(dystopian) literary connections

"Whether (Winston) went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed--would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper--the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed forever."

-George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

"This is the age of the common man, they tell us--a title which any man may claim to the extent of such distinction as he has managed not to achieve. He will rise to a rank of nobility by means of the effort he has failed to make, he will be honored for such virtue as he has not displayed, and he will be paid for the goods which he did not produce. But we--we, who must atone for the guilt of ability--we will work to support him as he orders, with his pleasure as our only reward. Since we have the most to contribute, we will have the least to say. Since we have the better capacity to think, we will not be permitted a thought of our own. We will work under directives and controls, issued by those who are incapable of working."

-Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged (1957)

"The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General."

--and--

"Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains."

-Kurt Vonnegut, "Harrison Bergeron" (1961)

Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes.
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is not a bad dream.

-Pink Floyd, "Sheep" (1977)
...

tomatoes and lettuce may break my bones...

So I’m a DJ.

Once a week, I spin--er, click--records at Jake's Dilemma, a pub on 81st and Amsterdam. Pretty sweet gig. They pay handsomely, and beer is on the house. Anthony Barker (scholar, gentleman, all-around good fellow) alerted me to the position.

Being utterly neophytic in all things DJ, I’ve experienced a few minor setbacks during my shifts. Check it:

1) The mouse on my MacBook sticks, meaning I can’t maneuver songs up or down an iTunes queue for fear of the inadvertent double-click. Should I choose to deviate from a pre-prepared setlist, auditory seams begin to show. Let’s say I’ve assembled a 35-song list to get me started. All songs are set to fade cleanly from one to the next, effectively a) eliminating dead air and b) fooling people into thinking I’m a professional. Some clown approaches the DJ booth and requests Tonic’s “If You Could Only See.” Well, now I’m forced to employ a choppy, manual fade-out (one hand on the master volume, the other readied at the mouse) to grant his request. Not cool, dude. If any tech heads out there know how to move songs up or down a playlist without the standard click-and-drag, please 411 me. Stat.

2) My record collection leaves much to be desired. Nearly all rock from ’66 to about ’78 is covered, as is most 90s alternative and everything Radiohead ever released. I’ve accumulated a fair amount of 80s radio pop, too, and a few select rap/hip-hop artists, but there’s flagrant gaps all over the place. Hell, the other day I noticed--with astonishment--that I don’t even own “Layla.” (Never cared all that much for Clapton.) This is a problem. On my first night of DJing, some chick boozed her way over to the booth and requested The Killers, a forgettable band with forgettable, interchangeable songs. Suffice it to say, I own exactly zero of them (the songs, I mean). Chick wasn't pleased. This week I’ll be downloading music at a frenetic pace and researching my ass off. I need to figure out what 90% of the population has been listening to since the latter stages of the Carter administration, since my brain/soul/heart/wallet/liver are still lost somewhere in 1979.

3) I am not a friend of technology. What I mean is that I devolve into a full-fledged imbecile when confronted with digitized, sharply-angled machines. Knobs and buttons confuse me, as do these mythic concepts like “Wii” and “Twitter” and “cell phones.” Every time I set up my laptop in the DJ cubbie (an elevated, 3x3 foot space above the beer pong tables…yes, there’s beer pong), something goes awry while I attempt to decode the vertical whoozits on the display panel. That's usually when I freak out and begin to cry. Eight or ten fat, fat seconds pass while I try to achieve volume from two sticks and a knot of prairie grass. Nonplussed boozehounds hurl tomatoes, heads of lettuce, and Heineken bottles at my quaking body, which is protected--mercifully--by a barred enclosure which was featured once in an episode of American Gladiators, I think. (DJing is dangerous work, like shrimping or bike messengering.) After picking fresh ketchup and bits of green, broken glass from the folds of my shirtsleeves, I spin something delectably arcane--The Smiths, say--which only upsets them further. “What’s this gay shit?,” they grunt, shirt collars pointed at the moon. “You pug-nosed neanderthals,” I reply, “go buy yourself some taste.” That’s when I flip ‘em a quarter thru the caging, which always seems like a good idea at the time. More bottles, more lettuce. To spite them, I doggie paddle even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I’m forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.

4) I deliberately break the rules. The fellas at Jake's Dilemma (a frat-ish "bro" bar) instruct me to stick to boring, straightaway rock, but do YOU know anyone capable of stomaching “Jet Airliner” nine or ten times without subjecting his ear to the fork? Didn’t think so. Other day, crazy bastard I am, I said, “Ah, the hell with it!,” and dipped my toe--hell, I went to the knee--into the Snoop Dogg/Ice Cube/Cypress Hill waters for about twenty minutes. Believe me, those beer-pongin’ honky cats ate it up. If management is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Wait...that makes no sense. But you catch my gist, right? What I'm trying to say is that I'm awesome, and more perceptive than my superiors. Jake's musical landscape is getting a makeover, one inflammatory track at a time.

5) Amy Winehouse’s “Back To Black” (the song, not the album) does NOT translate well to the dance floor. “You’re depressing the hell outta me,” some non-appreciative floozy informed me after my first--and last--spin of this colossal mood-killer. To spite her, I doggie paddled even further from the Top 40, playing Allman Brothers opuses a half hour long until I was forcefully ejected from the cage by the biceps of management.

DJing has been good for me, musically speaking. For purposes of completism, I’ve consciously ventured outside of my comfort zone and explored sounds/genres that I previously deemed unlistenable. Without further explanation (or a viable defense), let me just say that I’ve become hopelessly addicted to this song, a song so un-Elwood it’s disgusting:



^ Attached vid isn't much of a vid, unfortunately. The official, MTV-approved clip--the one that made me fall in love with an underage/very illegal Gabriella Cilmi--won't allow embedding in a blog, so I'm forced to post this dubious substitute. Anyway, give a listen and feel free to tomato/lettuce me for my new, non-discriminatory pop leanings. By now, I'm used to it.
...

life in bandon, part III

[Author's note: Seeing as I have no relevant photographs to upload as supplement to this entry, I'll be posting random pics of (or concerning) Public Image Ltd., the band currently spinning on my iPod. Good day.]

