Ha'ina 'ia mai ana ka puana: Friday Evening Ukulele Post

I promised, and I'm delivering. Enjoy for your pleasure some items of ukulelal interest, please.

Friend of the blogger from back-in-the-day days The Viper has a blog. OK, he has had it for a while, but I didn't stumble upon it until this week. And I'm glad I did. Do everyone a favor and go read it thoroughly. We won't go anywhere in the meantime.

Scotland's YouTube frickin' genius sensation(s) Gugug has more of what Gugug does up on the thing. Here's a small selection. Watch it and see if you fail to smile, you soulless bastid.



Gugug (feat. Duglas) - Georgy Girl

William H. Macy plays the ukulele and dishes dirt about co-stars, simultaneously!



William H. Macy does what I said, on Oprah ... well, not literally on Oprah ... that'd be a real scoop, though ... damn

From the fine programme, Later with Jools Holland:



Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Smells Like Teen Spirit

The Undertones get coverage (this one is dedicated to John Peel, RIP):



Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Teenage Kicks

I can't stand to leave out this cover of one of my favorite Bowie numbers (which also relates to my reference to the Mars lander in the last post -- not included, audio of me singing along to this in falsetto in my apartment ... sorry):



Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Life on Mars

"Ha'ina 'ia mai ana ka puana" means, "Begin again at the refrain," or "Tell the story in the refrain," depending on the translator.



Warren Zevon - Hula Hula Boys

I've spent a few weeks on the Big Island, but I've not been to this place. It's on the agenda for next visit.



Keonepax - Pu'u Anahulu

Please excuse the politics, I'll try to keep it brief

I generally don't blog about politics here (or anywhere) because this is Colicky Baby Records and Tapes, not Enraged and Disgusted Quasi-Marxist Post-Situationist Records and Tapes (yet), but the Pfather Pfleger pflap ricocheting around the pipes today like a particularly evil unit of Quick Draw McGraw ammo has my guts in a roil, and it's got to come out. (Another reason I don't blog about politics is that they inspire the worst in mixed metaphors by me. One more alert: The following rant is unrehearsed, hastily written, sloppy, and unedited, for the most part, so you all may wanna skip it entirely and wait for some more wacky smartass baseball posts and/or obscure YouTube rock, jazz, and ukulele videos, which will follow fairly soon, I'm sure.)

Conventional punditry has it that Obama faces big difficulties from racism among rural, poor, uneducated white people. Frankly, I think he's got enough to worry about from (a more subtle but just as virulent type of) racism among the urban (and suburban and exurban), relatively affluent, nominally educated ones. The reaction to Pfleger's sermon proves to me once again that even "liberals" are not ready to discuss race in a way that makes whitey uncomfortable. To fail to suck liberal white ass just isn't cricket; it just isn't, as they say in Blighty, done. Tut tut. Pfleger didn't get the memo, I guess, the memo that clearly indicates that all oratory on racial issues must be prefaced, during-faced, and post-faced with repeated assurances that almost all white people are A-OK, except for a few of those bad, uneducated ruffians, mostly from the distant past. Any suggestions that such a thing as white privilege exists are just not cool, bro. Those suggestions, are, in fact, "black racism," because "making some sensitive pale-faced suburbanites feel bad by saying some nasty, nasty words in loud, loud voices" is totally on a par with "creating a permanent underclass via the 'badges and indicia' of slavery, continued institutionalized bias, systematic police harassment and torture, disproportionately harsh treatment by the criminal justice system, coverage in the media that vacillates between 'benign' neglect and unconcealed disdain, etc. etc., and so forth."

I didn't read all of Pfleger's sermon, and I don't really feel like watching the video, so I don't know about the assertions on Pandagon.net that he dove into the realm of misogyny -- to which, if true, I say, shame on the Pfather. I'm not among Pfleger's pfans, by any means. I'll be ticked off at him pforever for getting all the head shops shut down, and he's demonstrated a large degree of unthinking ass-headedness several times over the years ... but I'm sticking with what I said in the previous graf. Maybe ostensibly progressive white people are so easily bruised in the emotionality because of a huge case of subconscious guilt -- or fear. That'd make some sense. It's still irritating as all get-out. OK, that's enough from me on that. Challenges and/or practically anything at all in the comments are welcome.

