat. It wasn't until the next morning that we noticed that the log left hair on my bumper.

So I'm dealing with insurance and wondering what's going to happen, but was remarkably able to relax and go with the day's theme (which was not revealed to me until the end).

First up, Atlanta Aquarium. This place is awesome! We got to see all the stars - otters, penguins, sharks, all your A-teamers.

We also got to hang out at Jellyfish Wall. Check it out:

I don't know why rich people buy boring stuff like yachts and memorial walls at hospitals. When I get rich (hey, there's still time), I'm buying a wall of jellyfish. I will sit in front of it in a leather chair wearing a smoking jacket petting a cat while I plot my kung fu treachery. And yes, I like how I went from rich to Bond villain in about 3 seconds.

And of course, any aquarium that doesn't have lots of stuff that can kill you isn't worth your time:

Piranha 3D!

It was also cool just hanging out and looking at fish whose friends and family I caught and ate:

Hangin' with Mister Grouper

After looking at fish for a few hours, it was off to part two, Oakland Cemetery. It was cold.

This is right after a ghost told me not to be shitty about Christmas

We had a pretty awesome tour, then we wandered the cemetery on our own, writing poetry and reflecting upon the futility of life.

Actually, I was thinking about the ending of "The Good, The Bad and the Ugly."

After that, we ate about 30 pounds of seafood across the street. I think that's where the ugly fish from the aquarium end up.

Oh crap! She also got me this awesome shirt - check it out:

If you live in Murray Hill, or I've driven you around, you'll recognize this as the logo on the baseball field. Every time I pass it I say, "I wish I had a shirt like that." Now I do. I figure I'm either gonna lead a team of scrappy kids from the poor side of town (which I guess is Murray Hill) to a baseball championship, or I'll have to start a gang or a doo-wop band.

She also collected all my old Myspace blog posts in a book, bound with fine Corinthian leather. So yeah, I really made out.

Guess I'll really have to up my game next year from this year's half-off day old candy and flowers from the gas station.

It's All Connected

In addition to my punishing schedule here at Goo Goo Muck Industries, I also do book/DVD/CD reviews for another site. Every once in a while I'll realize I don't have anything to say about a reissue of an album I've been listening to for over 20 years, and then realize I've been sitting on the review for 6 weeks.

If I remember my literary history* F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote "The Great Gatsby" in 6 weeks, the same amount of time it took me to think up synonyms for "rocking" for a Stooges review.

Of course it was easier back then. While authors in those days had their distractions, like crippling alcohol dependencies, schizophrenic spouses, and sitting around tables being witty, the modern scribe has the internet to steal his or her time away.

Take tonight. "Man, I haven't written anything for the blog in weeks," I was thinking. "Remember how I told myself I was going to put something out once a week? Luckily I didn't write that down."

"I've got all sorts of halfway finished stories, maybe I can do something with one of those."

After poking around the drafts, I thought I had something with my version of falling asleep at the drive-in. But I had a quote in the first paragraph from Ike and Tina Turner's version of "Proud Mary" that I wasn't absolutely sure I had the correct words for. So I had to look that up on Youtube for transcription purposes. Can't have fact errors on the internet.

That led me to about an hour's worth of Ike and Tina Turner songs on Spotify. Holy crap, there's an album called "Cussin,' Cryin' and Carryin' On?" Well, I gotta listen to that. That led me to the James Brown Christmas album, which naturally led to Fishbone's "It's a Wonderful Life." Hey, I need to find a good picture of Potterville showing that cool Indian Head Club. That took an hour or so.

Someone on Facebook had a link to Elvis Costello performing on Saturday Night Live when he stopped a song and launched into "Radio Radio," so I watched that and wondered why that would get him banned from the show for years. I mean, it's not like he was doing "Drink, Fight, and Fuck." Oh, the Beastie Boys did the same thing later, starting with "Sabatoge," stopping, then getting Elvis on there to do "Radio Radio." I should watch that a couple times, also.

Hey, I wonder if anyone ever released I Was A Teenage Frankenstein and/or I Was A Teenage Werewolf on DVD? That kept me busy for some time. Dr. Paul Bearer used to play those all the time on "Creature Feature," so I had to look up "Creature Feature" commercials on Youtube. That caused me to look up the Cramps's song "I Was A Teenage Werewolf." A link from that made me realize that all my work/procrastination had not been in vain. No, by switching off my conscious brain and searching for connections, I had inadvertently stumbled across the greatest thing on the internet. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the best music video ever assembled:

While it's actually the Stranglers, not the Cramps, and I feel that the couple seconds of Shermy dancing in the middle there distract from the overall theme, I think I can safely say that I put in a productive night's work.

Let's see F. Scott Fitzgerald pull that off.



* I probably don't.

What I Did Last Weekend

I don't know who you people are (although if the search terms are accurate, you really love pictures of Aunt Esther from Sandford and Son), but I'm pretty sure that once again I had a better weekend than you.

My friend Todd's 40th birthday was last weekend, so it was back up to Atlanta for hijinx. And not just any hijinx. Limo hijinx. That's right, we were going out in a stretch Escalade, just like the rappers on the MTV show.

He planned it all out, where about 20 of us would take the limo from his house, go to Trader Vic's for Polynesian treats, then to a fancy beer place, finally ending up at Atlanta's famous Clermont Lounge.