Triple Diamond Transportation Service is a small, locally owned cab company in Oregon that serves Bandon, Coquille and Coos Bay. (Because I'm into the whole brevity thing, I'll be referring to ^ as <> <> <> from here on out.) The business still exists, so far as I know, though an acrimonious pillow fight two summers ago pitted brother against brother (or, more accurately, driver against driver) and led to the ramshackle formation of a second, rival company, Par 3 Transportation.

Let’s meet the players of the game, in order of descending relevancy.

1) Frank. The head honcho, the Don, the boss, the pimp. He ran the operation. Equal parts ruthless, greedy, villainous, misogynistic and embittered, Frank was a real joy to be around, a real cutup. My favorite Frank quote: “City people are all fucking stupid. I hate cities. Never met a city person that I enjoyed being around. They’re all assholes.” Frank, a failed musician, moonlighted as a casino lounge singer. You can’t make that shit up.

2) Renee. My favorite <> <> <> employee. Renee, a young mother of two, oiled and maintained the machine when Frank fell asleep at the controls (which was often--he spent four to six hours a day feeding his fortune into slots at the local casino). She had the fattest heart of the lot. I miss her.

3) Large-Breasted Patty. Large-Breasted Patty boasted very large breasts, which she crowbarred into elasticine bras intended for mammaries ¼ their size. Patty, your classic Two-Face, was the sweetest, most well-endowed woman in the world when you were in her cab, but, within seconds of your exit, she'd run your name thru the mud to anyone within earshot. Secrets weren’t safe with her (ginormous rack). In semi-related news, I remember Patty telling me that a group of drunken golfers offered her $2,000 in cash to flash them her jumblies for 10 seconds. “I didn’t do it,” she said proudly, nose and teats in the air. “Stupid,” I said, shaking my head. “Really damn stupid.”

4) Lori. Kind, polite, harmless, somewhat forgettable. (In spite of her seeming boringitude, I loved her immediately.) Lori’s porridge-brained 16-yr-old son worked at the course, and was perhaps the single worst caddie I’ve ever seen. I once watched that acne-scratcher read a three-foot putt to break six inches left. It carved a foot right. His golfer turned many colors and threatened to plant boots in certain orifices.

5) Frank’s Wife, Terri. Terri, bless her soul, really f***ed up. She married Frank--only God knows why--and doomed herself to a life of mindless circuitry in a two-bit town. Every time I encountered her, I wanted to shake those broad, mannish shoulders (she was a brute) and shout: “Escape! Get the hell out! There’s a whole world out there beyond the Coquille River! Your husband smells like ham!”

There were other players, too, though they assumed menial, insignificant roles in the Civil War of 2006. Six or seven other drivers drove for <> <> <> at one point in time, though they held very little stock in the company and, therefore, did not actively influence the fracture.

I rode <> <> <> every day for three summers. The prices they charged were too good to be true; a one-way ride from town to the resort (10-15 minutes door to door) was only $5, a true steal. They didn’t up the fare to $7 until early fall of ’06, when escalating gas prices necessitated a bump. All in all, <> <> <> proved an efficient, economical way to travel. Who needs a car?

The night before a loop (caddie slang for a standard, 18-hole round of golf), I’d ring <> <> <> and request a pickup time, which--more often than not--fell somewhere in the 5:00-5:30 range. The morning cab, a paddy wagon of sorts, burped and rumbled over the volatile Bandon streets (our “cab" was a hugantic Econoline van with very poor shocks), plucking up red-eyed caddies from brittle, wooden homes that looked as if a stiff breeze could do 'em in. Most of the caddies were either hungover or drunk, or brain damaged. They’d curse and mutter and sleep, voweling things that sounded like (but may very well not have been), “…can’t believe…how am I gonna…long day…wrong shoes…not enough water…alarm didn’t go off…damn wife…whiskey...two a.m...”

Incredulously, <> <> <> stocked canned beer, free of charge. Oregon law permits drinking in cabs. After a round or two out on the windy bluff, we’d collapse our sweating, aching bodies into the cab and pop a Budweiser from the cooler. On a good day, if one were feeling particularly ambitious and/or cheap, a looper could easily down three full beers before his drop-off point. If that’s not incentive to take a cab, I don’t know what is.

Okay, on to the fight:

Frank, as previously stated, was a goon. He paid his drivers roughly $8 an hour, but they deserved $15….if not more. Though no mathspert, I once crunched a few numbers and realized that Frank was banking a small fortune off of us. (On an average lift to/fro the course, there’d be 4 or 5 well-tipping caddies in the van. Frank also shuttled golf groups from the local airports, a practice which yielded enormous returns--often twelve or fifteen times the raw cost of the ride.) His drivers saw very little of this profit, though they logged inhumane hours and responded to his every beck and call. Some of them worked 14, 15 hour days. Frank, it seemed, worked once a week. The drivers quickly woke to the scam and demanded raises.

That’s when things got ugly.

Frank wouldn’t budge. I heard arguments from both sides, mostly because I knew all of the drivers intimately. Names were mentioned. Shit was talked. Backs were stabbed. Renee expressed to me that she was planning on breaking from the company. She’d been in discussions with Patty, she said. They had enough capital to pull it off, and all the proper papers. Weeks later, <> <> <> split in two. Somewhere in transition, though, Renee got pushed to the side and forgotten. Big-Breasted Patty took over the new gig and began calling the tits--I mean, shots.

Caddies pledged allegiance to one or the other. Some stuck with Frank. Others--myself included in this, the latter set--switched over to Par 3, the new, Patty-run company. Vitriol ensued as Company A slammed Company B at every opportunity, and vice versa. I’d like to think that Frank’s <> <> <> suffered, though I can’t be certain. He still monopolized the airport runs.

Big-Breasted Patty (for some reason, I feel as if “Big-Breasted” ought to be capitalized…perhaps those bosoms demand exclamation) turned out to be even flakier than previously suggested, so I eventually ditched her, too. See, a few times Patty forgot to pick me up in the a.m., forcing me to seek alternative transportation. I later found out that she often answered my evening phone calls while sauced at the local pub, which might begin to explain her inconsistencies. Crazy wench nearly cost me my job, on multiple occasions.

