We were somewhere near Daytona on the edge of the ocean when the '70s soft rock began to take hold.
My friend Todd and I were driving to Jacksonville after another big Orlando/Gainesville meetup/reunion in Cocoa Beach. We were playing my Wussrock playlist - you know, AM Gold, Yacht Rock, the sort
of songs where they use the word 'lady' a lot. You heard it on the radio if you grew up in the
'70s. If you grew up a little later, you were probably
conceived to it.
Todd and I were roommates in Gainesville years ago. We could...well, honestly we could be pretty annoying when together. Actually, I've got a fairly large group of people like that. Everyone has in-jokes with their friends, I've managed to meet and befriend a few who could stretch those in-jokes past the point of comedy, way past annoyance, barrelling past anger, and finally into hysteria. Well, hysteria for us, anyway.
We were playing Gerry Rafferty's hit
"Baker Street" (You'll know it when you hear it) and one of us came up
with the idea of President Obama playing the sax solo in it. Here, now it's in your head:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Yi762sQTo
This
naturally led us into all sorts of scenarios - Obama practicing daily
in the Oval Office anxious to show his sax skills to the public, a public
address where he would announce "America, we are a strong nation. But we
are never stronger when we can share the gift of entertainment to the
world. That is why I have gathered you together tonight. Folks, I've been practicing these tasty sax licks for a year now, and here is my gift to you, the American people. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the great Gerry Rafferty."
Needless to say, our Obama impressions were flawless. Or we'd do an impression of a secret service agent seconds before the sax solo hits: "Mr. President! You're on!" This one in particular would crack us up. We then expanded our joke to having President Clinton step in for the guitar solo at about 4:45 if you're following along on Youtube. I'm pretty sure we were picturing him doing the 'guitar face' where you sort of half close your eyes and bite your lip. At least I was.
You could argue that this scenario is not funny. I probably wouldn't argue too strongly with you. It could have been the consequence of a long car ride, lots of caffeine and boredom. But it made us laugh and passed the time.
Couple weekends later I was in Atlanta. After a few drinks Todd and I couldn't stop our Obama sax routine. Predictably, our comedy was lost on the squares, who pointed out things like the fact that Clinton played the sax, not Obama, or that we were being annoying and stupid. Much like Lenny Bruce or Richard Pryor, we were just ahead of our time.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Smashin' Trash
One of the apartments I lived in post-college had a dumpster about 15 feet from my door. This was awesome.
It was awesome because we didn't have to put our trash cans out in the street like regular chumps, we could hurl it into the dumpster from the porch like kings. With a regular load of trash, you'd sort of swing it in your arm a few times to get some centrifugal force going,* then watch it fall in an inspiring arc into the dumpster. And if some of the garbage didn't make it in to the dumpster, well, that was some garbage guy's problem. We tried.
Over the winter, my roommate and I instituted "Gin and Tonic Winter." This meant that we bought a huge bottle of Kash and Karry gin and made gin and tonics around a fire that we made by burning sticks and pallets, sometimes grilling hamburger patties that he liberated from his job at Burger King. It was classy and sophisticated.
One of my hazy memories from Gin and Tonic Winter was going around to every woman in attendance (which probably wasn't too many) and saying, "You wanna come inside and see my new widescreen TV?" To which my friend Pat would say, "Hey, you don't have a widescreen TV," to which I would respond with a comical "SHHHH!" This line/routine did not work.
Around this time, Gainesville had become a magnet for the homeless. Not regular down-on-their-luck, Brother-can-you-spare-a-dime homeless, but homeless wrapped up in countercultures. There was a big Rainbow Gathering in Ocala, and several of the Rainbowers stuck around Gainesville for a while, begging for change looking like a costumer took all the dirtiest elements from hippies and punks with a little bit of raver and threw them all together with a little Pigpen dust.
They never seemed to come around our gin and tonic bonfires, probably because the class and sophistication I spoke of earlier would have made them feel unwelcome.
The day after one of our parties I was cleaning up, gathering bottles and whatever other trash was left in the house. These were pre-recycling days. I took my first bag and started swinging. This thing was heavy, loaded up with who knows how many beer bottles, as well as our usual weekly trash. I got it swinging pretty high, but decided maybe I should just walk the 15 feet over to the dumpster and act like a normal person just this one time.
I walk over with my trash and hear a noise before I dump it in. Holding my breath against the garbage smell, I peek in. Looking up at me like Gollum was a dirty face-tattooed dumpster diver who narrowly missed getting brained with a ton of bottles.
I always checked the dumpster before throwing stuff off the porch after that.
*Honestly, I don't know if that is centrifugal force at all, but it sounded very sciencey and smart.
It was awesome because we didn't have to put our trash cans out in the street like regular chumps, we could hurl it into the dumpster from the porch like kings. With a regular load of trash, you'd sort of swing it in your arm a few times to get some centrifugal force going,* then watch it fall in an inspiring arc into the dumpster. And if some of the garbage didn't make it in to the dumpster, well, that was some garbage guy's problem. We tried.
Over the winter, my roommate and I instituted "Gin and Tonic Winter." This meant that we bought a huge bottle of Kash and Karry gin and made gin and tonics around a fire that we made by burning sticks and pallets, sometimes grilling hamburger patties that he liberated from his job at Burger King. It was classy and sophisticated.
One of my hazy memories from Gin and Tonic Winter was going around to every woman in attendance (which probably wasn't too many) and saying, "You wanna come inside and see my new widescreen TV?" To which my friend Pat would say, "Hey, you don't have a widescreen TV," to which I would respond with a comical "SHHHH!" This line/routine did not work.
Around this time, Gainesville had become a magnet for the homeless. Not regular down-on-their-luck, Brother-can-you-spare-a-dime homeless, but homeless wrapped up in countercultures. There was a big Rainbow Gathering in Ocala, and several of the Rainbowers stuck around Gainesville for a while, begging for change looking like a costumer took all the dirtiest elements from hippies and punks with a little bit of raver and threw them all together with a little Pigpen dust.
They never seemed to come around our gin and tonic bonfires, probably because the class and sophistication I spoke of earlier would have made them feel unwelcome.
The day after one of our parties I was cleaning up, gathering bottles and whatever other trash was left in the house. These were pre-recycling days. I took my first bag and started swinging. This thing was heavy, loaded up with who knows how many beer bottles, as well as our usual weekly trash. I got it swinging pretty high, but decided maybe I should just walk the 15 feet over to the dumpster and act like a normal person just this one time.
I walk over with my trash and hear a noise before I dump it in. Holding my breath against the garbage smell, I peek in. Looking up at me like Gollum was a dirty face-tattooed dumpster diver who narrowly missed getting brained with a ton of bottles.
I always checked the dumpster before throwing stuff off the porch after that.
*Honestly, I don't know if that is centrifugal force at all, but it sounded very sciencey and smart.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Death Will Come on Swift Wings
I have some weird friends. Actually, most of them are nuts. I'm sort of the normal, all-together one of the bunch.
I don't say this as an insult; I love all my friends' quirks and eccentricities. It keeps things interesting, especially their obscure fears, anxieties, and hatreds.
My own fears are more grounded in reality, so it's nice to listen to them rant about their more esoteric frights. And sure, a big portion of their fears might be affectations or schtick, but I appreciate the effort. At least they're being entertaining.