I don't think I've ever actually been in a limo before. I never had one for prom, because I drove a '77 Lincoln Continental in high school, which was pretty much the same thing, only I didn't have Jeeves driving me around. It was pretty awesome, even if the driver got lost and our fully stocked bar was unstocked except for some water bottles, which was probably for the best.

But even though it didn't have booze, it had all these cool Tron lights all over the place. Check it out.

Doesn't it look like some sort of sci-fi judgement chamber? "I find you ...guilty."

It also had a stereo system playing My Bloody Valentine, Wire,  Naked Raygun, Jesus Lizard, Radon, Guided By Voices, Misfits, and uh...that Billy Joel "Heart attack ack ack ack ack ack" song on it really loud.

And you know, if you're cruising around Atlanta with your good friends listening to that stuff, you don't really need booze at the moment. Although we'd soon take care of that at Trader Vic's.

Trader Vic's is this awesome tiki bar, which means that most of the drinks are basically a whole bunch of rum with some pineapple juice thrown in there for Island Flavor. They also come in cool looking containers. Check it - this is called the Rum Giggle, and it's served in a conch shell. Look how impressed your narrator was with it.

Extra! Extra! Drink comes in shell!

Oh yeah - the hat. I stole it early in the evening from my friend Dave since he wasn't wearing it and I thought the night needed an olde tyme newspaper seller to add some period flavor. Here's a better shot. As you can see, the resulting ensemble was so awesome my girlfriend Sherri took off her glasses to ...better see it or something.

I would like to add that I was not as drunk as this picture suggests. I only ripped my shirt off once the whole night.

After that I stole a little pumpkin at the fancy beer place. The host would hit me in the balls with that little pumpkin later that night. I was told it was an ancient Sicilian tradition, so who am I to argue with the birthday boy. I also managed to take some decorative dried corn, but someone made me give it back as we were leaving. People are always trying to ruin your fun.

We didn't make it to the Clermont, which is probably just as well. Who knows what I would have decided to steal there.

Later that night Jerry Lewis cleaned up after us. No, really, check it out:

He was just happy we were having fun.

So how was my first (I think) ride in a limo? I'll let the sci-fi judgement chamber pronounce sentence on that one.

"We judge your Earth limousines to be...awesome."

The next day I carved a pumpkin for some early Halloween atmosphere while Sherri took photos, because that stuff has to be recorded for future generations. I noticed in one photo that I looked like my dad when he got mad at me for not doing chores. That was some Halloween scary.

This is for your kid hitting me in the balls last night.

So yeah, I carved a pumpkin, hung with some old friends and the new girlfriend, rode around in a limo listening to the Misfits, drank out of a shell, a pretty awesome weekend all around. You really should have been there.

September Gurls

Before September, I had never been to a drive-in, even though many of my favorite movies were designed for the place*. I had also never seen Devo, both of which sort of seem wrong. I mean, that stuff is sort of embedded in my DNA, you know?

I've since rectified both of these mistakes, and in the words of Larry David, fall is shaping up to be "pretty good. Pritty, pritty good." I went to both with my girlfriend (yeah, seriously. Says so right on the Facebook and everything.), and I've been feeling a strange ...happiness lately, which is an odd sensation, especially if you compare back to entries from a year ago, when I wasn't sleeping and would regularly torture myself with feelings of failure and disappointment. Even work is shaping up to be OK.

There's a slight coolness in the air. Fall is coming. October's annual binging on old horror movies and Misfits, Roky Erickson, Cramps and Halloween novelty songs is just a week away. And yes, I realize many of you are asking, "How is that different from the rest of the year." Shut up. That's how.


You also might be thinking, "You being happy is all well and good, but I come here for the stories of embarrassment and awkwardness. Are you gonna be like those comedians who start families and then turn all lame and unfunny?"

Well, even though that's the second somewhat crappy question you've asked, not to worry, I've got 40 plus years of that shit stockpiled. That well ain't running dry anytime soon, trust me.

In the meantime, if Devo plays anywhere near you, go see them. Seriously. I paid double what I would have if I had jumped on the tickets earlier, but it was totally worth it. I mean, check out this kid. Look how much fun this little guy's having. That could be you:

* Been trying to figure out how to write up the drive-in story for a while now. Suffice to say it involves embarrassment, lowering property values, and a comparison between the comfort of sleeping in a Honda Civic versus a Nissan Cube.

I've ...Seen Things You People Wouldn't Believe

Went on yet another Atlanta trip last weekend. If I go one more time I will have to start paying rent to the family who keeps putting me up (and putting up with me).

I saw and experienced quite a few things, so much so that it has taken this long to process everything. For whatever reason, I took almost no pictures, so like the quote that inspired the title goes on to state, they'll all be lost in time, like tears in rain.

Wow. After that dramaticalness, it'll be kinda hard to come back to talking about my weekend.

This was the weekend of Dragon*Con, a nerdfest like none other. I was with 3 or 4 friends. We saw many of your favorite movie and comic characters, many in fun plus sizes. Sad Godzilla was probably my favorite. He was sitting on the floor by the elevators half out of his homemade (and quite badass) costume, looking all red and sad. I wanted to get a photo, but he looked too depressed and heat stroked, so I decided to leave the King of the Monsters in peace.

I ended up buying a lobby card for Dracula's Dog, because that is absolutely something I need to have.