One last parting shot -- in somewhat ironic honor of the new Mars mission (which I hasten to disclose, I consider to be hella cool), here's this (followed by more Gil, just because if it's good to you it must be good for you):



Gil Scott-Heron - Whitey on the Moon



Gil Scott-Heron - Black History



Gil Scott-Heron - No Knock



Gil Scott-Heron - Whitey on the Moon (another version) & Hold On

Notes from Section 529: And it was at that point that I said to my Sherpa, "Gunga galunga ... gunga, gunga-galunga"

I went to the Sox game yesterday, and Steve Nick Swisher played in a Sox game yesterday. But I think we were at totally different Sox games.

[Laboratory-made testosterone aficionado Gary] Matthews [Jr.] threw out Nick [Pom Poms for Brains] Swisher at second base in the fifth. Swisher lined a single toward the right-field corner and Matthews slid on one knee to cut off the ball and -- all with fluidity -- popped up to make a perfect throw on the fly from deep right.

"Unbelievable play," Swisher said.

I believe a certain Mr. Jacobson and a certain Squeaky Z will attest to the fact that, as soon as the outfielder picked up the ball and started to throw, a certain Dirt Moss said, out loud, audibly, "He's out." And he was out. In other words, I found the play to be totally believable. And predictable. And that was from the very top row behind home plate, which is at an altitude of approximately 18,750 feet above sea level.

I will edit Swishy's statement for him.

"Unbelievably stupid baserunning by me," Swisher should have said. "Might have cost us the game. But at least I have swagger! I'm a great cheerleader! I can't hit or run or catch or throw all that well, but I have ENTHUSIASM! Everyone LOVES me cuz I'm so damn HILARIOUS! Check it out, I can fit an entire GLASS in my mouth! Hey, lay-deee!!!"

Ready for some baseball

Going to the Sox game this afternoon. New winning streak starts today at some point in the indeterminate future.

No Mas Equis, Por Favor

To the elderly bearded "Stay thirsty, my friend" guy in the Dos Equis commercials airing endlessly every commercial break during major league baseball games this season: Hey, I think your obituary is "beefed up" enough. I'm ready to read it. In the morning paper.

In other embedded thoughts regarding last night's Sox telecast: During the pre-game ceremony for Carlton Fisk (which was, of course, rife with typical sports-TV male soap opera weepiness, including hideous rock ballads, to which I supplied my own impromptu lyrics, including, "I'm not gay, but I'd love to suck your joint" and the less subtle "I want to wake up with your burly he-man pubes stuck between my teeth and the stink of your musk on my sheets" -- I guess you had to be there) did Carlton Fisk's bike have training wheels? Ron Kittle didn't use no training wheels. And Bo Jackson's hips, ankles, elbows, and kneecaps were fashioned by surgical Druids from Welsh bluestone, and he didn't need no training wheels. I guess Pudge left his "Pole" at Fenway. There's a wicked obscure attempt at some Red Sox humah for yah.

I was also trying to come up with a "Lute Fisk" joke but I gave up. I think he is of Swedish extraction, though. I guess we'll take him.

Motivational blogging puts Sox back in first place

Also, an interleague series with the totally weak San Francisco Giants helped, too.

OK, that's all for now. More posting if and when I get over the stomach bug that hit me over the weekend. You don't wanna know about it.

If I write the one-millionth "Down with OBP" joke headline in blogging history, will balloons and confetti fall from my ceiling?

I've been living in some considerable dread that I will be challenged about an anomalous development in the pages of this Blogger®-brand web-based publication. That challenge -- which would come from an imaginary critic that I'll imagine with the voice of my old pal, Kirby the Beekeeper, who can issue a loud challenge, to be sure -- would consist of something like, "Hey, Colicky! Hey, Mr. White Sox fan! How come all's you write about on this blog anymore is the Cubs?"

Well, I'll tell you. First, check the name of the blog. If you're aiming to create some kind of semi-fictional (OK, quarter-fictional) Colicky Baby characterization for yourself, you can't beat the Chicago National League Ball Club for material. Plus, I live on the North Side (granted, in Uptown, which is sort of the North Side's least favorite body part, aside from maybe East Rogers Park -- although East Rogers at least has the advantage of being a couple miles farther away from Wrigleyville), and the constant turnover of doe-eyed (or is that wall-eyed?) Iowa and Michigan temporary transplants serving out their three-to-five-year post-collegiate "urban adventure" (heavy on the public drunkenness and urination) and wearing various faux-vintage machine-antiqued Cubs gear in all the liquor stores and taverns (my places, damn it -- I've earned title to them through 10 years of hard Uptown living) before spawning little replicants clad in spittle-stained Cubs onesies and then moving to godforsaken places like Schaumburg and Naperville after driving up rents in "The City" -- well, sorry for the run-on, but those transients are a constant source of inspiration -- colicky-wise.