One of my friends is afraid of aliens. He read that "Communion" book post-high school in one sitting and was then terrified that the aliens were gonna capture and probe him. I have another friend who is scared of Egyptian curses. I'm not sure exactly where this sprouted from, but one of his "proofs" was this '70s book on strange phenomenon that he picked up at a thrift store.
From what I recall, these archaeologists found the mummy of an ancient Egyptian princess and ignored the curses placed upon her, as archaeologists will do.
All the members of the excavation met swift death, courtesy of vengeful Egyptian gods. After decimating the scientists, Anubis went after regular people in the way - a worker transporting the coffin to the British Museum got hit by a car or something, and a cleaning lady who disrespectfully dusted the coffin's face ended up dying in agony.
Also, visitors heard screams coming from the sarcophogus as the princess...I dunno, howled out to Osiris for vengeance or something.
As the death and injury toll rose, the director of the museum finally had enough. He found some suckers in America that would take the cursed princess, so he loaded the sarcophagus up on the next ship headed across the Atlantic. A little ship ... named THE TITANIC!!
The book laid out this scenario in the familiar "Can you prove it didn't happen" style '70s books and documentaries would use when discussing poltergeists and Bigfoot and the Bermuda Triangle. It was effective, since I remembered the story after all these years, and I wasn't even the one afraid of curses. Sometimes at night while falling asleep, I could picture this mummy case in the hold of the Titanic with an eerie green mist creeping around it, angrily summoning an iceberg to send the meddling humans to the bottom of the ocean. Sure, killing thousands of innocent people seems like overkill, but that was my friend's point: you don't know what those Egyptian curses are capable of, so it's best just to stay away.
In the spirit of investigative journalism, I decided to unearth the truth once and for all. I wouldn't rest until I had combed every bit of Titanic and Egyptology arcana in the...Oh. Huh. One 0.28 second Google search and I of course found out that it was a hoax, although a creepier story than I remembered.
In a way, it's a shame that I can find an answer so quickly now. When we first heard about the curse, we had to take it on faith from the author. What were we going to do, research the Titanic's cargo records? And even though we realized the story was pretty far-fetched, it was creepy enough to resonate all these years later, enough so that every once in a while I'll think of a sarcophagus lying on the ocean floor among collections of wine bottles and plates, waiting patiently for someone to retrieve it to bring down the wrath of Egyptian gods on another generation of humans.
Just like I don't really need to know how much my friends are really terrified of Egyptian curses, babies that look like old people, or aliens, I think I was better off being pretty sure that the Titanic mummy story was made up, but not really caring that much as long as it made an interesting story.
I would close with an Andy Rooney-esque rant on how computers and the increase in available information has taken away something from our storytelling and the mystery of life, but while I was writing this nonsense I downloaded two albums I had been looking for for years, and found my grandmother's address online that I keep losing, so yeah, who really needs mystery?
And even with the mystery of life pretty much swept away, thinking about the aquatic mummy is kinda creeping me out now, even though I know it was made up and I wasn't the one with the fear in the first place.
I don't say this as an insult; I love all my friends' quirks and eccentricities. It keeps things interesting, especially their obscure fears, anxieties, and hatreds.
My own fears are more grounded in reality, so it's nice to listen to them rant about their more esoteric frights. And sure, a big portion of their fears might be affectations or schtick, but I appreciate the effort. At least they're being entertaining.
One of my friends is afraid of aliens. He read that "Communion" book post-high school in one sitting and was then terrified that the aliens were gonna capture and probe him. I have another friend who is scared of Egyptian curses. I'm not sure exactly where this sprouted from, but one of his "proofs" was this '70s book on strange phenomenon that he picked up at a thrift store.
From what I recall, these archaeologists found the mummy of an ancient Egyptian princess and ignored the curses placed upon her, as archaeologists will do.
All the members of the excavation met swift death, courtesy of vengeful Egyptian gods. After decimating the scientists, Anubis went after regular people in the way - a worker transporting the coffin to the British Museum got hit by a car or something, and a cleaning lady who disrespectfully dusted the coffin's face ended up dying in agony.
Also, visitors heard screams coming from the sarcophogus as the princess...I dunno, howled out to Osiris for vengeance or something.
As the death and injury toll rose, the director of the museum finally had enough. He found some suckers in America that would take the cursed princess, so he loaded the sarcophagus up on the next ship headed across the Atlantic. A little ship ... named THE TITANIC!!
The book laid out this scenario in the familiar "Can you prove it didn't happen" style '70s books and documentaries would use when discussing poltergeists and Bigfoot and the Bermuda Triangle. It was effective, since I remembered the story after all these years, and I wasn't even the one afraid of curses. Sometimes at night while falling asleep, I could picture this mummy case in the hold of the Titanic with an eerie green mist creeping around it, angrily summoning an iceberg to send the meddling humans to the bottom of the ocean. Sure, killing thousands of innocent people seems like overkill, but that was my friend's point: you don't know what those Egyptian curses are capable of, so it's best just to stay away.
In the spirit of investigative journalism, I decided to unearth the truth once and for all. I wouldn't rest until I had combed every bit of Titanic and Egyptology arcana in the...Oh. Huh. One 0.28 second Google search and I of course found out that it was a hoax, although a creepier story than I remembered.
 |
| I knew it was a hoax when noted Titanic historian Rudy Ray Moore didn't mention the mummy case |
In a way, it's a shame that I can find an answer so quickly now. When we first heard about the curse, we had to take it on faith from the author. What were we going to do, research the Titanic's cargo records? And even though we realized the story was pretty far-fetched, it was creepy enough to resonate all these years later, enough so that every once in a while I'll think of a sarcophagus lying on the ocean floor among collections of wine bottles and plates, waiting patiently for someone to retrieve it to bring down the wrath of Egyptian gods on another generation of humans.
Just like I don't really need to know how much my friends are really terrified of Egyptian curses, babies that look like old people, or aliens, I think I was better off being pretty sure that the Titanic mummy story was made up, but not really caring that much as long as it made an interesting story.
I would close with an Andy Rooney-esque rant on how computers and the increase in available information has taken away something from our storytelling and the mystery of life, but while I was writing this nonsense I downloaded two albums I had been looking for for years, and found my grandmother's address online that I keep losing, so yeah, who really needs mystery?
And even with the mystery of life pretty much swept away, thinking about the aquatic mummy is kinda creeping me out now, even though I know it was made up and I wasn't the one with the fear in the first place.
Friday, February 1, 2013
The Old Man and the Sea
As a kid, most of my favorite books discussed scientific facts about dinosaurs. One of my absolute favorite books, however, was titled "A Little Old Man," which sounds like a title slapped on right before the book went to press.
"You still don't have a title? What's this book about? A little old man? Done. Roll the presses!"
Not much happened in the book. This little old man lives on an island by himself, does some chores, catches some fish and endures a hurricane. A boat washes up on shore after the storm, and he hangs out in the boat, finds a cat who has kittens and that's pretty much the end of the story.
I don't know why the man was marooned on the island, but he seemed happy. In fact, I really wanted to live on the old guy's island. He seemed to have everything he needed, he could catch fish when he got hungry, he got to explore an abandoned boat, and even had a pet cat.