So yes, if you're keeping score, I went to a comic convention and a Star Wars convention within two weeks. I am racking up some serious nerd points.

We ended up drinking pina coladas at Trader Vics, like the werewolf hero of the the kick-ass song "Werewolves of London."

So that's a pretty fun (but nerdy) weekend, right? I could stop there and you'd think, "Man, that guy really knows how to have some fun. He bought a poster for Dracula's Dog! He reenacted "Werewolves of London"!"

But there's more. There was a jerk festival the next day where vendors were selling delicious treats from the islands. My friend Sherri and I bought some somewhat overpriced (but delicious) strawberry smoothies, mostly because they were served in a pineapple. How could you turn down a chance to strut around like you were in Gilligan's Island with a big ol' pineapple drink?

From there, we went to this huge drive-in extravaganza, all full of bands and fireworks and movies. They played Big Trouble in Little China, Blade Runner, Blacula, and H.O.T.S., which didn't really fit in with the B title theme, but whatever.

It is strange that I had never been to a drive-in before, especially considering that many of my favorite movies were made for the drive-in. I think I'm ruined now, because I can't imagine I could have a better drive-in experience ever. So I might just stop while I'm ahead.

I also got to uncomfortably sleep in two cars over the course of the weekend and saw a pony, a tiki car and a little bitty Grave Digger monster truck that would speed through the drive-in with a person's head and torso sticking out of the top like a Big Daddy Roth cartoon come to life.

I don't know what you did on Labor Day, but I can almost guarantee you that you didn't have as much fun as I did.

A Unified Theory of Everything Awesome

I've been reading "The One: The Life and Music of James Brown." It got good reviews, but I probably would have checked it out regardless.

Something I learned: James Brown and the Flames' first paying gig was at a theater right after a showing of "House of Dracula." For those of you who don't know, "House of Dracula" was one of the mid '40s Universal movies where they just started throwing monsters together for maximum awesomeness. Like, Dracula would unthaw the Frankenstein monster to hang out with the Wolfman and they'd go around ...I dunno, terrorizing the town together until the Invisible Man would ride in on Mothra and fight them (I might have made up that last part). I caught "House of Dracula" when I was in second grade in Mississippi on "Friday Night Frights," and was hooked, like any reasonable person should be. Here, check it out:

So consider this. You've just watched Dracula and Frankenstein and the Wolfman monster it up for an hour or so. Things can't get much better than that. You're thinking about heading home, but decide to stick around and watch a song or two from this band.

Holy crap! You just saw James Brown! While he didn't yet have that fake passing out only to be revived by his magic cape move (the greatest stage move in music), and "Please, Please, Please" was about the only song they had up to that point, the book states that Brown was competitive and hungry during these early shows he would attack the stage, dancing, fake crying, whatever it took to enough that keep an audience's attention and steal the spotlight from other bands.

This brings up another awesome coincidence. On July 20th, 1969, Neil Armstrong becomes the first man to step on the moon. Some might argue that the space program was a waste of resources, that we spent millions just to walk around up there, pick up some rocks and hit some golf balls. But to quote the inspiring words of John F. Kennedy, "We choose to do these things not because they are easy, but because THEY ARE TOTALLY KICK-ASS."

People looked at the moon for thousands of years and we get an opportunity to drive little golf carts on it and jump around on the surface? Hell yeah, we're gonna go to the damn moon.
 
On the same day fifteen years later, SST Records releases two double albums, Husker Du's "Zen Arcade" and "Double Nickels on the Dime" by the Minutemen.

As a discerning individual, you probably don't need me to tell you about these albums - two of punk/hardcore's finest moments, albums that could be both raging and searching, expanding the musical palate, and creating dynamic, ambitious works of art that, to quote President Kennedy again, were "totally kick-ass."

Neil Armstrong on the damn moon. He's proud, excited, and humbled, yet still a little pissed he has to wait 15 years to hear "Turn on the News" or "This Ain't No Picnic."

So what does all this mean? Simple. Usually the Gods of Awesome dole out the treats over time, so we mortals don't get too used to things being amazing all the time. They realize it would make us lazy, weak, and dependent, and possibly wreck several economies.

Sometimes, however, they go a little nuts, like the people behind "House of Dracula," and just start throwing the awesome around willy-nilly. Religious scholars tell us that this keeps us on our toes - we never know when the next James Brown/Frankenstein team up will happen or when two seminal albums will drop on the anniversary of one of the awesomest events in world history.

Because of this, we can't give up. There are always going to be new corners of the world to explore, new music, new art, new awesomeness just around the corner. Sometimes it might take a while to find, but sometimes it explodes in our faces like a monster battle royale. All we have to do is be receptive.

Man, James Brown and Dracula. That would be the greatest show ever.

Watt's Up?

You gotta love Mike Watt. Co-founder of genre-confounding punk band the Minutemen, fIREHOSE, and a gazillion other projects including a long-running stint with the Stooges, he's always seemed a down-to-earth guy; humble, yet constantly trying to push his music further.

I was able to get a review copy of his new book of photographs through one of the sites I occasionally write for. Watt would take these as he rode his bike or kayaked early in the morning around his hometown of San Pedro. There's lots of cool shots of huge shipping cranes contrasted with the natural beauty of the bay that are pretty spectacular, even to a guy who can't really judge photography, like myself.

