One or two or more of the people at large and in the roster of occasional blog visitees know that I am one of the larger Mike Nesmith fans, and not just by volume or carat weight. Here's a YT thang I am especially taken with because during the part where Mike is trying to remember what key it's in, I shouted "G!" and then right on cue he said "No, it's definitely not G."
Anyway, sweet song.
Mike Nesmith - Wax Minute
But it ain't my favorite Nez song. This one is. This is the song I fell for after checking out the "Live at the Palais" LP from the Gurnee public library sometime in the early 1980s. And this version contains a story -- the story of the song, even.
Mike Nesmith - Grand Ennui
Actually, though, this is my favorite Mike Nesmith tune. He did it with the Monkees. It's also my favorite Monkees song. I could listen to this one over and over, and sometimes I do.
The Monkees - You Just May Be The One
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Words lack the power ...
I'm going to lift the following (short) news item from ChicagoTribune.com wholesale because it contains so much ... so ... much that mere reference is insufficient. Just a few of the CBRATian elements (would-be tags if I had the energy to set up a whole tagging scheme): Cubs, Sox, Gurnee, drunken suburban violence, unspellable names, and inaccessibility by phone.
For some reason this story reminds me of a bit of spam I received last week, which had the best spam email subject heading I think I've ever gotten. It said:
It was all I could do not to open it. Anyway, I guess this is more like "Nazis ruin toddler's birthday," but that's pretty damn close. Close enough to spur a little "thematic connection" synapse in my brain.
Maybe I'll expound more on this tomorrow, with more prose and whatnot, but for now here it is, the most Stronger Than Dirt Pete Mossiest news item of 2008, so far:
For some reason this story reminds me of a bit of spam I received last week, which had the best spam email subject heading I think I've ever gotten. It said:
Nazi toddlers ruined my birthday
It was all I could do not to open it. Anyway, I guess this is more like "Nazis ruin toddler's birthday," but that's pretty damn close. Close enough to spur a little "thematic connection" synapse in my brain.
Maybe I'll expound more on this tomorrow, with more prose and whatnot, but for now here it is, the most Stronger Than Dirt Pete Mossiest news item of 2008, so far:
Cubs fans accused of beating White Sox fan
The Associated Press
8:31 PM CDT, July 28, 2008
HUNTLEY, Ill. - McHenry County authorities say three Chicago Cubs fans face felony battery charges after allegedly beating a Chicago White Sox fan so badly he lost his right eye.
The men are accused of beating 32-year-old Robert Steele of Gurnee during a 2-year-old girl's Sesame Street-themed birthday party.
Police said Monday the men were drinking alcohol at the July 19th party and taunting Steele.
They say Steele was kicked in the head and his nose was broken. He stayed several days at an Elgin hospital.
Thirty-one-year-old Jaroslaw Czapla, 37-year-old Boguslaw Czapla and 33-year-old Maciej Trojnar face mob action and aggravated battery charges.
Jaroslaw Czapla's number is unlisted. There were no listings for Boguslaw Czapla or Trojnar.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Ich bin ein Old Man
Oy. Apparently I cannot rrrock like I vaguely recall being able to do. Caught a show at the Empty Bottle last nite, and boy are my everythings tired. I only had two beers, but my body is no longer equipped to stand upright for that many hours in a row. Anyway, another fine performance by Scott Hiram Biram, supported by the outlandish Bob Log III and Fort Wayniacs Left Lane Cruiser. If you weren't there, sorry to have missed you.
This blog is undergoing serious summertime neglect, for which I apologize to my dozen or so readers. With any luck, and some rest, I'll get back to it pretty soon, maybe tonight. For now, here's a YouTubed-up sampling of the stuff that's making me drag ass like McCain's older brother today.
Left Lane Cruiser - Wash It
Bob Log III - I Want Your Shit on My Leg
Scott H. Biram - Fixing to Die
This blog is undergoing serious summertime neglect, for which I apologize to my dozen or so readers. With any luck, and some rest, I'll get back to it pretty soon, maybe tonight. For now, here's a YouTubed-up sampling of the stuff that's making me drag ass like McCain's older brother today.
Left Lane Cruiser - Wash It
Bob Log III - I Want Your Shit on My Leg
Scott H. Biram - Fixing to Die
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Krazy Kitten Korner: Piper and Mingus Glad to Be Back in Chi, Wrecking Stuff
City baby cats say, "Oi, oi! What shall we destroy next?"