During those last months in Bandon, I appealed to the third cab service in town, a company whose name escapes me. These swell fellas arrived on time--if not five minutes early--and charged $5, the old rate at <> <> <>. Me: “Sold!”

And that, as they say, was that. Somewhere, at this very moment, Frank is probably pushing my crumpled bills into a Lucky Sevens machine.
...

life in bandon, part II

...
Story time. This is a good’un.

Fast forward two years. Fresh off a winter of East Coast road tripping, I’ve returned to Bandon to save for a fall move to New York City. Here we find Mike hopelessly depressed (New York : Bandon :: Tom Waits : James Blunt), living alone at the motel mentioned in part I of this installation. I become more hermetic by the hour, tangled in vague existential crises that know no antidote. My routine numbs the mind and sucks the soul; I caddie during the day, return to an empty room at night, read Vonnegut and Capote. Sometimes I watch very bad television, blinds drawn. I retreat further and further inside my head and rarely emerge from my four-walled cave.

Then:

A simple twist of fate (cheers, Bobby). My peepers fall on a handwritten ad thumbtacked to the caddie shack bulletin board. It reads something like this: “Room for rent. $275/mo. Clean, spacious. Inquire at 347-xxxx.” So I do. I inquire. Her voice sounds like alley rocks. She asks me where I am. “Ray’s,” I say. “Near the blue benches.” Ray’s is the supermarket. She: “I’ll pick you up.” Her car is a sleek, black Pontiac that exists outside of time and space. And taste. It may be from 1989 or, say, 2006. I'm not really sure. Of course the windows are tinted. Two white, fuzzy dice swing from the rearview mirror. "Get in," she says. Her name is Sandra. She is 54.

Minutes later, we arrive at her home.

RED FLAGS:

1) Chloe, the dog, is a monstrous creature who has not been bathed in months. Though diminutive and perfectly harmless, tempermentally speaking, she’s spoiled to shit and probably disease-ridden, judging from the odor. Chloe massages herself by rubbing her fetid hindquarters against the legs of the living room couch. That dog needs a good punting.

2) Mike, Sandra’s “roommate” (are they sleeping together? no one knows), is an older, vaguely creepy man with no teeth and sad, watery eyes. He occupies the bedroom across the hall from Sandra. Mike’s mustache is stone grey, except for a very thin patch between his nostril and upper lip, which is burnt to a fine orange from years of ciggie smoking. He looks like prison. (More on that later.)

3) Mike dates (see: sleeps with) Charla, a flannelled mother of two who belongs in a sentence with these three words: “archetypical,” “trailor,” and “trash.” She drives a rusted, dented Buick that is not of this decade, swills vodka straight from the bottle and wears--unironically--black, stonewashed jeans that rise to her nipples.

4) The bed in my would-be room is a 70s-style waterbed (see: lumps in all the wrong places, zero lumbar support).

5) The house reeks of cigarette smoke.

“I’ll take it!” I say.

First few weeks pass without incident. I discover that Sandra is a raging alcoholic, but a highly disciplined one. She drinks exactly once a week, from noon on Saturday to four a.m. on Sunday. My bedroom flanks the enclosed back porch, which is, admittedly, a pretty sweet party room. There’s a diner-style booth, a few scattered couches and a stereo. Full bar in the back. Every Saturday Sandra takes to her chair next to the record player and pours herself a malicious whiskey-‘n’-water, but not before queuing a Greatest Hits Of The 70s compilation and calling all her degenerate friends to take part in the festivities. Before night's end, ten or twelve locals--Sandra's posse--hiccup their way onto the porch, each louder than the last.

A window in my room looks out into the porch. I can see them, but, due to the lighting and the blinds, they can’t see me.

One Saturday night (er, Sunday morning) I awake to hear Mike and Charla doing the old in-out, in-out on the porch after Sandra and the trolls pass out. This horrid, eyeball-breaking act takes place ten paces from my window. I am nonplussed.

Sometimes I make an appearance at the Saturday parties. Sandra and Mike adore me because I’m young (they live vicariously through me) and fairly sociable, and because they get a kick out of my stories. Their crazy friends take to me immediately. I spend hours on that porch, sipping microbrew and yabbering away.

[A completely random aside: Sandra’s skin is frighteningly sallow. I know why. All she eats are mini Crunch bars and Reese’s cups. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. In my four months there, I never once see her consume regular, nutritional food. One day I peer into her room to confirm my suspicions, and, sure enough, there's five or six of those 10-Piece Fun Packs on the carpet next to her bed. Sandra runs on chocolate, yet--surprisingly--she’s skinnier than I am.]

Sandra’s daughter, Amy, is 23. Sandra tries to hook us up. “Amy will be coming down this weekend from Portland,” she says. “You MUST meet her.” Then she shows me pictures of Amy. I look at the pictures. They're nice pictures. “Ok,” I say. “I’ll meet her.” Amy arrives. She pretends I do not exist. Cold shoulder. On the third day, Amy offers this: “We--my friends and I--are hitting the pub, if you wanna go.” “Sure,” I say. “I’m in.” We go. We drink. After two or three, Amy gives me the eye and slinks over to my side, bolstered by that liquid courage. I don’t know what to make of all this. I was fairly convinced she hated me, but that hand on my arm suggests otherwise. That’s when Jay, her ex-boyfriend, steamrolls across the bar and takes a swing at me. My first bar fight! (Ok, so it isn’t really a fight. Four or five people intervene before any punches land.)

Amy and I flee the bar hand in hand. Twenty minutes later, we’re in her car en route to Portland. On the way up, we listen to Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" probably 45 times. So it goes.

A few weeks later, I’m reading on the living room couch, minding my business, when Mike emerges from the back porch. He’s wrecked. I can see it in his eyes. He sways in front of me before slurring--inches from my face--something along these lines: “If you EVER cross me, Mike, I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll end you. I’ll fucking end you.” I realize, then and there, that this man is capable of murder. It takes me a few minutes to talk him down and put him to bed.

Days later, I discover (via Sandra) that Mike has spent 20+ years of his life in prison, though to this day I don’t what crime brought about such a sentence. She doesn’t volunteer that information. Swell, Sandra.