As I was trying to think of smart stuff to say to cover up that fact, I noticed that there was an opportunity to interview Watt. I haven't done an interview in years, but what the hell. We set up a phone interview.

I borrowed some recording equipment from my friend Matthew who does this sort of thing on the regular. It was this huge tape recorder like the one I used to record The Dukes of Hazard on when I was a kid (I don't know why I felt I needed audio of the Dukes, but it made sense in pre VCR days) that you would plug into the phone then record onto an actual audio tape.  I think they recorded the Watergate tapes on this thing.
Awesome. Without having to take notes, this interview would flow a lot smoother.

Then I realized something. I was doing this on my lunch break, and I was calling him from work. I couldn't use my office phone to make a 30 minute long distance call. I'd have put my cell on speaker and record him with the tape recorder.

I did a test that morning. Test went pefect. This was going to be great. I would take notes anyway, just in case.

So I called Mike Watt. Was I nervous? Yeah, a little bit. This was a guy responsible for "Double Nickels on the Dime," one of my desert island albums. The performance of "Contemplating the Engine Room" I caught in Gainesville on a whim still ranks as one of my top concert experiences ever. And hell, the guy has been interviewed in just about every music documentary ever made, and by real journalists in like, Rolling Stone and Spin and stuff. What was I going to bring to the table?

But I got over it. I've interviewed people, even famous people before, and from the interviews I've seen and read, I didn't think getting him to speak would be a problem, and he seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

So let's do this.

He was great - super friendly and ready to talk. Man, was he ready to talk. About a quarter through the interview I gave up taking notes because I couldn't keep up. It was like riding a mechanical bull while surfing on a word tsunami.

I mostly asked him about the book, since that was his newest project. It was great hearing him talk about his daily bike/kayak routes and his theories on how art has to bounce off other people,  his hesitation in presenting his photographs in the first place, and how he feels he is still just learning the bass, even after over 30 years of playing. I only asked two music questions - one about the reformed fIREHOSE, and another about his most memorable gig ever. To tell the truth, although I remained professional, I was sort of in awe of his language - while a regular guy, he has a unique way of phrasing and his own vocabulary that just sort of washes over and hypnotizes you.

When the interview was over, I told him what I knew about the publishing schedule (which reminds me, I really need to finish that review), and he actually thanked me for not asking the same questions he always got. He could have just been saying that to be nice, but holy crap. Mike Watt complimented my interview! That was totally going to be my new ringtone!

I sat in my office for a while, then took a walk around the building before listening to the interview.

I will now transcribe our conversation, as recorded on the tape:

"BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ."

Yep, I must have moved the phone too close or something, but the tape is completely unlistenable.

Normally I would be pretty bummed, and I do feel bad that I wasted a half hour of his time, but I have enough in my notes that I can salvage a review, even if it isn't the Q&A I wanted. Plus, I realize that while it was an embarassing screw-up, it's not like Ernest Hemingway losing year's worth of stories in a Paris train station or anything.

It was awesome talking to one of my musical idols about life, middle aged fitness, music and art, and if the results fall short of what I wanted, at least in the moment there everything went great. Plus, we're totally best friends now. We're going waterskiing next weekend with Iggy. I'll let you know how it goes.

Mixed Media

Once people find I'm a librarian and they use up their Dewey Decimal jokes, they tend ask me about books. Here's some of the stuff I've been reading/recommending lately. Not too interesting, I know, but I'm sure I'll have more awkward tales next week or so. Trust me, that well ain't running dry anytime soon.

"What It Is" – It’s always a treat to find a new George Pelecanos book, and this one sort of snuck in. I didn’t see any reviews, the library didn’t get a copy, and hell, his last book came out about six months ago so I didn’t really expect another new book for a while. “What it Is” brings back private investigator Derek Strange, I believe for the first time since “Hard Revolution,” the excellent book focused on the 1968 DC riots.  This time the year is 1972 (well, actually it’s 2012 and Strange is recounting a story in a bar) and DC ex-con Red Fury is determined to go out in a blaze of glory, hoping his exploits live on after him. Characters from previous books pop in now and then, muscle cars and funk music are discussed, and the final chapter, where Strange wraps up his story in a rainy bar to a skeptical friend, is one of the best examples of male friendship put on the page.

"The Cover Art of Studio One Records" - If you like books but wish there weren’t all those pesky words cluttering up the pages, this is for you. Another amazing book by Souljazz Records focusing on Studio One Records, the major recording studio in Jamaica. Covering all the way back from Calypso, and focusing on the dozens of great Jamaican pop music mutations, from ska, rocksteady, dub and roots reggae (along with a surprisingly large gospel section), this is a gorgeously reproduced sampling of album art. Some of the covers look hand drawn and colored, some were repurposed later (sort of like dub) and some had awesome photos, like this one:

Or this one:

I’m partial to the earlier ones, with guys wearing cool suits as opposed to track suits, but for record nerds or people who appreciate awesomeness, this will be flipped through constantly, just like their previous book “Freedom, Rhythm and Sound” which focused on free jazz, and featured more graphics with black fists, Egyptian symbols and skulls.