When I read this book, my family didn't live anywhere near the water, but it seemed very peaceful and relaxing. Although why I wanted to relax as a kid is sort of a puzzling. What the hell was I looking to get away from?
If the old man's island seemed interesting, the abandoned boat was even cooler. Several pages were devoted to the man exploring this boat before finding his cat. I was mesmerized by those pages. Maybe my later love of discarded, neglected items owed something to vague memories of the old man exploring this abandoned boat. Or perhaps the little guy finding and keeping a boat would inspire a lifelong affinity for scams in which I could get what I wanted with little or no work
Years passed and I forgot about the old man and his kick-ass solitary life. I was in college but back in Bradenton for Christmas Break. I had been in town for about a week, along with my friend Curt, and we were both planning to leave Sunday afternoon.
Curt called me early on a cold and rainy Sunday morning.
"Get up and come to my house."
As a twenty-something male, you could not ignore a message like that. Many adventures started from such a simple opening, and you certainly didn't want to miss out on any possible excitement.
So I got dressed and drove down to Curt's parent's house where he directed me to the DeSoto Memorial, a series of nature trails where Spanish conquistador, explorer, and Indian torturer Hernando DeSoto possibly landed hundreds of years ago.
"I was walking the dogs this morning and I found something," he said.
I knew better than to ask. It could be anything. Pirate gold, old Penthouse magazines, a secret trail to Crazy Nathan's* house, anything.
We parked the car and walked down the grey beach.
"Check it out," Curt said.
He gestured to a partially submerged houseboat about ten feet out in the river. Holy crap! Just like the little old man!
"The Law of the Sea says that if we occupy the boat, we own it."
I wasn't sure how Curt knew so much about maritime law, but this was intriguing.
We could totally fix it up, I thought. Screw going back to school. We could sail around the world, gaining knowledge of the seas. We'd catch fish when we got hungry. Dock in exotic ports all over the world. Maybe we'd even have a cat, like the old man.
"We could use my dad's canoe to get out there," Curt said.
"Yeah, that'd work," I replied, even though the thought of getting out on the swelling, cold river was taking some of my enthusiasm away.
"Yeah, we could do that," Curt said, his inflection matching my loss of enthusiasm.
After a couple of minutes we realized that we weren't going to occupy the houseboat, so we chucked some rocks at it and walked back to the car.
Like most ideas you have in your twenties, it made a much better idea than reality. My childhood dreams to own an abandoned houseboat would have to wait.
I still don't have my abandoned boat, but I'm constantly on the lookout.
*Crazy Nathan was a crazy guy who we were somewhat obsessed with. It's a long story. I'll tell you some day.
"You still don't have a title? What's this book about? A little old man? Done. Roll the presses!"
 |
| Holy crap! I actually remembered the title and plot accurately! |
Not much happened in the book. This little old man lives on an island by himself, does some chores, catches some fish and endures a hurricane. A boat washes up on shore after the storm, and he hangs out in the boat, finds a cat who has kittens and that's pretty much the end of the story.
I don't know why the man was marooned on the island, but he seemed happy. In fact, I really wanted to live on the old guy's island. He seemed to have everything he needed, he could catch fish when he got hungry, he got to explore an abandoned boat, and even had a pet cat.
When I read this book, my family didn't live anywhere near the water, but it seemed very peaceful and relaxing. Although why I wanted to relax as a kid is sort of a puzzling. What the hell was I looking to get away from?
 |
| This is where I wanted to retire to after another stressful day of being seven. |
If the old man's island seemed interesting, the abandoned boat was even cooler. Several pages were devoted to the man exploring this boat before finding his cat. I was mesmerized by those pages. Maybe my later love of discarded, neglected items owed something to vague memories of the old man exploring this abandoned boat. Or perhaps the little guy finding and keeping a boat would inspire a lifelong affinity for scams in which I could get what I wanted with little or no work
Years passed and I forgot about the old man and his kick-ass solitary life. I was in college but back in Bradenton for Christmas Break. I had been in town for about a week, along with my friend Curt, and we were both planning to leave Sunday afternoon.
Curt called me early on a cold and rainy Sunday morning.
"Get up and come to my house."
As a twenty-something male, you could not ignore a message like that. Many adventures started from such a simple opening, and you certainly didn't want to miss out on any possible excitement.
So I got dressed and drove down to Curt's parent's house where he directed me to the DeSoto Memorial, a series of nature trails where Spanish conquistador, explorer, and Indian torturer Hernando DeSoto possibly landed hundreds of years ago.
"I was walking the dogs this morning and I found something," he said.
I knew better than to ask. It could be anything. Pirate gold, old Penthouse magazines, a secret trail to Crazy Nathan's* house, anything.
We parked the car and walked down the grey beach.
"Check it out," Curt said.
He gestured to a partially submerged houseboat about ten feet out in the river. Holy crap! Just like the little old man!
"The Law of the Sea says that if we occupy the boat, we own it."
I wasn't sure how Curt knew so much about maritime law, but this was intriguing.
We could totally fix it up, I thought. Screw going back to school. We could sail around the world, gaining knowledge of the seas. We'd catch fish when we got hungry. Dock in exotic ports all over the world. Maybe we'd even have a cat, like the old man.
"We could use my dad's canoe to get out there," Curt said.
"Yeah, that'd work," I replied, even though the thought of getting out on the swelling, cold river was taking some of my enthusiasm away.
"Yeah, we could do that," Curt said, his inflection matching my loss of enthusiasm.
After a couple of minutes we realized that we weren't going to occupy the houseboat, so we chucked some rocks at it and walked back to the car.
Like most ideas you have in your twenties, it made a much better idea than reality. My childhood dreams to own an abandoned houseboat would have to wait.
I still don't have my abandoned boat, but I'm constantly on the lookout.
*Crazy Nathan was a crazy guy who we were somewhat obsessed with. It's a long story. I'll tell you some day.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Stuck in the Middle
When I think of all the space in my brain filled with useless knowledge that could have been filled with math or physics or some way to make money, I blame TV and movies. And my friends.
Like everyone else, I get songs stuck in my head. I'll also get words or phrases stuck in there, some of which make their way into this blog. So when you read a rambling, nonsensical epic here that doesn't so much end as just run out of steam at the end, there's a very good chance I was compelled to construct a story around a phrase or sentence that kept bouncing around inside my head.
"Too Close for Comfort" was a TV show that ran in the '80s. Ted Knight was a cartoonist who...I think he had two daughters that he, I don't know, got all crazy if they dated or something. There was also a guy Monroe who lived with them. I don't really remember watching that show.
Anyway, whenever the name "Monroe" came up in conversation in college, my friend Todd would give this exaggerated Ted Knight-esque "Monroooooooooooe" impression. Now, just about every time I see a Monroe Street (and every city has one), I have to do the same thing. Doesn't matter if I'm with someone in the car or not, if I see a Monroe Street or Monroe Avenue, I'll have to bust out with a "Monroooooooooooe."
Same thing with Martin. If I see a Martin Street, or Martin's Drycleaners or whatever, I'll immediately get the theme from "Martin" on a loop in my head.
Hey, that's not as bad as I remembered. Go ahead and click on it and have it stick in your head the next time you hear the name Martin.
I have an Aunt Frances. I don't think she's an actual blood relative, but she's a great lady who acts like a relative. Still, every time I hear her name (or any Francis or Frances), my mind immediately fills in, "Why, just this morning Francis...FRANCIS!"