Short version: It's too much fun to pick on the Cubs to resist doing so.

Second, the White Sox. Have you been watching them lately? If so, I'm sorry. In particular, I'm sorry for predicting, a few months ago, that Nick Swisher would "get on base a lot." Oops. Nick's OBP is currently a few points higher than the team's OBP, but the team's OBP is sadder than a Kazuo Ishiguro novel. Yes, the Sox are like an old English butler whose time has passed and who gave up the chance for true love to live out a dying ideal, when it comes to on-base percentage right now. Or something like that. Anyway, maybe I should go back and quietly edit that post by adding the phrase "in April." As in, "Nick Swisher will get on base a lot in April, before turning into a strikeout machine with grotesque facial hair."

Although predicting that Nick Swisher would "get on base a lot" might be less embarrassing than accidentally referring to him, as I've done about a dozen times in meat-space, as "Steve Swisher" ... but then that probably just means I'm getting old.

And I don't get much pleasure, personally, from making fun of the Sox at this time. I could slag Konerko, but why? I guess I actually did make fun of Juan Uribe the other day, but that's allowed.

Have the Cubs signed Jim "Hollywood" Edmonds yet? That should go at least as well as the Nomar signing.

See what I mean?

Brennaman Was Right

Cubs fans are the biggest assholes in the Solar System. Until Voyager or SETI or some other gizmo turns up evidence of superior extraterrestrial assholery orbiting distant stars, Cubs fans are the ranking assholes in the entire universe.

The latest rectal display: booing former Eastern Illinois University quarterback Tony Romo at yesterday's game. Sure, I'm no Dallas Cowboys fan, and Jessica Simpson's boyfriend is a pretty tempting target, but the whole booing bullshit has been way out of hand at Wrigley Field for a long time. I hate that 7th inning stretch "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" guest singer nonsense and wish they'd drop it, but Cubs fans, you are dicks. By all accounts, Romo can't sing and he murdered the wretched song, but it's supposed to be a stupid little bit of fun. Are you telling me Harry Caray could sing?

Also, it's a goddamned game. Responding to everything you don't appreciate by making an ass of yourself -- booing, throwing garbage onto the field, etc. -- is pathetic. And Cubs fans have demonstrated themselves to be the schmuckiest of schmucks in that regard. Booing opposing players is jerky enough, but Cubs fans constantly boo their own home team. When the cheap seats cost upward of $40, and you show up to boo and throw shit onto the field ... you are a cock. A chancrous, leaking, tiny cock.

Plus, it was Mother's Day. Romo's mom was probably in attendance. Booing some guy for trying to entertain you for a minute or two, in front of his mom, on Mother's Day ... well, fuck you, Cubs fans. Fuck you to hell. To paraphrase Bill Shatner, you sicken me.

Cubs fans are like every irritating fuckhead on my dorm floor in college. Every dimwitted drunken blowhard who thought it was cute to act like Bluto from Delta House at all times. Luckily for me, most of those anuses flunked out after one semester, but Cubs fans never ... go ... away. In fact, they seem to multiply like a virus.

And word has gotten around. To wit, see embedded below, an instant classic from a few weeks ago -- crotchety old Reds announcer Marty Brennaman pointing out the obvious. When a noted chumfucker like Brennaman can't abide your dickery, your dickery is considerable in magnitude. Brennaman may be an unlovable bag of hostile dementia, but he's right.

Happy Mother's Day

Just got off the phone with Ma Moss. Among other things, we talked some politics. Like me, she's dissatisfied with all of the major party candidates.

"If they keep it up," she said, "I'm going to vote for Nader again."

Yep. That's my Ma.

And now for all you mothers and muthaz, here's some Mothers. (I'm Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss, the Swede of the group.)



Mother People



Motherly Love



Son of Suzy Creamcheese



My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama

Rock and Roll Almanac Post for May 10, 2008

Hey, it's Donovan's birthday today. Happy birthday, you knucklehead.