"Satan is Real: The Ballad of the Louvin Brothers"

One of the best music books I’ve ever read. Brothers Charlie and Ira Louvin performed breathtaking harmonies as the Louvin Brothers. Offstage there wasn’t as much harmony. Co-writer Benjamin Whitmer wisely takes a backseat to Charlie Louvin, who tells stories about whiskey, fighting, mandolin smashing, country music, music in general, sex, Elvis, hard times, touring stories, Hank Williams, anger, brotherhood, and love. The book is basically chronological, with short chapters each based on a certain topic. If you grew up in the South, this will be like having an old relative sit you down and tell you stories. 

As for DVDs, lately I enjoyed "Thunder Soul," a great documentary on the Kashmere Stage Band, a Texas high school stage band whose bandleader/teacher Prof Johnson encouraged to play funk and soul, rather than the big-band influenced songs the other high school bands were playing. Soon they were winning national competitions, flying to Europe and inspiring a sense of pride in their school and themselves. The kids were amazing musicians – the stuff they were playing could easily stand up against the giants of ‘70s funk, and the records they put out would become highly prized among DJs and beatdiggers years later. Special points go to the documentary for not taking the easy way out – it would have been easy for them to show the other band’s performances as hopelessly square, but the filmmakers take the high road – there are clips for comparison, but the other kids were talented as well. They just weren’t as funky. The second part of the film focuses on a reunion show by the band for Prof around his 92^nd birthday. I have a soft spot for old people, the concept of touching people without even knowing it (as anyone who’s been around me watching “It’s A Wonderful Life” over Christmas can tell you), and the idea that there are thousands of inspirational people around us every day, toiling in middle and working class jobs. If these happen to be your weaknesses, the final 20 minutes or so will have you sniffing like a little kid in a pollen storm. But not me, I took that stuff like a trooper.

 Music-wise, I'm old, so lots of reissues, including that Bitch Magnet 3 CD set. Got another one of the Thin Lizzy reissues, "Black Rose," which has some good slowed down versions on the extra disc. Waiting til payday to pick up the Feedtime boxset. A friend recommended Terry Malts "Killing Time" which he compared to Jesus and Mary Chain and the Ramones. Yep, sounds like that to me. Other than that I've been listening to Funkadelic over and over again. It keeps me happy.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving kind of gets the shaft. Stuck in there between Halloween and Christmas, most people look at it as the lull between the two big holidays. Me, I love it. It's one of those holidays that all Americans celebrate, and nobody's gonna get all weirded out because they have a different religion or came here from England or India or whatever. I'm not sure how Native Americans feel about it, but I'd like to think that they look at it as the good old days, you know, before the whole genocide thing.

I don't remember too many Thanksgivings as a kid, but I do remember what might be one of my favorite Thanksgivings as an adult. Hell, it might be one of my favorite holiday memories as an adult.

My ex-wife was doing an art show in Gainesville the day after Thanksgiving and left the day before, so Thanksgiving morning I was going to drive to my grandmother's in Georgia, eat, drive back home, then wake up the next morning and drive to Gainesville for Thanksgiving #2. This is a little-known advantage to being married. You can frequently get two Thanksgivings.

It was about a three hour drive to my Grandma's. While I hate day-to-day driving, I love trips. Especially solo trips. No bathroom breaks, no fights over the stereo, leaving whenever I get the urge; just me driving all caffiened up and alone with my thoughts and singing.

Although my dad is an only child, my grandma has a lot of ... well, I'm not really sure if they are actually blood relatives or friends or what. I think there is some sort of family connection way, way off there, like 3rd cousins once removed or whatever. Anyway, they all love me and make a fuss over me, which is one of the few times that attention like that doesn't make me feel awkward and weird.

And damn, can they cook! Along with the usual turkey and stuff, there was chicken and dumplings, about a gazillion vegetables, the most tender ribs I have ever had in my life, and like 5 different kinds of cake. I mean, seriously, can you even name more than 3 kinds of cake?

My plate looked like John Belushi's in Animal House, and every time I'd stop to take a breath or pause to savor another bite, they'd be all over me.

"Do you need something else? Anything we can get you?"

I usually hate being the center of attention, but having all these old Southern ladies baby me was pretty damn comforting and sweet. I was also drinking a ton of sweet tea. Not sweet tea like you get at the store or McDonald's or whatever, this was genuine Old Southern Lady Sweet Tea, the stuff that turns you diabetic after a glass or two. Of course, as soon as my glass was about 1/4 empty, it was filled to the rim by my old lady protectors.

I ate and drank so much I was dizzy. They made me massive plates for Christie (which of course she never got) and the ride home, and hugged my neck and I was on my way back to Jacksonville.

I managed to hit that golden hour, right when the sun starts to set. I've loved that hour since I was a teenager because it meant that my work was done and I was on the road with my friends to a punk show or a skate trip. This time I was almost alone on the road, I was listening to NPR, Fugazi's The Argument, one of those later Man or Astroman albums and feeling completely contented, if still a little dizzy.

I got home to a completely empty apartment complex. Actually, most of the neighborhood was dark. I might have been the only one on our street at the time. I started in on one of my plates, opened a Guinness and started playing 7"s at a volume I wasn't usually allowed to, what with the paper thin walls and all.

It's not too often that I feel completely at peace, but after getting babied all day, eating a ton of food, knowing that I was going to see my wife and her family the next day, but that I had tonight to play the stereo loud, get drunk and eat even more combined with the drive home gave me the most peaceful feeling I had felt in a long time. I still feel good thinking about it today. I hope both of my loyal readers are able to get a piece of that this Thanksgiving.