I've heard that having songs or phrases stuck in your head is a sign of schizophrenia, and I'd look that up, but I really don't want to know. I'm just sort of enjoying the ride right now and hoping all that stuff isn't true. I mean, I have enough to worry about right now, you know?
Like everyone else, I get songs stuck in my head. I'll also get words or phrases stuck in there, some of which make their way into this blog. So when you read a rambling, nonsensical epic here that doesn't so much end as just run out of steam at the end, there's a very good chance I was compelled to construct a story around a phrase or sentence that kept bouncing around inside my head.
"Too Close for Comfort" was a TV show that ran in the '80s. Ted Knight was a cartoonist who...I think he had two daughters that he, I don't know, got all crazy if they dated or something. There was also a guy Monroe who lived with them. I don't really remember watching that show.
Anyway, whenever the name "Monroe" came up in conversation in college, my friend Todd would give this exaggerated Ted Knight-esque "Monroooooooooooe" impression. Now, just about every time I see a Monroe Street (and every city has one), I have to do the same thing. Doesn't matter if I'm with someone in the car or not, if I see a Monroe Street or Monroe Avenue, I'll have to bust out with a "Monroooooooooooe."
 |
| I didn't really watch the show, but I'd imagine he's about a second away from saying "Monrooooe." |
Same thing with Martin. If I see a Martin Street, or Martin's Drycleaners or whatever, I'll immediately get the theme from "Martin" on a loop in my head.
Hey, that's not as bad as I remembered. Go ahead and click on it and have it stick in your head the next time you hear the name Martin.
I have an Aunt Frances. I don't think she's an actual blood relative, but she's a great lady who acts like a relative. Still, every time I hear her name (or any Francis or Frances), my mind immediately fills in, "Why, just this morning Francis...FRANCIS!"
I've heard that having songs or phrases stuck in your head is a sign of schizophrenia, and I'd look that up, but I really don't want to know. I'm just sort of enjoying the ride right now and hoping all that stuff isn't true. I mean, I have enough to worry about right now, you know?
Sunday, December 23, 2012
White Christmas
When I was a kid, Christmas Day was mostly a relief after the ordeal of Christmas Eve. I was so excited to see my presents the next morning, but terrified that I hadn't been good enough to deserve any that I would end up throwing up out of anxiety by early evening.
As I grew older, I didn't get as excited about Christmas, possibly in an effort to save my stomach lining. But I would still get flashes of Christmas Spirit, even when I was a teenaged punk rocker and opposed to everything that normal people might like or take comfort in.
Christmas Eve 1989 was cold. Around midnight I was with my friends Curt and Jennifer at her mom's house. I remember driving down Riverside Avenue earlier to pick up Curt and getting caught in a slow-moving trail of cars looking at luminaria and Christmas lights. I was 19 at the time, so this boring old person wagon train was a personal affront to my mission that night, which was to speed as fast as possible down Riverside's twists and turns to pick up my friend. Now, of course, I'll watch the hell out of some luminaria and Christmas lights.
Curt and Jennifer were both home on Christmas break. I was still in Bradenton, making my way through community college. It was a strange time. My friends had moved away and I was working part time and making awesome grades, the first time since about elementary school, probably because I was actually trying for once. But I felt like my friends were out there growing and experiencing stuff while I was spinning my wheels back in my home town.
In those primitive days, contact was pretty much limited to letters, occasional phone calls, and the reliable passenger pigeon, so the few times a year we could get together meant a lot. They would tell me about Gainesville and Tallahassee and how I needed to get up there, fast. That's what we ended up talking about that night. I remember Jennifer had given me a copy of the No Idea zine, with the Mutley Chix/Crimprshine split 7", and like all punk rockers at the time, we were talking about Fugazi.* Jennifer had an advance copy of what would be "Repeater" and we played it over and over again.
"There's a whole world out there where people are creating and doing stuff," I thought. "And I've got to be a part of it."
But I was also genuinely happy to be with my friends. A little later I was driving home through the deserted streets after dropping Curt off. I was thinking how grateful I was to have such good friends and was pondering the future and sort of wondering what and where my place was.
My thoughts were interrupted by waves of pollen from the palm trees falling on my windshield. "Stupid pollen," I thought. "I'm probably going to be all stopped up tomorrow."
Wait a minute, that wasn't pollen at all. It was...it was snow!
I hadn't seen snow in years, not since I was a kid in Mississippi. And it was snowing on Christmas Eve! I stopped the car and let the snow (really little more than frozen rain) fall on my face and hands.
Driving the rest of the way home, I finally got it. The Christmas spirit. Like the best Christmas songs and entertainment, I was feeling happy and excited, but just a little melancholy and thankful at the same time. I hadn't felt that way in a while.
And then I realized why I hadn't really felt Christmasy the last few years. I was waiting for that pure rush of excitement I got opening presents as a kid. But adult Christmas wasn't just about excitement and happiness, it was the whole mixture, with a little bit of sadness and hope and thankfulness.
Christmas is Charlie Brown loving a crappy Christmas tree. It's Jimmy Stewart hugging the shit out of his family. It's the insanely sad lyrics to "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" or Shane McGowan slurring, "I could have been someone." It's Scrooge getting the miserliness scared out of him.
And it's also Dean Martin slurring though "Silver Bells" and dogs at a bandstand happily barking their way through "Jingle Bells," but that's a whole other story.
In the following years, there would always be a time, sometimes only a brief moment when I could catch that feeling again. Joy, contentment, chemical compounds rushing out to fight seasonal depression, who knows what it actually was. But each year there would come a time when I'd be alone, feeling an incredible mix of contentment and happiness, mixed with just a tinge of sadness to make it all the more sweet.
Whatever your holiday traditions are, I hope you get to experience some of that, at least for a little while this year.
* In the late '80s/early '90s, every conversation between punk rockers would eventually come around to Ian MacKaye and/or GG Allin.
As I grew older, I didn't get as excited about Christmas, possibly in an effort to save my stomach lining. But I would still get flashes of Christmas Spirit, even when I was a teenaged punk rocker and opposed to everything that normal people might like or take comfort in.
Christmas Eve 1989 was cold. Around midnight I was with my friends Curt and Jennifer at her mom's house. I remember driving down Riverside Avenue earlier to pick up Curt and getting caught in a slow-moving trail of cars looking at luminaria and Christmas lights. I was 19 at the time, so this boring old person wagon train was a personal affront to my mission that night, which was to speed as fast as possible down Riverside's twists and turns to pick up my friend. Now, of course, I'll watch the hell out of some luminaria and Christmas lights.
Curt and Jennifer were both home on Christmas break. I was still in Bradenton, making my way through community college. It was a strange time. My friends had moved away and I was working part time and making awesome grades, the first time since about elementary school, probably because I was actually trying for once. But I felt like my friends were out there growing and experiencing stuff while I was spinning my wheels back in my home town.
In those primitive days, contact was pretty much limited to letters, occasional phone calls, and the reliable passenger pigeon, so the few times a year we could get together meant a lot. They would tell me about Gainesville and Tallahassee and how I needed to get up there, fast. That's what we ended up talking about that night. I remember Jennifer had given me a copy of the No Idea zine, with the Mutley Chix/Crimprshine split 7", and like all punk rockers at the time, we were talking about Fugazi.* Jennifer had an advance copy of what would be "Repeater" and we played it over and over again.