I get out of there, eventually. Alive, one piece, all my digits. Phew!
...

life in bandon, part I

...
I’ve blogged about my caddie years at LaGrange Country Club (←click the link, suckas!), but what I’ve yet to touch on--in any real detail, anyway--are my four summers in Oregon.

Bandon is a coastal community in southern Oregon, nine hours from the Bay Area and four from Portland. (Above pic was taken at Bandon Beach with a $7 camera.) The neighboring towns aren’t all that interesting. Coos Bay borders on the north, which probably doesn’t register unless you--like me--were a fanatical track dork in high school. Steve Prefontaine, one of our most celebrated distance runners, hailed from Coos Bay.

Bandon is as tiny as it sounds, but I’ve erred in my estimations; Wikipedia tells me that roughly 3,000 people--not 1,700, as I previously guessed--populate the town. Formerly a nondescript fishing and logging village (both industries suffered during the 1980s), Bandon experienced a rebirth of sorts when the first course at Bandon Dunes Golf Resort opened to the public in 1999. Ten years and two courses later, many well-traveled golf fiends consider Bandon the world’s premier resort destination. I've heard that statement on more than a few occasions, without a hint of hyperbole.

It went like this: E-mails were sent off and then received, phone calls placed, flights booked, bags packed. Summer ’04--my first out of college--I moved to Bandon with Van, a friend from school.

We squatted in a roadside motel off Highway 101, a major artery which cuts through coastal Washington, Oregon and California. She asked a mere $450--$225 apiece--for rent. Two twin beds, modest sink/vanity, mini fridge, bathroom, maid service. Four minute walk to the freakin’ Pacific Ocean. Not bad. We called that place home for three months.

The resort was a short drive up the road, ten minutes door to door from the motel. Van and I usually arrived at 5:15 in the a.m., if not sooner. There’d be a few other faceless caddies (faceless on account of the darkness, I mean) milling about, smoking cigarettes and muttering to each other.

The caddie shack was--quite literally--a trailor without wheels. Someone plopped this boxy eyesore on the fringe of a parking lot and converted it into a sitting room. The shack housed a big screen TV with an impossible glare; knives of sunlight kicked around the room off the sagging window blinds and dashed any hopes for a clear picture. There must have been a SportsCenter clause appended to the sitting room constitution, because it's all we ever watched. ESPN yielded only to golf, which we tuned to whenever a tournament was airing.

The trailor experienced a bit of a fly problem--an epidemic, really--during the warmer months. Dozens of flies circled the room, landing on bits of muffin and cheeks of sleeping caddies. We massacred them, of course. With my rolled-up Newsweek, I probably took down 40-50 flies a day. Their bloodied carcasses became one with the walls, the tables, the floor.

Then there was another, smaller shack, which acted as a crude cardroom of sorts. We’d huddle around a banged-up table and play Spades for $5 or $10 a pop. Damon (my frequent card partner) and I rarely lost; we probably banked $800 that summer on Spades alone.

Karl cooked for us. Seeing as Karl knew his music (he befriended the Ramones in ’76 and spent the next ten-odd years bopping from venue to venue throughout New England), we hit it off right away. He’d fire off obscure trivia questions, which I usually fielded cleanly. My competence in such matters earned his immediate respect. When not engaged in music talk, Karl scared up some fierce dishes for mere pennies; a chicken-and-cheese wrap the size of my head went for $2.25. Every Sunday he served up hulking pancake dishes for $1.50.

In terms of caddie apparel, we had two options:

1) The “Whites.” The “Whites” were essentially a painter’s uni--a white, canvas, neck-to-toe zip-up that kinda made you look like an Oompa Loompa. Pros: Light, airy, comfortable, versatile, and cheap ($25). Lots of pockets. Cons: AWFUL in the rain. The material absorbs, rather than refracts, water. (See me in "Whites" below.)


2) Gore Tex. The preferred look for most caddies on the resort. A black, two-piece ensemble, Gore Tex provided shell protection from the frequent Bandon rains and kept us warm. Pros: Classier, sexier, more aesthetically pleasing than the “Whites.” Phenomenal rain/wind protection. Cons: The price ($225).

Caddying is more complicated than one might presume. We’re bag carriers, yes, but the job hardly ends there. We’re also counselors, gurus, cheerleaders, chums, guides, comedians, and mediators.

For each and every shot, I’m at my golfer’s side, offering advice. I consider breeze (a significant factor in Bandon, where the average winds are 20 mph), terrain, altitude, the slope of the fairways and greens, my golfer’s skill level, the strength of his opponents, the ball’s position in the grass. If he selects a 7-iron from his bag and I know it oughta be an 8, I pipe up. If he turns blood red after a poor shot, I remind him that the shot can’t be replayed, and prepare him for the next. If he’s been overswinging all day, I encourage him to relax. If he bitches about his coworker/playing partner/wife, I change the subject. If he's tense, I make fun of him until he laughs in spite of himself. If he’s sober and dull, I suggest drinks at the turnstand.

Once my golfer reaches the putting surface, I ditch the bag and sink to all fours to scout the subtle undulations of the green. After visualizing the path of the ball, I point to a twig, leaf, or indent in the ground and use that marker as a guide. “Hit it here, Bob,” I say, “and with 75% pace. We’re going downhill and downgrain. Your ball’s gonna take a sharp left eight inches from the cup.” Tips are made and lost on the putting greens. Those who read them with sagacity are handsomely rewarded.

Bandon caddies receive payment in cash, cash, cash. For stories about the idiotic things we do/did with all that cash, you’ll have to wait for Part II, which I’ll post early next week.

Happy Saturday!
...

...

no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play makes mike a dull boy
no work and all play mak

joaquin, i'm in your corner

...
Been on a comedy kick of late.

It all started last week with Joaquin Phoenix’s appearance on the Letterman show, which was either--take your pick--a masterful, Kaufmanesque performance art piece or a very public cry for help. You’ve probably all seen the clip, but I’ll post anyway for those who missed it:



No one seems entirely certain whether Phoenix was putting us on or not, though the fact that he granted a lucid, coherent interview to CinemaBlend.com in the a.m. of that same day points to the former. I’m convinced Late Show Phoenix knew exactly what he was doing, an opinion further bolstered by my discovery of the documentary-in-progress about Phoenix’s curious transition from film to rap music. (Director: Casey Affleck.)