Call Me

I first heard Naked Raygun in my friend Curt's parent's car. I remember him slaloming around the curves on Riverview Boulevard as he played "Throb Throb." I can't remember if it was the end of high school or early college, but I do remember being blown away by the tape. We both had extensive punk music collections, but Raygun were something different. A super catchy band with a singer who could actually, you know, sing, with songs that stayed away from the simplistic politics most of our favorites were screaming about, instead focusing on post-apocalyptic comic book ...stuff with a sense of humor.

Naked Raygun were never that big, and when you found another fan, you generally found a friend. This was music for wise-ass nerds, people who were willing to dig just a little deeper, and who generally shared your same outlook and interests. I'm sure they had meathead fans as well, but living in Florida we never ran into them.

Curt and I remained Naked Raygun fans throughout the years, finally getting to see them about 4 years ago at a reunion show in Chicago. It was awesome. I figured that was the pinnacle of our Raygun experience.

Then in Gainesville this weekend (don't worry, I'll have a full story soon), I saw The Bomb, singer Jeff Pezatti's post-Raygun band bust out "Soldier's Requiem," one of my favorite songs of all time and one they didn't play at the reunion. That was pretty awesome.

And then Jeff Pezatti walked into the bar where I was with a big group of my friends. A lot of them have met him before (hell, he stays at my friend Shane's house when he's in Gainesville), but this was a first for me. He was super nice, even after having to hear loud drunken explanations of his own songs. They say you should never meet your heroes, but you know, maybe most people have shitty heroes.

Then he started prank calling his friends. Naked Raygun members, Steve Albini, I can't remember who all right now, but they all got a rendition of a group of us singing "Vanilla Blue" to them.

If you had told me in 1988 that I would be in a bar singing "Vanilla Blue" with the singer of Naked Raygun to his friends, I probably would have been able to get through some of my shitty years easier. "Just a few more years," I'd think. "Then I'll be singing Naked Raygun songs with Jeff Pezatti in a bar on a futuristic telephone machine with a bunch of drunks I haven't met yet."

Speaking of telephone machines, I had a SIM card replaced on mine a week ago. Since I didn't save all my addresses and numbers to the card, a lot of people got wiped out and I was only left with their email address, something I didn't discover until this weekend. This is the only downside to the whole experience, because through the whole thing, all I was thinking was, "I have to let Curt hear this."

So Curt, I'm sorry technology beat me again. I promise to save your info on the card ASAP, just in case I run into someone else famous.

Here's some proof. I call this one "Three Men and a Little Lady." And no, my neck is not that fat in real life.

The Power of Positive Drinking

It's been a bad month. For a variety of reasons I've been feeling like a failure both professionally and personally. I sleep like I'm on watch - sleep two hours and stay awake two, all through the night. The hours I'm awake I catalog a litany of mistakes and missteps and future problems that snowball until I either fall back asleep or wake up and trudge through another day.

So I've been getting out of town on the weekends, which has been pretty great. Went to Chapel Hill two weekends ago, which was amazing. Lots of beer drinking, man talk and pork eating in one of the greatest little cities I've ever been in. I don't understand why all of America isn't trying to move up there.

Gainesville, Florida was up next in my tour of our nation's finest college towns for this big music festival thing. I didn't really care too much about seeing the bands, I was mostly in it for another big Gainesville group meet up.

As both of my readers might remember, these tend to happen once a year or so, when a group of about 20 or so ex-Gainesvillians gather for a wedding or music festival or whatever. A few have them have also magically lined up when I've been in the middle of some tough times, and have managed to pick me up and recharge my batteries for at least a little while.

I'm not really comfortable around a lot of people. I tend to hide different aspects of my revolting personality around different groups, and I generally stay quiet, feeling that people wouldn't want to hear whatever I would say, so it was nice to be around a group where I could be completely comfortable. Judging from the memories that flash through, perhaps I was a little too comfortable.

And the weekend seems to have worked its magic. Three days and nights surrounded by some of my favorite people in the world, full of eating, drinking, music and laffs, which naturally, I didn't get a single photo of. Official photographer Leila Campisi did get some pretty awesome photos, including this one of me eating some money. It made sense at the time.


How am I still single?


You could say that this is all a bunch of middle-aged Big Chill-type nostalgia, and I might agree, except that none of us were really bringing up the past at all - we were focusing on what we were doing now, catching up with each other, that sort of thing. I don't mean to make this sound like some therapy session or something, I was frequently laughing so hard at some nonsense that I felt I had ruptured my appendix or something.

As loaded as I was through the weekend I still had trouble sleeping until Saturday night. I slept like a log and woke up at 7:30 feeling more refreshed than I had in a long time. I went ahead and packed up and drove back to Jacksonville, feeling...I dunno, peaceful somehow, knowing that all my problems (which would be ridiculous to 90 percent of the world) can be dealt with or ignored. The sun was still rising and looked beautiful, every song that came up on the ipod sounded amazing, and I was on the road.

Sure, I might be a single middle aged guy who is frequently broke and has a lack of both marketable talents and social skills, but I've able to pick some goddamn amazing friends, and I'll be able to take whatever life dishes out, as long as I can keep in touch with them to remind me that I'm not as weird and out of place as I sometimes think I am.

And I can still eat the hell out of some money.

A New Record!