"There's a whole world out there where people are creating and doing stuff," I thought. "And I've got to be a part of it."
But I was also genuinely happy to be with my friends. A little later I was driving home through the deserted streets after dropping Curt off. I was thinking how grateful I was to have such good friends and was pondering the future and sort of wondering what and where my place was.
My thoughts were interrupted by waves of pollen from the palm trees falling on my windshield. "Stupid pollen," I thought. "I'm probably going to be all stopped up tomorrow."
Wait a minute, that wasn't pollen at all. It was...it was snow!
I hadn't seen snow in years, not since I was a kid in Mississippi. And it was snowing on Christmas Eve! I stopped the car and let the snow (really little more than frozen rain) fall on my face and hands.
Driving the rest of the way home, I finally got it. The Christmas spirit. Like the best Christmas songs and entertainment, I was feeling happy and excited, but just a little melancholy and thankful at the same time. I hadn't felt that way in a while.
And then I realized why I hadn't really felt Christmasy the last few years. I was waiting for that pure rush of excitement I got opening presents as a kid. But adult Christmas wasn't just about excitement and happiness, it was the whole mixture, with a little bit of sadness and hope and thankfulness.
Christmas is Charlie Brown loving a crappy Christmas tree. It's Jimmy Stewart hugging the shit out of his family. It's the insanely sad lyrics to "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" or Shane McGowan slurring, "I could have been someone." It's Scrooge getting the miserliness scared out of him.
And it's also Dean Martin slurring though "Silver Bells" and dogs at a bandstand happily barking their way through "Jingle Bells," but that's a whole other story.
In the following years, there would always be a time, sometimes only a brief moment when I could catch that feeling again. Joy, contentment, chemical compounds rushing out to fight seasonal depression, who knows what it actually was. But each year there would come a time when I'd be alone, feeling an incredible mix of contentment and happiness, mixed with just a tinge of sadness to make it all the more sweet.
Whatever your holiday traditions are, I hope you get to experience some of that, at least for a little while this year.
* In the late '80s/early '90s, every conversation between punk rockers would eventually come around to Ian MacKaye and/or GG Allin.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Cap'n Gown
Went to see some Yacht Rock in Atlanta this weekend. For the uninitiated, Yacht Rock is a term to describe the smooth rock hits of the '70s. If you're of a certain age, its the stuff you fell asleep to in the backseat of your parents car. You know, like this:
If you're a few years younger, it might be the music your parents played while they made you in the backseat of their car.
So this band of younger guys resurrected the songs, occasionally getting the original artists to sing or play guitar or whatever.
Sure, you could dismiss it as campy or kitschy or just another case of hipsters being ironic. Or you could just mellow out and sing along to "Brandi," like the happy people here:
It was a pretty swell night. I also saw someone suggestively lick a light saber (I don't know why there was a dude with two light sabers walking around. Maybe he was from the future.)
So yeah, it was pretty fun. You know what's not fun? Driving the 5 1/2 hours back to Jacksonville the next day through a monsoon. I don't mind long drives too much - day to day driving can suck it, but long trips can be relaxing when I don't focus on how just a few inches of space separate two two-ton vehicles speeding along at 70 miles per hour and holy crap, isn't it amazing that I haven't died multiple times driving?
I used to make up games in the car to keep me focused and awake. One of my favorites was trying to hold my breath over every bridge I drove over. My ex-wife didn't like that game, probably because my stubbornness made me speed up to cross the bridge rather than give up and inhale, even if I was turning red and purple.
Looking back, maybe that was sort of dangerous.
I had other rituals, like how I wouldn't shower the last day of a trip, the idea being that sitting in your filth would make it that much better when you got home and could clean up. She didn't care for that game either.
As I left my host's neighborhood, I knew I needed a new challenge, something to keep me occupied on the long ride home. But what? I needed something that had just the right amount of stupidity. Glancing in my front seat, I had it - with our tickets we also received these captain's hats. You can see mine in action up there. I decided I'd wear my captain's hat the whole trip home. The only rule I had is that I couldn't take it off - not to buy gas, to eat lunch, change a tire, whatever. The captain's hat had to stay on my head the entire journey.
After the first half hour it felt kind of natural. "I should wear a hat more often," I thought. "Look at this thing - look how sophisticated and dashing I am. I look like I should be commanding a PT boat with JFK."
I pulled up next to a carload of college kids playing The Cure's "Why Can't I Be You" at my first gas stop. I gave them the cool guy head nod. They didn't really pay any attention. Probably intimidated.
In fact, it was disappointing how nobody really glanced at my hat when I'd stop. I was hoping for some sort of acknowledgement or laughter or subtle points or something. But no, nothing. Not a muffled "Gilligan" or "Aye, aye Captain" - nothing.
Things were different on the road, where I could sense fellow motorists were suitably impressed. A truckload of Victoria's Secret models frantically motioned me to pull over. A Cadillac full of old people silently saluted me for my service to the country.
But I couldn't stop for any of them, nor could I remove my hat. And I'd like to think I learned a little something on that trip.
By subjecting myself to potential ridicule all day, I gained more empathy, more understanding. Never again will I make disparaging comments on the internet about someone I don't know, but who strikes me as funny. And aren't we all wearing our own captain hats in life? Did I not learn that from my journey?
Nah, I just wanted an excuse to wear a ridiculous hat all day. Nice try, though.
If you're a few years younger, it might be the music your parents played while they made you in the backseat of their car.
So this band of younger guys resurrected the songs, occasionally getting the original artists to sing or play guitar or whatever.
Sure, you could dismiss it as campy or kitschy or just another case of hipsters being ironic. Or you could just mellow out and sing along to "Brandi," like the happy people here:
 |
| Me with my hostess. Probably singing "Brandi." |
 |
| I sense a great disturbance in the Force. A great sexy disturbance. |
I used to make up games in the car to keep me focused and awake. One of my favorites was trying to hold my breath over every bridge I drove over. My ex-wife didn't like that game, probably because my stubbornness made me speed up to cross the bridge rather than give up and inhale, even if I was turning red and purple.
Looking back, maybe that was sort of dangerous.
I had other rituals, like how I wouldn't shower the last day of a trip, the idea being that sitting in your filth would make it that much better when you got home and could clean up. She didn't care for that game either.
As I left my host's neighborhood, I knew I needed a new challenge, something to keep me occupied on the long ride home. But what? I needed something that had just the right amount of stupidity. Glancing in my front seat, I had it - with our tickets we also received these captain's hats. You can see mine in action up there. I decided I'd wear my captain's hat the whole trip home. The only rule I had is that I couldn't take it off - not to buy gas, to eat lunch, change a tire, whatever. The captain's hat had to stay on my head the entire journey.
After the first half hour it felt kind of natural. "I should wear a hat more often," I thought. "Look at this thing - look how sophisticated and dashing I am. I look like I should be commanding a PT boat with JFK."
I pulled up next to a carload of college kids playing The Cure's "Why Can't I Be You" at my first gas stop. I gave them the cool guy head nod. They didn't really pay any attention. Probably intimidated.