Charged GBH - City Baby Attacked By Rats/City Baby's Revenge
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Sat Nite YT Vid Post: I Wonder What the Hell Ever Happened to My Goddamn Ween Tape Edition
Sometime in 1992 I lost a goddamn Ween tape, specifically the cassette version of their 1991 album "The Pod," and I never found the mutherfucker. I was in law school at the time, living in a somewhat crappy apartment in Urbana, Illinois, in between Green Street and Main Street, on Elm. Just in case you want to get in a time machine and past-stalk me. I have no idea what happened to that fucking Ween tape. It's bugged me ever since. Where did you go, Ween tape? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Woo woo woo.
Roughly around that same time (as in, roughly around some set of dates within the confines of the three year period I lived in that apartment) there was a homeless dude squatting in the utility closet in the hallway. Not literally squatting -- actually, he would sort of lie in there on his back with his rancid legs sticking out the makeshift wood-panel door (sans padlock). And, naturally, he would cough, snort, hack, spit, and rant and rave all night long, snarling curses at Jesus H. Christ and whatever other motherfucking cocksucking shit shit shit fuck demons that were getting his Irish up. That utility closet was separated from my living room by a metal grating that I didn't feel incredibly confident about, vis a vis its physical integrity, so after about four days I got the landlord to put a lock on the closet door. But ... maybe during those four days, that dude used telekinetic powers to unscrew the screws to that metal grate, crawled into my living room, and TOOK MY GODDAMN WEEN TAPE. Then he crawled back into the closet, re-telekinetically-screwed the screws back into place, and left the entire scene as he found it, with no apparent evidence of tampering. OTHER THAN THE ABSENCE OF MY WEEN TAPE.
Or else maybe something else happened to it. Beats me. Anyway, I used to like this "Pork Roll Egg and Cheese" tune from that tape a lot, and now of course there's YouTube (until Sumner Redstone and his evil fucking minions of fuck ruin it), so I don't even need that futhermucking goddamn missing shit tape shit shit shit Jesus fuck your mother fuck your brother bleaaaggghhhh grmble gbah ghrahrr blegghghhhh! Hack! Ptui! Wheeze!
Roughly around that same time (as in, roughly around some set of dates within the confines of the three year period I lived in that apartment) there was a homeless dude squatting in the utility closet in the hallway. Not literally squatting -- actually, he would sort of lie in there on his back with his rancid legs sticking out the makeshift wood-panel door (sans padlock). And, naturally, he would cough, snort, hack, spit, and rant and rave all night long, snarling curses at Jesus H. Christ and whatever other motherfucking cocksucking shit shit shit fuck demons that were getting his Irish up. That utility closet was separated from my living room by a metal grating that I didn't feel incredibly confident about, vis a vis its physical integrity, so after about four days I got the landlord to put a lock on the closet door. But ... maybe during those four days, that dude used telekinetic powers to unscrew the screws to that metal grate, crawled into my living room, and TOOK MY GODDAMN WEEN TAPE. Then he crawled back into the closet, re-telekinetically-screwed the screws back into place, and left the entire scene as he found it, with no apparent evidence of tampering. OTHER THAN THE ABSENCE OF MY WEEN TAPE.
Or else maybe something else happened to it. Beats me. Anyway, I used to like this "Pork Roll Egg and Cheese" tune from that tape a lot, and now of course there's YouTube (until Sumner Redstone and his evil fucking minions of fuck ruin it), so I don't even need that futhermucking goddamn missing shit tape shit shit shit Jesus fuck your mother fuck your brother bleaaaggghhhh grmble gbah ghrahrr blegghghhhh! Hack! Ptui! Wheeze!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Dream of the Sam Adams and Drambuie Fiend (don't ask)
Last night I dreamed that I was making out with Jenna Fischer, and then we were interrupted by Stephen Colbert, who wanted me to look over a little John McCain skit he'd written for his show, you know, to see what I thought about it. It was pretty funny and surreal, something about a plane crash that McCain averted with his superhero-like physical strength. Then Jenna Fischer and I started making out again, while Colbert and his entire crew watched. Then I woke up. God damn it. Where's a persistent vegetative state when you need one?
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Politics and History Corner: Profiles in Scrotal Courage: Like Riding a Wire Fence: The LBJ's Slacks Years
People often, in my imagination, ask me, "Hey Colicky, hey Mr. Obama's Not Good Enough, has there ever been a President you've liked? Do you have a favorite?"
Well, pretend questioner person, that one's easy. Yes! My favorite President of the USA is the one who was (purely coincidentally) occupying the White House when I was born -- and that would be Mr. Lyndon Baines Johnson, of Texas.