Went to a record show down in Gainesville yesterday, mostly just for something to do. I only have a few records left. My turntable has lived in the top of my closet for about 6 years now. I am a terrible hipster.

Years ago I was faced with the problem of how to save 6 crates of vinyl from Mother Nature during a hurricane evacuation. Realizing they wouldn't all fit in the Civic with two cats, a wife, a computer and several essential bins of fabric and beads, I realized that maybe I didn't really need all that stuff after all, and started replacing most of my collection on CD, which took up a hell of a lot less space.

But it was still fun digging through the crates on a Sunday on the grounds of the old Hardback Cafe, even if I had to endure what my friend Pat dubbed scenester smell. "It's all full of sweated out cheap beer and cigarettes and unwashed armpits," was pretty close to his exact quote. I should have written it down.

I hit up the dollar and 2 dollar records for some wall decoration for my still barely furnished bachelor pad and managed to score a nice looking For A Few Dollars More soundtrack, The Impressions' Gone Away, which I might actually have to try to listen to, and some some exotica record with an evil nekkid Hawiian lady throwing bowls of fire at you:



Pretty boss, huh?

Cynics might wonder why I expended precious fossil fuels and my free time to spend a handful of money on stuff that I don't really have a use for. Well, if I hadn't, you never would have seen this:



Poor sad clown. I know the feeling.




I have no idea what this is, other than the possible inspiration for Fishbone's awesome Christmas carol "Slick Nick, You Devil, You," but I expect it will remain an integral part of my Christmas displays for years to come.

Weekend Warrior

Occasionally the gods of leisure will smile upon you. Maybe it's fate, maybe they just tire of seeing you trudge through your same routine every week, but for whatever reason they decide to throw a whole bunch of fun at you just to see you happy.

Although knowing that mythological gods could be dicks, they might just want to see if you die of a heart attack from fun overload.

For whatever reason, the gods decided to reward me by scheduling the Jacksonville Backyard BBQ Championships and something called the Cult Movie Drive-in on the same weekend, one of the weekends I was actually off work and could attend a smorgasboard of awesomeness.

There's not too much you can really say about the BBQ Championships, other than it's a good excuse to eat a whole bunch of food and ...I dunno, I guess the ticket goes to charity or something?

I had gone to last year's championship, and while it was pretty fun, it was also sort of unorganized. So there would be long stretches of no food, then a group would gather in front of some booth after somebody said, "They've got ribs" in the same tone you'd use if you had found a kid in a well who needed help. If you were in the back of the group, you might get some ribs, or you might get a big ol' helping of nothing.

This year, there were a lot more people cooking, so much so that I was so loaded up on samples that I felt sort of sick after we left. This is the feeling of accomplishment.


BBQ even makes hipsters smile!



They have this really progressive work release thing where inmates from the local prisons and asylums learn valuable life skills through cooking. Here, a local inmate displays his favorite cleaver.

From there we went to the Cult Drive-in thing. It was pretty dead, which might have had something to do with there being no advertising. I only knew about it because my friend Pat happened to stumble onto their webpage which he forwarded on to me, after having HIS MIND BLOWN. Seriously, the email he sent said something like "abaadabab this just broke my brain."

All sorts of famous-to-nerds people were there, and since they weren't bothered by pesky customers, they were captive to the nerds who showed up who would regale these poor actors with recaps of their favorite lines and how their roles in action movies back in the '70s were totally inspirational at their sad IT or library jobs.


Mink Stole from the John Waters movies was the first person we saw. She was awesome, sort of like a cool aunt. She totally wanted to steal my friend Matthew. Oh yeah, he was visibly freaked out by like 95 percent of the stuff there. He almost fainted when Ms. Stole suggested he talk to Ilsa (you know, the She Wolf of the SS). Ilsa's there by Matthew's shoulder. Poor Ilsa, no nerds at her table yet.


If you pay them for autographs, famous people will pretend to be friends with you.


Pam Grier offered to take me away with her, but I have too much to do here.


Jim Kelly no longer has his amazing afro (where I think many of his powers came from), but was still pretty awesome.

There were all sorts of movies of dubious quality being sold there. They had deals where you could buy 3 for like 30 bucks. I ended up with Moonshine County Express, Killer Fish, Three Tough Guys, The Legend of Lizzie Borden, some animated Dracula thing and ...I can feel your eyes glazing over from here, so I'll stop. Suffice it to say, I loaded up on treats, even though I have the feeling they're all gonna be released next week in five dollar Criterion reissues.

For the next few days I thought of all the stuff I left behind - some Bigfoot movie, a couple Italian Jaws ripoffs, some spaghetti western where Robert Mitchum plays a priest with a machine gun. Man, I really needed some of that stuff.

I noticed how everybody thought it was awesome that I was spending a ton of money on foolishness. I hope all these people remember that when I hit them up for loans when I'm 76 and headed to my third job.

Fred Williamson did a Q&A, which was just amazing. He looked almost the same as he did in the '70s, even though he said he was 73. He came in drinking a margarita and just started calling on people. He had a long list of people who's asses he should have or will or could kick.

I asked what his favorite role was.

"My favorite role? You've seen my movies, right? They're all the same. I look good, kick someone's ass, get the girl if I want her, then leave."

Someone asked if he'd accomplished his goals. He said he didn't have any, and said something like, "I never thought I'd play football professionally, or act in movies, or direct. Or be in this room answering all these dumbass questions."