In fact, it was disappointing how nobody really glanced at my hat when I'd stop. I was hoping for some sort of acknowledgement or laughter or subtle points or something. But no, nothing. Not a muffled "Gilligan" or "Aye, aye Captain" - nothing.
Things were different on the road, where I could sense fellow motorists were suitably impressed. A truckload of Victoria's Secret models frantically motioned me to pull over. A Cadillac full of old people silently saluted me for my service to the country.
But I couldn't stop for any of them, nor could I remove my hat. And I'd like to think I learned a little something on that trip.
By subjecting myself to potential ridicule all day, I gained more empathy, more understanding. Never again will I make disparaging comments on the internet about someone I don't know, but who strikes me as funny. And aren't we all wearing our own captain hats in life? Did I not learn that from my journey?
Nah, I just wanted an excuse to wear a ridiculous hat all day. Nice try, though.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Hangin' Brains
I made it up to Chicago to check out the Pitchfork Music Festival in 2009 as part of my Divorced Guy North American Tour. I had a great time.
Saturday afternoon, my friend Jon was driving me and my friend Kevin to the second day of the festival. We were running late and had already missed two of the bands I wanted to see, so I'd like to imagine Jon was driving all French Connection to get us there without missing any more fun, although I know that when looked at through a purely factual worldview, that's not exactly true.
What I do know for sure is that Jon was playing a Bad Brains CD in his car. There was some discussion as to whether it was the self-titled album (you know, the one with the lightning bolt of righteousness striking the Capitol building) or "Rock for Light." I can't remember which one it was or which side I was on, but since I'm writing this blog, we'll go ahead and say I was right.
There was much singing and pumping of fists and pointing for emphasis. There was much talk about how insane it was to finally see the lyrics if you had a dubbed tape of the album and wondering how all those words fit in there when all you could make out was "hackabackabackabackaPOISONWEEEELL." There was much skipping of reggae tracks.
Discussion floated from mutual friends who were lucky enough to see Bad Brains in, if not their peak, at least not in their crazy, 'you might get energized HR, might get reggae, might get crazy no singing HR' days of the last ...holy crap, 20 years, to the awesomeness of "The Big Takeover."
Here, check out this stolen Youtube clip from 1983:
While this cuts out the awesome Morse code sounding intro, and Dr. Know's guitar solo doesn't sound as much like a semi truck as on the studio versions, it still shows just how vital and explosive the song is. Now for the rest of the week I'm going to be singing "jusanotha nazi scheeeme. Heeeaay." And check out that blonde girl on the stage happily singing every word. I wonder what she's doing right now?
As Einstein and Doc Brown have taught us, time is a crazy thing. Sometimes I think that Pitchfork fest was just last year, sometimes it seems like about a decade ago. Then I realize that I've known the people in that car for over 20 years. Our friendship is old enough to drink! I was married for over ten years. I've been at my job for longer than that, even though thinking back, the past 30 years or so seem like they've gone by in a flash - all my stories, all my experiences seem like they happened in the blink of an eye, which, I guess in the grand scheme of things, they did.
I'd say that listening to decades-old hardcore songs made the three of us feel young again, but, at least in my case, I feel about the same as I did when I heard "The Big Takeover" for the first time. A little fatter, with possibly a few more life lessons under my belt, and with marginally better skin, but not too much different from my late teens or early or mid 20s. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
I do know that when it came time for Jon to drop us off, after listening to Bad Brains for about a half hour, we all sort of looked at each other, knowing that with all the bands we were going to see that weekend, none of them could touch what we were listening to at the moment. I think we made him drive us around the block just to milk a little more Bad Brains out of the afternoon.
Saturday afternoon, my friend Jon was driving me and my friend Kevin to the second day of the festival. We were running late and had already missed two of the bands I wanted to see, so I'd like to imagine Jon was driving all French Connection to get us there without missing any more fun, although I know that when looked at through a purely factual worldview, that's not exactly true.
What I do know for sure is that Jon was playing a Bad Brains CD in his car. There was some discussion as to whether it was the self-titled album (you know, the one with the lightning bolt of righteousness striking the Capitol building) or "Rock for Light." I can't remember which one it was or which side I was on, but since I'm writing this blog, we'll go ahead and say I was right.
There was much singing and pumping of fists and pointing for emphasis. There was much talk about how insane it was to finally see the lyrics if you had a dubbed tape of the album and wondering how all those words fit in there when all you could make out was "hackabackabackabackaPOISONWEEEELL." There was much skipping of reggae tracks.
Discussion floated from mutual friends who were lucky enough to see Bad Brains in, if not their peak, at least not in their crazy, 'you might get energized HR, might get reggae, might get crazy no singing HR' days of the last ...holy crap, 20 years, to the awesomeness of "The Big Takeover."
Here, check out this stolen Youtube clip from 1983:
While this cuts out the awesome Morse code sounding intro, and Dr. Know's guitar solo doesn't sound as much like a semi truck as on the studio versions, it still shows just how vital and explosive the song is. Now for the rest of the week I'm going to be singing "jusanotha nazi scheeeme. Heeeaay." And check out that blonde girl on the stage happily singing every word. I wonder what she's doing right now?
As Einstein and Doc Brown have taught us, time is a crazy thing. Sometimes I think that Pitchfork fest was just last year, sometimes it seems like about a decade ago. Then I realize that I've known the people in that car for over 20 years. Our friendship is old enough to drink! I was married for over ten years. I've been at my job for longer than that, even though thinking back, the past 30 years or so seem like they've gone by in a flash - all my stories, all my experiences seem like they happened in the blink of an eye, which, I guess in the grand scheme of things, they did.
I'd say that listening to decades-old hardcore songs made the three of us feel young again, but, at least in my case, I feel about the same as I did when I heard "The Big Takeover" for the first time. A little fatter, with possibly a few more life lessons under my belt, and with marginally better skin, but not too much different from my late teens or early or mid 20s. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
I do know that when it came time for Jon to drop us off, after listening to Bad Brains for about a half hour, we all sort of looked at each other, knowing that with all the bands we were going to see that weekend, none of them could touch what we were listening to at the moment. I think we made him drive us around the block just to milk a little more Bad Brains out of the afternoon.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Green Door, What's that Secret You're Keeping?
Took a trip to Atlanta last weekend, due to my poor reading comprehension skills and lack of anything else going on in Jacksonville.
It wasn't a crazytime explosion like my last few vacations, but I was fine having a laid-back weekend hanging out with old friends, meeting new people, eating a ton, and trying to forget the speeding ticket I got on the way up there.
Oh yeah, we also discovered a secret Korean bar.
OK, it wasn't really secret secret, they had signs and stuff like any other bar, but it still felt like we discovered it. Sort of like Columbus "discovering" the Americas when people had been hanging out here for centuries. So yeah, we were totally like Christopher Columbus.
The first thing the bartender said to us as we looked around was, "It's OK, we've had white people in here."
So we felt right at home. There was a bit of a language barrier, their English wasn't the best, and our Korean was rusty. They also didn't seem to know too much about their drinks. We'd ask what was in certain drinks and either get an "I don't know" or two fingers crossed in an X warning us away. Which sucked, because I really wanted to try something called "The Hulk." But we ended up with something called "The Junebug," which was highly recommended and I think the only drink on the menu they knew how to make.