Pieces begin to fall neatly into place. What better way for one to assure himself water cooler mention across vapid, tabloid-crazy America than a barbitural meltdown on national television? Those eleven awkward, sweating minutes oughta generate swell publicity for his forthcoming doc(mock?)umentary and rap album, don’t you think? Joaquin, I applaud you...and that ain't sarcasm. You done well.

Whether you believed it to be a calculated gag or a frightening reflection of his inner state, Phoenix’s interview recalled the antics of deceased funnyman/performance artist Andy Kaufman (pictured).

Kaufman was essentially an anti-comic; many of his stunts baffled and/or irritated audiences, not to mention challenged their very notions of the nature and definition of comedy. He was enigmatic, to say the least. Kaufman didn't even consider himself a comedian, though I’d argue a man that funny doesn’t have a say in the matter. He wasn't a joke teller, sure, but then are jokes a prerequisite? Let's split a few hairs here. If we're to put any stock into, say, Merriam-Webster's definition (comedian: noun 2: a comical individual; specifically: a professional entertainer who uses any of various physical or verbal means to be amusing), Kaufman misdiagnosed himself. The man was a comedian, actor, artist and entertainer of the highest order.

He once curled up in a sleeping bag onstage and took a nap before a puzzled (and, one would assume, pissed) audience, which calls to mind composer John Cage's 4'33" (1952), a four minute and thirty-three second exercise in silence. In both instances, the real "performance" comes from the audience as they respond (with murmurs, throat-clearing and the like) to this vexing absence of sound and movement.

Then there’s the time Kaufman folded back the cover of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and began reading aloud from page one. Understandably peeved, the crowd heckled and booed and yawned and probably muttered things like “Aw geez, c’mon!” before Kaufman finally--after a few bloated, interminable minutes--paused his reading and offered up an ultimatum. “It’s either this or I’ll play a record for you. What’ll it be?” (Not an exact quote.) They chose the record, of course, which ended up being a recording of Kaufman reading The Great Gatsby.

[ed. 2/19: I don't mean to suggest that Kaufman was reviled by all who witnessed his act. Quite the contrary. He no doubt had his dissenters (you either "get" the sleeping bag bit, or you don't), but I'd imagine the majority of his audience appreciated his aesthetic, even if it sometimes took them a few moments to understand his particular brand of humor. Comedy that progressive is bound to discourage a few traditionalists. A parallel example from the music world might be Miles Davis' Bitches Brew (1969), the first true jazz/rock "fusion" album, which was generally hated on by conservative listeners but embraced by those eager for a new, enlivened jazz.]

Here's one of my favorite Kaufman sketches:



Lastly, I’ll leave you with an uncomfortable Norm MacDonald clip in which he plays on audience expectations during a Comedy Central Roast of Bob Saget. Something tells me Kaufman would have approved:

music update

...
Here’s what I’ve been listening to of late:

1) Goat’s Head Soup by The Rolling Stones. (Released 1973.)

Unless you’re a rockophile who’s amassed most of the Stones’ recorded output, the only items you'll recognize from the track listing are “Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)” and, of course, “Angie.” Midwestern deejays still spin the former on Twofer Tuesdays; you once put the latter on a mix tape for a girl at school while in the eighth grade.

Soup ain’t universally loved. The Stones snapped their own four-record winning streak (Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile On Main Street) by daring to release an album that wasn’t entirely perfect. Their cocks back in their pants after eight years of swagger [An aside: Speaking of cocks, you know that infamous crotch shot from the cover of Sticky Fingers (pictured)? The crotch in question belongs to one Joe Dallesandro, an underground film star from the 60s who cavorted about with Warhol and his plastic gang. Now he owns and runs a hotel in Los Angeles. I met the man, the cock, the legend back in the summer of ’06 while visiting my buddy Travis in West Hollywood. Lou Reed commemorated Joe “Little Joe” Dallesandro in “Walk On The Wild Side”, his ’72 radio staple: “…Little Joe never once gave it away/everybody had to pay and pay…”], Mick and Co. recorded a few inspired tracks and a few weightless ones and didn’t know what else to do so they stamped ‘em on bits of vinyl and sent them off to be tomatoed by critics.

Soup, though, is a better album than most critics/bloggers/snarky music nerds would probably lead you to believe. It’s not their OK Computer, to be fair, but then it’s also not their St. Anger. Not great enough to inspire breathless praise, nor lame enough to warrant derision. It just exists in that 18mm space on your shelf and doesn’t say a whole lot. (The album cover is pictured at left.)

I’d like to highlight a specific track. “100 Years Ago,” the second track on the record, is quite the grower. It starts out as a fairly harmless, fairly pretty number about something nice (I haven’t really listened to the lyrics). Then there’s a bitchin’ little teaser of a freakout, then a quiet, contemplative part where all the instruments die away and Mick warbles something about “lazy bones,” which is kind of strange and boring and seemingly anti-climactic. That’s ‘round the time you nod off into your dkeyboyarjklsdssads;;;l;llllllllllllll;.o but wait! When the 2:35 mark hits they scrap all the lazy bones nonsense and just rip your face open with a devastating jam that disrupts your equilibrium and sets the hairs on your arm up up up!

Listen for yourself:



2) Agaetis Byrjun by Sigur Ros. (Released 1999.)

Dear God, where has this album been all my life? Where has this BAND been all my life?

Oh, sure, I knew who they were. I’d heard 2005’s Takk and that swell song from Vanilla Sky (“Njosnavelin”), but their music didn’t stir enough in me to invite repeat listens. Then I gave Agaetis Byrjun a spin.

My iTunes tells me that “Flugufrelsarinn,” the fourth track, has played 51 times in the past week. Quite simply, it’s one of the most profound homages to sound I’ve ever heard. (Check out Jonsi's vocal from 2:05-2:15.)

Here’s “Flugufrelsarinn” (gesundheit!):



3) Moon Safari and soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides by Air. (Released 1998 and 1999, respectively.)

As usual, I was the last to know. Air? What the hell is this Air business? 1998!? How did I miss these guys back when they were relevant? Too busy plunking down dollars for Rush albums and Smashing Pumpkins B-Sides, probably.