After that, we went home and I fully intended to come back at 8 to watch Coffy on the big screen, but after my day's adventures, I stayed home and looked at all my treats.

When will the gods smile on me again? Who knows, the ways of gods are unknown to mortal men. I'd like to think they helped me out during Sunday's adventures, when I teamed up with Pam Grier, Fred Williamson and Jim Kelly and we uncovered a wide-ranging conspiracy based at the BBQ Championships. I'd tell you more, but a lot of that information is classified at the moment.

Reflections On a Picture My Friend Kevin Uploaded to Facebook

It's 1986. You've just gotten off work and all you want to do is microwave some Orville Redenbacher, drink some Miller Lite and watch Magnum, P.I..
Your significant other wants to go out.

Shit. Instead of a relaxing night at home, you're going to have to be in a crowded, sweaty club, full of obnoxious people, overpriced drinks and DJs playing Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, when you could be watching Magnum solve a mystery and mess with Higgins.

Then again, if you go along with this idea and don't act like too much of a baby, there's the possibility you could get laid at the end of the night, so after some negotiation (two hours, tops, with the possibility of one dance depending on darkness, intoxication levels and music selection) you end up going out.

After walking in you realize you've made a mistake and are already checking your watch every few seconds wondering what she sees in this place. You've got better music at home, and you don't have to pay to drink, either. I'll bet Magnum's doing something cool right now.

"No, I don't feel like dancing right now. You go ahead, though. I'll be right here."

Jeez, this sucks. I wish I had that popcorn I was going to make. Well, she's happy, maybe that'll pay off later. I should really go to the bathroom.

God, these people are just terrible. Don't they have to work in the morning? And they see me heading to the bathroom. You can't just move two steps? No? You're going to make me walk all the way around you while you have your yelly conversation? Yeah, that's cool, why ...

Holy shit.

Hanging out by the bathroom you see them. Three people who deserve to be carved into a Mount Rushmore of '80s awesomeness.



"What...what are you guys doing here?"

"We're looking for people to join our big rock and roll comedy awesomeness tour. Mr. T's sleeping on the bus. Looks like you're tonight's big winner."

"Let's go. I can call work from the road."

After that, people describe your life as a roller coaster ride. This is laughingly incorrect, as you will only encounter constant highs, highs not known to mortal men. You will experience explosions of excitement and exquisite life-changing ecstasy day after day. You will also be turned onto Rodney Dangerfield's secret knowledge of the occult, which will pay dividends for the rest of your life.

At least that's what I got out of the picture. You might just see Pee Wee Herman, Rodney Dangerfield and David Lee Roth hanging out in front of what looks like a county fair or miniature golf course.

Moving Pictures

I saw True Grit last night. It was good. As a general rule I avoid remakes, because, really, what's the point, but you know, it's the Coen Brothers. Even their crappy movies are pretty good.

Now that I'm out of the coveted 18-35 year old age range, nobody gives a shit what I think about movies, and it shows.

Actually, it doesn't seem like Hollywood gives a shit about movies, period. Three quarters of most movies are remade from an older, better movie (True Grit gets the Awesomeness Exception), or based on some TV show that nobody liked 30 years ago, or a video game or a comic book nobody cared about. And do you think anyone involved in any way in shit like The A-Team or GI Joe actually cared about it? Did the directors or writers really yearn to tell a story? Did the actors really try to find the inner B.A. Baracus? No, they didn't care, and I think they actually hate anyone who actually paid money or wasted their precious cable time to see their shitty movies.


The indie ghetto is almost as bad, but at least you don't feel the hate for the audience from every frame. More like condescension. You know as soon as you see the handwritten credits while a guy and girl tonelessly sing with a kazoo or ukulele, you're gonna get a story about a guy who works as a crossword puzzle editor who's gonna meet a girl who knits sweaters for birds navigate their way through the trials and tribulations of being young, quirky, and upper middle-class.

Then there's a gazillion CGI movies where plastic shiny animals trade pop culture references and fart at each other, but as I'm childless, I don't have to watch those.

It's been said there are only a handful of original stories, everything since the time of the Greeks or Cavemen or whatever has just been updating and refining these universal themes. But there are really only two themes for a good movie.

There is only "Holy Crap! Check this out!" and "Listen to this story." Examples of "Holy Crap! Check this out" would embrace everything from Buster Keaton to musicals to martial arts to exploitation flicks. "Listen to this story" could be anything from "There's this cab driver who's all messed up" to "This village keeps getting raided so they try to find some protection" to "This cowboy goes on a 5 year obsessive quest to track down his niece."

Obviously, "Listen to this story" could apply to anything, even movies based on crappy kid's TV shows that were made to sell toys, but it has an important qualifier. As soon as you have to add sentence like "Yeah, you remember that old commercial/sci-fi movie from the '50s/TV show," the "Listen to this" story gets weakened, and eventually dies. If you have to add, "Someone wears a fat suit and farts a lot" or "Nicolas Cage and John Travolta" or "Adam Sandler and his less-funny friends" or "Yeah, it's Will Smith's kid" the genre shrivels up.

Is this a perfect system? No, it's not. It's more a "I'll know it when I see it" system. But it works for me. I guess. I'm watching a PBS American Experience on the Civil War as I write this, so maybe I am too old to comment on pop culture.