As we drank our flourescent green girly drinks we looked the place over. It was huge - much bigger than the outside would have us believe. There were also a couple groups of Korean guys hanging out here and there, a few of which were slumped over their table while their friends continued drinking. The waitresses would come sit next to us and brush up against us which was a bit strange, but hey, you get used to it.
There were also secret rooms. Again, they weren't secret secret, but they were closed doors that we imagined all sorts of fun was going on without us. Was there gambling going on back there? High stakes karaoke? Secret sexy stuff? There were at least handjobs being distributed, we were pretty sure.
Sadly, we never got to see behind the doors, even after one of us gave what we were sure would work as a password, "Do you even KNOW about the Misfits Fiend Club?"
Maybe next time.
It wasn't a crazytime explosion like my last few vacations, but I was fine having a laid-back weekend hanging out with old friends, meeting new people, eating a ton, and trying to forget the speeding ticket I got on the way up there.
Oh yeah, we also discovered a secret Korean bar.
OK, it wasn't really secret secret, they had signs and stuff like any other bar, but it still felt like we discovered it. Sort of like Columbus "discovering" the Americas when people had been hanging out here for centuries. So yeah, we were totally like Christopher Columbus.
The first thing the bartender said to us as we looked around was, "It's OK, we've had white people in here."
So we felt right at home. There was a bit of a language barrier, their English wasn't the best, and our Korean was rusty. They also didn't seem to know too much about their drinks. We'd ask what was in certain drinks and either get an "I don't know" or two fingers crossed in an X warning us away. Which sucked, because I really wanted to try something called "The Hulk." But we ended up with something called "The Junebug," which was highly recommended and I think the only drink on the menu they knew how to make.
As we drank our flourescent green girly drinks we looked the place over. It was huge - much bigger than the outside would have us believe. There were also a couple groups of Korean guys hanging out here and there, a few of which were slumped over their table while their friends continued drinking. The waitresses would come sit next to us and brush up against us which was a bit strange, but hey, you get used to it.
There were also secret rooms. Again, they weren't secret secret, but they were closed doors that we imagined all sorts of fun was going on without us. Was there gambling going on back there? High stakes karaoke? Secret sexy stuff? There were at least handjobs being distributed, we were pretty sure.
Sadly, we never got to see behind the doors, even after one of us gave what we were sure would work as a password, "Do you even KNOW about the Misfits Fiend Club?"
Maybe next time.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Strange Nights with the Girls
If you've followed this foolishness for any length of time you'll recall my belief in the healing power of booze. I wouldn't consider myself a big drinker, but going on a drunk every couple months (when done correctly and monitored by professionals) can be therapeutic - blasting away bad feelings and negativity, and sometimes resulting in the rare negative hangover the next morning - where you feel no ill effects from the alcohol, but instead experience a feeling of peace and cosmic wellness.
Hopefully this will result in breaking down communication barriers, and really, really connecting and feeling something, man. Think of that scene in The Breakfast Club when the kids smoke a doobie and can finally relate to each other. Or if you want to get all highbrow, there's that William Blake quote Hunter Thompson used about a thousand times, "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man."
That's a little dramatic, but there is something to be said for getting drunker than a poet on payday with some friends and seeing where the night takes you.
A friend of mine was in town last week. Let's call her Laura. My ex-wife and I have known Laura since college. She was supposed to stay with me Saturday night after seeing a band downtown.
I have a pretty good relationship with my last two exes. It's fairly remarkable and cosmopolitan. I'll get drinks or dinner occasionally with my last long term girlfriend, and visit with my ex-wife about every other weekend at the Riverside Arts Market, catching up on gossip, eating Filipino food and just hanging around. I'd like to think they both still hang with me because I am so damn loveable and charming.
Yeah, that's probably it.
It could be weird at first when I'd run into them, but things have settled into a nice new routine, and I'm legitimately glad to see them and keep in touch, and it seems they like seeing me. Oh. I should mention. My ex-wife is gay, and recently got remarried in New York. To a woman. I get along great with her also. I told you it was all very cosmopolitan.
So that's the backstory. Back to the drinking. After watching the band, my ex-wife, her wife, Laura and I ended up at Birdies (home of the $2.50 mixed drink, if you don't mind Aristocrat gin and a possible paralyzing hangover the next morning), because, well, you pretty much always end up at Birdies when going out in Jacksonville.
I don't think anyone was too drunk, I wasn't eating money or ripping off my shirt yet, but I was comfortable enough to dance in public. And hell, if people didn't want to see me dance then they shouldn't be playing Prince and Cheap Trick. It was fun. I was dancing with a bunch of ladies, doing my patented shaky leg dance (I'll show you sometime ladies, but be warned - you WILL be turned on), and having a blast.
When closing time rudely interrupted the hijinx, Laura was looking for more fun.
"I've got some gin and whiskey at my place," I said. "I think probably some ancient rum and some beer there too."
So it was decided. Actually, here I'm a little unclear. I don't remember if Laura invited my ex-wife and her wife over to my house, but I don't think I would have. No offense to them, but I thought it might be weird, since she hasn't been in the house since she moved her stuff out about three years ago. I mean, like I said, we have a great relationship now, but why mess with stuff, you know?
I didn't have anything to worry about. We put a sizeable dent in my hurricane supplies, everyone was getting along great and laughing and I was DJing. Yes, "Troglodyte" got played. Probably a couple times. I gave everyone the grand tour which was pretty funny since most of what little furniture I have is still in the same place it was three years ago. Hey, I've been busy, alright?
I never thought I'd have my ex-wife and her wife drinking at my house, but everybody was having fun and there was no evident weirdness. After a couple songs, the ex requested a certain song. I was a bit hesitant.
"Dude, you gotta play "Hello, Lucille, Are You a Lesbian."
"Wait, really? Are you sure? I mean, it's not weird or anything now?"
"No, no, just play it."
And I did. As always, novelty funk music and alcohol brought people together. And that's exactly what I was talking about earlier. It was super fun having the ex and her wife (and Laura, too) in my house that night, but if it weren't for the sweet, sweet booze, there's no way I ever would have been suggestible enough to let it happen. Kids, if you're under 21 and want to have this sort of excitement and open communication EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIVES, find a kindly hobo or local priest to buy you some alcohol. Or perhaps steal some from your parents if they have a liquor cabinet. Maybe learn to distill your own wine from simple household ingredients - ask an ex-con for instructions on the best methods.
Trust me, you will thank me later when you're having adventures, exciting, witty conversations and therapeutic breakthroughs.
Hopefully this will result in breaking down communication barriers, and really, really connecting and feeling something, man. Think of that scene in The Breakfast Club when the kids smoke a doobie and can finally relate to each other. Or if you want to get all highbrow, there's that William Blake quote Hunter Thompson used about a thousand times, "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man."
That's a little dramatic, but there is something to be said for getting drunker than a poet on payday with some friends and seeing where the night takes you.
A friend of mine was in town last week. Let's call her Laura. My ex-wife and I have known Laura since college. She was supposed to stay with me Saturday night after seeing a band downtown.
I have a pretty good relationship with my last two exes. It's fairly remarkable and cosmopolitan. I'll get drinks or dinner occasionally with my last long term girlfriend, and visit with my ex-wife about every other weekend at the Riverside Arts Market, catching up on gossip, eating Filipino food and just hanging around. I'd like to think they both still hang with me because I am so damn loveable and charming.