Anyway, glad I found ‘em. Moon Safari has consumed my attentions for more than a few weeks. Ask my annoyed friends. (I haven’t shut up about it.)

Rather than bore you by trying to describe their sound (Elvis Costello: “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”), I’ll direct you straight to a clip. What you’re hearing is “La Femme D’Argent,” the first track from Moon Safari. What you’re seeing is San Francisco’s Market Street in 1905, one year before the great quake.

like, give me your money and stuff

I’ve mastered the art of coat checking.

"Pish posh," you say, "there's nothing to master! Chuck a numbered tag at 'em, snatch their garment. Hang the damn thing on a damn rack. How hard can it be?"

Well, you’ve obviously never worked a coat check where the employees are expressly disallowed the luxury of a tip jar. In such cases, one must devise new methods if he doesn't want to leave empty-handed.

Let’s rewind to a rainy day sample sale at Hermes, the Parisian fashion company. Two women and I were assigned coat check for the event, which proved a logistical disaster since some 1200 overly made-up blue hairs bum rushed the doors before lunch. Three employees in a claustrophobic coat check can’t possibly address a situation like that with any semblance of efficiency, ‘specially since these cowesses unloaded coat, handbag (I learned that “purse” ain’t the preferred nomenclature in these circles) and umbrella.

The Hermes people forebade tip jars, meaning we banked standard wage while waiting hand and foot on spoiled multi-millionaires. (To give you an idea of the spending habits of Hermes clientele, the average receipt total was $7K-$8K.)

Needless to say, I was livid.

Three hours into our first day, I stormed into the office of the woman responsible for our hiring and demanded that she request two additional temps--and additional storage racks--before tomorrow’s sale. “Listen,” I snapped, “you didn’t even provide enough hangers! We’ve run out of room for the handbags or purses or whatever the hell you call ‘em. Women are hollering at us for losing umbrella covers, gloves, etc., but what’re we supposed to do? We lack basic shelving. You’ve screwed us by running an understaffed event. On top of it all, no tips! Can we please set up a jar?” “No,” she said, anxious to get back to her $16 brie-and-veggie panini. “My apologies. It’s my superiors…”

So we hatched a plan. One of the girls pulled a dollar bill from her purse (er, handbag), folded it in threes. “Look,” she said, "carry one in your palm at all times. Make sure the bill protrudes over your index finger by a good inch. By the power of suggestion, we’ll make our tips anyway.”

Sure enough, our little stunt worked. We cashed.

Fast-forward to the present week:

Coat check on the Upper West. This time, I’m alone. No jar allowed. I employ the dollar-in-the-palm trick, which produ...

Screw it! I decide to shuck the rules and institute a tip jar. To protect myself, I place the jar (a transparent, plastic tub somewhat akin to tupperware) on the desk just inside the coatroom door, where it can be plainly seen by my patrons but discarded at a moment’s notice if any of the Bad Guys approach.

In a brilliant display of shameless author-dropping, I also place my copy of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged face-up on that same desk, inches away from the jar. Seeing as I happen to be at the N-Y Historical Society on this particular evening, I figure more than a few of these educated cats might note my chosen reading material and strike up a conversation about it. Sure enough, they do. This leads to more tips. One fella discusses Rand with me for a good 2-3 minutes and asks--with narrowed eyes--if I’m an Objectivist ("I am not," I reply, "though I don't demonize her philosophy as much as some of my friends") before tucking a fiver in my palm.

Another trick (well, not a trick, but a critical rule of thumb):

When receiving a tip, always, ALWAYS acknowledge it verbally with a gracious thank you, and then make a show of placing it in the jar with grand panache so those waiting in line can see what you’ve just been given. When a Joe observes the fella in front of him proffering a tip, 90-100% of the time you’ll receive the same from him.

That’s how I make the big bucks, baby! Keep these swell suggestions in mind if you ever lose your real, big-people job and find yourself behind a desk with a bunch of hangers.
...

it's about time i grow a beard

Welp, it’s official:

I’m a hipster.

It all happened so quickly. One moment I’m loitering about in nondescript Nikes, ill-fitting pants and a lame button-down; the next, I’ve fought my way into a pair of skinny jeans, laced my Chucks (low-cut, black) and bused to Williamsburg, off to dance like a white person in a club that may or may not be spinning Hercules and Love Affair. As things stand at present, I’m whiplashed, disoriented, demoralized. I’ve joined the enemy.

This coming from a fella who’s spent the better part of two years making fun of hipsters for their superfluous ornamentations, insular music snobbery and humorous attempts to eternize their half-realized “artsy” and “esoteric” aesthetic! Let’s face it: Hipsters, when you get right down to it, are kind of clownish. In the same way many punks identify as such by adopting the uniform (leather, safety pins, mod boots, angular haircut, etc.), so, too, hipsters tend to flaunt their hipsterdom by treating life like a macro game of Dress Up whilst steadfastly adhering to all the unwritten hipster behavioral rules (i.e. swilling PBR from a can, frequenting thrift stores, liking Animal Collective, etc.).

That--the shameless perpetuation of a stereotype--has always been my main beef with hipster culture. Why would anybody wish to subscribe so fully to a well-demarcated clique? If you’ve just paid $6 for a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses with neon orange arms or whatever the hell you call the part that wraps around your ear, originality ain’t one of your predilections.

Ditch the trucker hat, I say, and develop your own look! Consciously eschewing the established stylings of your demograph is more punk/hipster/arty than any tried-and-true hipster outfit you might scare up. (“Hipster outfit,” of course, is a liquid concept that ain't at all definable; I realize I'm firing Nerf arrows here.) Adopting semi-funny, wholly ironic digs does not a hip cat make. Pairing multi-coloured (always preferred the British spelling) scarf, fedora and checkerboard shoe does not a hip cat make. What it makes you, friend, is a clone.

A real badass (admittedly, I am not said badass) would make like George Costanza and drape themselves in velvet, head-to-toe. In my eyes, that would be infinitely more hip (adj. 1. Keenly aware of or knowledgeable about the latest trends or developments) than anything going on on Bedford right now, since you'd be subverting expectations and offering a progressive take on that scene.