Donovan - Season of the Witch (Live, French Pop Festival 1966)

Also birthdaying is Dave Mason from Traffic. OK, nobody likes Dave Mason or Traffic except me, but it's my blog, so, pffft.



Dave Mason Band - Only You Know and I Know

And it's the anniversary of the release of the first #1 rock single, Bill Haley & His Comets' "Rock Around the Clock," in 1954.



Bill Haley - Rock Around the Clock (Live in Austria, 1976)

It's Bono's birthday, too, but who gives a feck?

Baseball Fever, My Eye!(or, Ozzie's Not Here, Man)

After work this afternoon, I took a nap, cuz that's how I roll. And I woke up while dreaming about listening to Cheech Marin sing a song called "White Sox Winner," which I think my brain wrote itself. Although with Cheech singing it, it could have also been called "White Sox Wiener." Your choice. It went something like

Winner (or wiener), winner, White Sox winner!
Winner, winner, White Sox winner!
Winner, winner
Gotta White Sox winner now!

(Cheech talking: "Hey, mama, even Juan Uribe's stealing bases now, heh heh heh! Look out! Heh heh heh!")

OK, so it won't win any Dream Grammies.

If that's not weird enough, here's this clip from the best kids' show a stoner ever enjoyed (barring, perhaps, Gumby, although that's more of an acid show, but I digress) -- Xuxa Celebration:



My Name Is Cheech, The School Bus Driver

May 4, 1970

Happy Link Wray's Birthday

Fred Lincoln "Link" Wray, born May 2, 1929. Died November 5, 2005.



Right Turn

There's no video to it, but check out this smokin' Dylan cover.



It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

I've embedded this one before, but I don't care. I love this frickn song.



Trying to Find Your Love

What's the buzz? Tell me what's-a happening

Why should you want to know?
Why are you obsessed with fighting
Times and fates you can't defy?
If you knew the path we're riding,
You'd understand it less than I.

- Jesus

So I've been feeling a little bit dejected, neglected, and ... I dunno, disinfected this week, because CBRAT has been one of the very few sports-related blogs not to be personally savaged and excoriated by (Luddite sportswriter) Buzz Bissinger.

Well, this is kind of a sports-related blog. I talk about baseball sometimes. And then when I'm done talking, I remember that I have to type the words, or else they don't show up on the screen. And then I give up and go do something else, usually involving a nap.

Anyway ... I've been trying to figure out how to get on the "Buzz hates me" bandwagon. In case you have noooo fucking idea what I'm talking about, here's what that bastion of all things approximately 60% accurate, give or take (Wikipedia®) has to say, by way of short synopsis:

Bissinger has self-professed "abiding hatred" for blogs and the "blog-o-sphere", and recently launched an angry tirade against sports blogger Will Leitch on Bob Costas' HBO sports show.

Yeah, calling that an "angry tirade" is sort of like calling "well, it's okay, it's kinda tasty" an "understatement," with regard to, say, "chocolate gelato." Which is to say, not nearly hyperbolic enough. Or, at least that's the, heh, "buzz" around the "fuck-you-o-sphere." I haven't seen said aforementioned show in question at issue yet, as of this writing.

But I know one thing that Buzz and I have in common -- and I hope to earn his loogee-hocking enmity via this route -- we share a birthday. I mean, we share my birthday. Our birthday, I guess. He can have, let's say, 33.333% of the rights to it. Although I don't think I really owe him any, since I'm the one who just called dibs on it. Uh, I mean -- Dibs! Dibs on November 1! Yep, we were both born on November 1 -- Buzz is just 13 smarty-pants-despising years older than myself. And if I know Buzz as well as I think I know him (which is not well at all -- barely, really; you might even say, none), I figure he's going to be really, really cheezed in the whiz that some knuckleheaded blogger (who refuses to even take anything seriously, even) has usurped his birthday -- the sacred day on which his hallowed, flesh-&-blood Mater extruded him from her loinage, like a watermelon seed popped from betwitxt her meaty thumb and forefinger -- and has probably converted it into 1s and 0s or some other anti-humanistical purgatorial cyborgical born-on-date, with the modem and the codec and the codem and the modec or whatever them kids got these days, with the texting and the faxes and the movable type. Damn you, Gutenberg! Damn you to hell!!!

Yeah. So that's what I'm counting on.