Yeah, that's probably it.
It could be weird at first when I'd run into them, but things have settled into a nice new routine, and I'm legitimately glad to see them and keep in touch, and it seems they like seeing me. Oh. I should mention. My ex-wife is gay, and recently got remarried in New York. To a woman. I get along great with her also. I told you it was all very cosmopolitan.
So that's the backstory. Back to the drinking. After watching the band, my ex-wife, her wife, Laura and I ended up at Birdies (home of the $2.50 mixed drink, if you don't mind Aristocrat gin and a possible paralyzing hangover the next morning), because, well, you pretty much always end up at Birdies when going out in Jacksonville.
I don't think anyone was too drunk, I wasn't eating money or ripping off my shirt yet, but I was comfortable enough to dance in public. And hell, if people didn't want to see me dance then they shouldn't be playing Prince and Cheap Trick. It was fun. I was dancing with a bunch of ladies, doing my patented shaky leg dance (I'll show you sometime ladies, but be warned - you WILL be turned on), and having a blast.
 |
| Me with ladies. Note the extended pinky. Classy! |
When closing time rudely interrupted the hijinx, Laura was looking for more fun.
"I've got some gin and whiskey at my place," I said. "I think probably some ancient rum and some beer there too."
So it was decided. Actually, here I'm a little unclear. I don't remember if Laura invited my ex-wife and her wife over to my house, but I don't think I would have. No offense to them, but I thought it might be weird, since she hasn't been in the house since she moved her stuff out about three years ago. I mean, like I said, we have a great relationship now, but why mess with stuff, you know?
I didn't have anything to worry about. We put a sizeable dent in my hurricane supplies, everyone was getting along great and laughing and I was DJing. Yes, "Troglodyte" got played. Probably a couple times. I gave everyone the grand tour which was pretty funny since most of what little furniture I have is still in the same place it was three years ago. Hey, I've been busy, alright?
I never thought I'd have my ex-wife and her wife drinking at my house, but everybody was having fun and there was no evident weirdness. After a couple songs, the ex requested a certain song. I was a bit hesitant.
"Dude, you gotta play "Hello, Lucille, Are You a Lesbian."
"Wait, really? Are you sure? I mean, it's not weird or anything now?"
"No, no, just play it."
And I did. As always, novelty funk music and alcohol brought people together. And that's exactly what I was talking about earlier. It was super fun having the ex and her wife (and Laura, too) in my house that night, but if it weren't for the sweet, sweet booze, there's no way I ever would have been suggestible enough to let it happen. Kids, if you're under 21 and want to have this sort of excitement and open communication EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIVES, find a kindly hobo or local priest to buy you some alcohol. Or perhaps steal some from your parents if they have a liquor cabinet. Maybe learn to distill your own wine from simple household ingredients - ask an ex-con for instructions on the best methods.
Trust me, you will thank me later when you're having adventures, exciting, witty conversations and therapeutic breakthroughs.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
New York Minute
As expected, my New York trip was awesome. Doubly awesome because I didn't hurt anybody this time, except for perhaps several of my internal organs and the psyches of those who were unlucky to see me rip my shirt off repeatedly.
I was heavily recruited by my friends to sell my house and join them in the big city. This happens a lot on vacation. People who don't have to be near me that often think it would be a good idea for me to live around them. Strangely enough, people in Jacksonville who have to put up with me day after day tend to want me to go far, far away.
Most of these pictures were taken with my crappy no-flash phone. That's why they are blurry and out of focus. Plus, I was probably drunk. I took a lot of pictures, including excited photos of snow falling, but they were even more blurry than the crappy pictures I decided to share here so they didn't make the cut. The Goo Goo Muck - committed to quality control.
If I have one regret, it's that I didn't have enough time to spend with everyone, that and the fact that we didn't make it to the Sbarro's where the Fat Boys filmed the seminal music video "All You Can Eat," for a recreation, but that just gives me a goal for next time.
Thanks to everyone in NYC for their hospitality, showing me around and putting up with me and my traveling companion. Now enjoy the stunning picture quality only a cheap T-Mobile phone can provide!
I stayed at my friends Keith and Ellie's apartment. It's full of robots.
Robots and booze.
When in Brooklyn, visit Desert Island for all your comic needs (and Sicilian bread, apparently). Be sure to ask the owner about Mary Worth and Marmaduke.
Gettin' down in Chinatown.
These are stuffed cats for sale in Chinatown. For some reason, they have removable poops in their mouths.
GRRR!!!
Check it out, Joe Strummer on a wall!
If you happen to find this baby she will enthusiastically toast you all night. She's sort of like a continual Baby New Year.
One of these gentlemen got into a fight with four college kids just minutes before this photo was taken.
This robot hurt my feelings.
I was heavily recruited by my friends to sell my house and join them in the big city. This happens a lot on vacation. People who don't have to be near me that often think it would be a good idea for me to live around them. Strangely enough, people in Jacksonville who have to put up with me day after day tend to want me to go far, far away.
Most of these pictures were taken with my crappy no-flash phone. That's why they are blurry and out of focus. Plus, I was probably drunk. I took a lot of pictures, including excited photos of snow falling, but they were even more blurry than the crappy pictures I decided to share here so they didn't make the cut. The Goo Goo Muck - committed to quality control.
If I have one regret, it's that I didn't have enough time to spend with everyone, that and the fact that we didn't make it to the Sbarro's where the Fat Boys filmed the seminal music video "All You Can Eat," for a recreation, but that just gives me a goal for next time.
Thanks to everyone in NYC for their hospitality, showing me around and putting up with me and my traveling companion. Now enjoy the stunning picture quality only a cheap T-Mobile phone can provide!
I stayed at my friends Keith and Ellie's apartment. It's full of robots.
Robots and booze.
When in Brooklyn, visit Desert Island for all your comic needs (and Sicilian bread, apparently). Be sure to ask the owner about Mary Worth and Marmaduke.
Gettin' down in Chinatown.
These are stuffed cats for sale in Chinatown. For some reason, they have removable poops in their mouths.
GRRR!!!
Check it out, Joe Strummer on a wall!
If you happen to find this baby she will enthusiastically toast you all night. She's sort of like a continual Baby New Year.
One of these gentlemen got into a fight with four college kids just minutes before this photo was taken.
This robot hurt my feelings.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Man's Day
Jennifer: "So what did you and your friend Pat talk about?"
Me: "Oh, you know, the usual stuff. We talked about how we were both getting fatter and talked about each other's clothes. I really liked that Ben Sherman shirt he was wearing. We probably gossiped about people we know."
Pause
"Then we drank some appletinis and went out to buy some new shoes."
Actually, I'm pretty sure we talked about the usual punk music and stupid movies at some point, but still. And I would like to point out that the appletinis and shoes were completely made up. Really.
Me: "Oh, you know, the usual stuff. We talked about how we were both getting fatter and talked about each other's clothes. I really liked that Ben Sherman shirt he was wearing. We probably gossiped about people we know."
Pause
"Then we drank some appletinis and went out to buy some new shoes."
Actually, I'm pretty sure we talked about the usual punk music and stupid movies at some point, but still. And I would like to point out that the appletinis and shoes were completely made up. Really.
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