Enough about that. I'm talking out of my ass.

Despite my seeming aversion to the lifestyle, this weekend I took the hipster plunge. For proof, check out my activities from those 70-odd hours:

1) Did not leave Brooklyn. Divided my time between Crown Heights, Williamsburg (a hipster’s natural habitat) and Greenpoint.
2) Wore my Chucks out on both Friday and Saturday night.
3) Purchased the aforementioned skinny jeans (yep, hipster staple) at a thrift store for sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents.
4) Drank copious amounts of PBR.
5) Attended a Dan Deacon concert. (Not liking Deacon, by the way, predicates certain exile in hipster circles). I happen to like Dan Deacon. Dan Deacon is A-1.
6) Attended a rad dance party in Williamsburg.
7) To be clear: I attended a DAN DEACON concert (if you’re wondering who Dan Deacon is, please reference Wikipedia, an online encyclopedia that is entirely 100% factual) in skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors with PBR in hand. Dear God, what have I done?!

(long pause)

Erm. But wait…I’m not really a hipster. (Not that it matters one way or the other, of course. This blog has devolved into a childish wordplay exercise. Press on, Mike. Press on...) The more I consider, the more I realize the math don’t jive. I’m A) not living off my parents, B) would not consider myself an apathetic person, C) am not an indie music nerd (though I certainly appreciate some “hipster” bands), D) do not imbibe coffee or puff from hand-rolled cigarettes, and E) keep my keys in my pocket, not on a carabiner hooked to my belt loop. Oh, and I’m F) completely indifferent to Cat Power and TV On The Radio.

Looking back at the drivel I just spilled on this page, I’m taken by my own hypocrisy. In the last hour, I’ve G) claimed to be a hipster, H) bashed hipsters for not developing a fresh look (while I sit in Nikes, boring pants and a standard shirt), I) fallen prey to semantics by obsessing over the term “hipster” as if it’s a static designation that means anything, J) made a number of bad lists involving seemingly random lettering and numbering systems, and K) then, incredulously, upended the original premise of the blog by concluding that I’m actually NOT a hipster.

Now’s the point in the blog where I contemplate scrapping the last hour of work entirely and moving on to a fresh topic that ain’t so rife with inaccuracies and misdirected accusations. I've gone and painted myself a fool. (And, ironically, managed to lose--badly--an argument with myself.)

(long, long pause)

Screw it, I’m publishing it. My apologies for wasting your time.
...

they suck young blood

Man Man drink from goblets made of driftwood. Would I lie? These greasy ferals masticate with prosthetic teeth crafted from stone and metal! (Three parts shale, one part scrap tin.) Last year they wonked their rumpus on a hay bale stage just west of Cincinnati and cuckolded every dude in town. The lead brat once tattooed a buffalo dick on his right bicep with a butter knife and a fistful of sloe berries.

I fear Man Man.

Man Man, as we all know, developed from spores affixed to the ceiling of a Norwegian cave. In the spring of Two Thousand and Three, they set off for Amerigo on a collapsed refrigerator box with eleven de-winged birds and a week’s worth of salted salmon filet. Alfgheir, the youngest and weakest of the pride, died of scurvy en route. The remaining men dismembered him and constructed a xylophone from his ribs and spine. Alfgheir’s hollowed skull, stuffed up with wrenched out teeth and bits of phalanx, served as a crude shaker. Man Man played their very first concert that afternoon, 50 miles west-northwest of Scotland.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. They’d kill me…

the diving bell and the patriot

LAst night I wentto te PaTriot {which is a diuve bar inManhattwn, which iw in america).. and killed o ff all my brian sells wiyth tap PBr that probbly came outa tainmted piping which is. why I’ve forggotten how totype and operte a motor veicle. I don’t know whgo to blame for myu exesses so I[ll blame Hank williams(I, II. and III especally I.

i thinbk we chawed on tobaccr and drankfrom the spitoon but that may-ve been a(Pabst, fueled) drea.m Reegardless” or ireggardles<" whicever is the apropria.te terminalrfizing, my breath tod4ay is stake an smoke anb hickery Sauce. I wrastlled and arrestesd a grizzloed bear with mY bear hand s, but then he graf. THat was thr frault of one Jim Beam, a dastardl charactar who brandede me in te throat with watrer and fire. have you noticved

AFter urnating on thr wall and the turlet seat; and bacvkhanding a bartener cross the facwe for lookinb at me wit her screwey eeyeball; I preformed a one*man kick)line on the bar. some One sprayed mwe with tonicwater which was very funnby! but my flannel ogt all cold and wet And I begaqn to shivver, which wasalso funny. i gfrew a moustash in nine mniutes.

I am takine a vow of sobrietyh. my braian is to importsnt to me[ I’vr lost vistion in my left ey. damn you, patriwot. Aws I type this, the crackers are delicdious but some of the crumbs geto on my shirt abnd their hard to brush off. I lobve things.

Caljl me ishmeal.
...

can YOU name two members of coldplay?

...
Seeing as I'm uninspired and brain dead tonight (but antsy to post something, ANYTHING), what better than a series of mundane, meaningless lists that will be brushed over by 9 sets of eyeballs before being whisked off to some internet scrap heap where foul bathroom humor and yellow tabloid rancor lie in spoons?

(All lists are presented with no particular order in mind.)

5 things Mike hates more than the dentist:

1. Shopping for clothes
2. Poor grammar
3. Excessive winds
4. Jeremy Piven (pic at right)
5. Fauxhawks

8 lamest band names ever:

1. The Weakerthans
2. Girl Talk
3. My Morning Jacket
4. Crystal ______ (Fill in the blank; it hardly matters what you choose.)
5. Gnarls Barkley
6. Any band with the word “fuck” in the name (e.g. Fuck Buttons, Holy Fuck.)
7. Nickelback ('Specially when you discover--with horror--that their name was dreamt up by one of the band members who used to work at Starbucks. Due to the pricing system ($x.95), he'd always give a "nickel back" as change. What a buncha wankers.)
8. The Disco Biscuits

8 greatest band names ever:

1. The Conjugal Visitors
2. The Butthole Surfers
3. Jesus H. Christ and the Four Hornsmen of the Apocalypse
4. Me First and the Gimme Gimmes
5. The Velvet Underground
6. The Celibate Sluts
7. The Mothers of Invention
8. Throbbing Gristle

[ed. 2/25: The The probably deserve honorable mention]

5 most pretentious band names ever:

1. Earth
2. Genesis
3. Nirvana
4. The Band
5. The Creation

5 worst song titles ever:

1. "Me-You=Loneliness" (Dr. John)
2. "I Think Therefore I Rock ‘n’ Roll" (Ringo Starr)
3. "A Lot Of Nothing" (Coheed & Cambria)
4. "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will." (Bright Eyes)
5. "Pink Bullets" (The Shins)


5 most overlooked candy bars:

1. Nibs
2. Charleston Chew
3. Whatchamacallit
4. 100 Grand
5. Chuckles



8 bands with exactly one (1) member that you can identify by name:

1. Coldplay
2. Blink 182
3. Santana
4. The Stone Temple Pilots
5. Soundgarden
6. Limp Bizkit
7. Nine Inch Nails
8. The Smashing Pumpkins

[ed. 2/25: Cary called me out on my bullshit. James Iha, of SP fame, is probably more of a household name than I supposed]

Worst writer in the New York Daily News:

1. Mike Lupica (This clown shouldn't be allowed to hold a pen. His columns are DISASTROUS. DISASTROUS! That's him on the left.)

5 strangest people Mike met while caddying:

1. Guy who played an entire 4 1/2 hour round of golf with Survivor's “Eye of the Tiger” programmed to repeat ad nauseum from a speakered iPod taped to his golf bag. He was funny. I'll give him that.

2. Tour Rich (Crazy-eyed caddie who overmedicated himself in the 60s but proved to be one of the, oh, 10 smartest people I've ever encountered. Frighteningly perceptive. My favorite Rich quote: "(sigh.) I need a break. Who wants to be Tour Rich today?")

3. "Gary” (A shrimpish mental midget with a penchant for coke, hookers and poker, this fella was a study in futility. My favorite "Gary" story (which may or may not be true): Three summers ago, he left OR with about $5000 in savings. He proceeded to blow (pun!) all $5000--and then some--on limos, women and pricey champagne in Vegas. This happened within 96 hours of his departure from Oregon.)

4. Nerdy lawyer dude who delivered the single greatest line I've ever heard: "Victory for Scott [his opponent] would require...an abject miscarriage of justice."

5. Frank (Angry cab driver who shuttled me to/from the Dunes for 4 years. Racist, bitter, misogynistic, greedy, corrupt. He moonlighted as a casino lounge singer.)

5 funny jobs Mike has had while temping:

1. Assistant to (topless) (gorgeous) female models during Cole Haan runway show.

2. Sweatshop work (de- and re-tagging small earrings and bracelets) at a prominent Manhattan jeweler.

3. Mailroom work at a University that shall go unnamed. Mike's mentor? Murray, an inaudible low talker with a stutter.

4. Coat check for an Hermes sample sale. 1200 bitchy, blue-haired, Upper East Side heiresses (see pic above) snatching up silk scarves that cost more than the computer I'm typing on.

5. Ann Taylor reception (42nd and Broadway...the belly of the Times Square beast) with a well-read, frizzy-haired woman named Lee who made me feel like an illiterate imbecile. "You've never heard of Fred Exley? WHAAAAAT?"

5 greatest television comedies of all time:

1. Seinfeld
2. Married With Children
3. The Simpsons
4. Arrested Development
5. Stella
...

farewell to a colossal stooge

Rock and roll has been dealt a mighty blow. Ron Asheton, Stooges guitarist and co-founder, was discovered dead in Ann Arbor early this morning.

There are very few deaths of this sort that shake me up. If, say, Robert Plant checked out, I’d probably spend most of the next day thumbing thru old Zep records out of respect, but not out of devastation; were Brian Wilson to make an exit, I’d spin Pet Sounds, but only because I owe it to the guy.

The death of Ron Asheton, though, warrants greater reflection (subjectively speaking).

The Stooges mean far more to me than Zeppelin, Cream, the Stones. More than AC/DC, Deep Purple or The Experience. When it comes to hard, bruising rock, I can count on zero fingers the number of bands that match the Stooges snarl for snarl. Though Iggy’s spastic stage antics doomed the Asheton brothers (Scott is the drummer) to certain anonymity, there’s no denying they comprised the calcified backbone of the band. I've always admired Ron's guitar work on the first two records ('69's The Stooges and '70's Fun House). That man just didn't know how to write a lousy riff.

Asheton’s death hit me especially hard today because The Stooges have been on my mind more than a few times in recent months. Let’s count the ways:

1) A mere twelve hours ago I sent a friend “Gimme Danger” (off The Stooges’ Raw Power) via zip file. She probably received it within minutes of Ron’s body being discovered.

2) I caught The Stooges on Aug. 8th in NYC. Pains me to admit--in light of last night’s events--that the following entry is entirely Iggycentric (he was, frankly, too magnetic; I barely noticed Ron and the other band members). Read about the show here.

3) I passed thru Ann Arbor (birthplace of The Stooges) over Christmas break to meet up with my roommates. The ONE touristy (see: music obsessive-y) thing I vowed to accomplish during my brief stay was a visit to the site of the Fun House, the band's squat during their formative years. When not eating acid or fucking off, they used the building as a crude studio. The Fun House no longer stands. Now it’s a Bank Of America. (I wonder how many people waiting in line for the teller realize that bong resin, beer bottles and used condoms once littered the ground on which they tread.) I drove thru town in the pouring rain---it was a nasty night---and parked in the bank lot. Sans umbrella, I bolted from the car and 360ed the bank by foot, carefully avoiding the sidewalk in favor of the grass. Seemed more appropriate, somehow. Anyway, my circuit complete, I got back in my car, flipped the wipers, waved goodbye to Fun House Of America and her untold debaucheries. Mission accomplished.

4) Legs McNeil's Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History Of Punk, perhaps my favorite music book, has been in my reading rotation for a couple years. Ron, Iggy and Co. feature prominently within. I completed my fourth or fifth reading about a month ago before lending to Lucas.

R.I.P., Ron. I’ll be spinning your music all afternoon.