Yeah, I know. Nobody but history profs looking for something contrary to say in a bid to get attention defend LBJ's presidency. LBJ escalated the Vietnam War, was a lifelong racist, and probably ordered the hit on JFK, but he made some really excellent tapes of his own private phone conversations. Much better than the Nixon tapes, even.
Everyone knows all about the wacky LBJ tapes already -- at least they do if they've listened to about five seconds of NPR in the last 10 or 11 years. But that fact doesn't diminish their total brilliancy and sublime geniosity.
Below is embedded a YouTube rendering of my favorite LBJ tape. Nope, it's not the "goat glands" tape, although that one kicks zany ass, too. And it's not the really creepy one where he hits on Jackie Kennedy. My favorite LBJ tape -- I've summoned recollection of bits of it often for more than 10 years now; as such, it's been an invaluable source of inspiration and wisdom: you might say it's my bright shining beacon in a dark and stormy world -- is the tape of the phone call he made to the Haggar people, ordering six pairs of lightweight pants for casual summer wear.
Among the things we learn from this recording is that LBJ carried his own money -- and a pocket knife. Imagine that -- I don't think John McCain has even set eyes on cash money in at least 25 years, let alone toted his own supply. The Secret Service would probably never allow any President or candidate to carry around a knife. The current Preznit might have allegedly prodigious brush-clearing skills, but I suspect that if he'd ever been permitted the possession of his very own keen Victorinox Swiss Army model, he wouldn't have choked on a pretzel a few years ago -- he would have gouged out his hard palate with the sewing awl. If LBJ were still alive, he'd probably be brandishing a Leatherman Juice Xe6 multi-tool -- or two -- Secret Service be damned.
We also learn at right around two minutes into the excerpt that when LBJ gained a little weight, he suffered from ... a specific variety of physical discomfort. As a guy who's made the mistake of over-hasty and over-thrifty trouser selections, I gotta admit, I can sympathize. If I could get Haggar on the horn and make them throw in an inch here and two inches there, I would.
He does seem very pleased with himself when the gentleman at Haggar asks where he wants them sent, and LBJ replies, "White House," but wouldn't you? Sure, we're all humble and lovable shoe-shine boys and girls in our humdrum lives here, but I defy any one of you to become leader of the Western world without revealing a little pride when you give your address to catalog retailers. Although I like to believe I'd temper it a little bit -- "Yeah, send them to the White House -- basement apartment." Besides, I wouldn't really need to impress anyone -- I'd just be happy that my balls finally felt really good.
So, please enjoy. There's also a Real Media version and a real nice transcript hyah.
Well, pretend questioner person, that one's easy. Yes! My favorite President of the USA is the one who was (purely coincidentally) occupying the White House when I was born -- and that would be Mr. Lyndon Baines Johnson, of Texas.
Yeah, I know. Nobody but history profs looking for something contrary to say in a bid to get attention defend LBJ's presidency. LBJ escalated the Vietnam War, was a lifelong racist, and probably ordered the hit on JFK, but he made some really excellent tapes of his own private phone conversations. Much better than the Nixon tapes, even.
Everyone knows all about the wacky LBJ tapes already -- at least they do if they've listened to about five seconds of NPR in the last 10 or 11 years. But that fact doesn't diminish their total brilliancy and sublime geniosity.
Below is embedded a YouTube rendering of my favorite LBJ tape. Nope, it's not the "goat glands" tape, although that one kicks zany ass, too. And it's not the really creepy one where he hits on Jackie Kennedy. My favorite LBJ tape -- I've summoned recollection of bits of it often for more than 10 years now; as such, it's been an invaluable source of inspiration and wisdom: you might say it's my bright shining beacon in a dark and stormy world -- is the tape of the phone call he made to the Haggar people, ordering six pairs of lightweight pants for casual summer wear.
Among the things we learn from this recording is that LBJ carried his own money -- and a pocket knife. Imagine that -- I don't think John McCain has even set eyes on cash money in at least 25 years, let alone toted his own supply. The Secret Service would probably never allow any President or candidate to carry around a knife. The current Preznit might have allegedly prodigious brush-clearing skills, but I suspect that if he'd ever been permitted the possession of his very own keen Victorinox Swiss Army model, he wouldn't have choked on a pretzel a few years ago -- he would have gouged out his hard palate with the sewing awl. If LBJ were still alive, he'd probably be brandishing a Leatherman Juice Xe6 multi-tool -- or two -- Secret Service be damned.
We also learn at right around two minutes into the excerpt that when LBJ gained a little weight, he suffered from ... a specific variety of physical discomfort. As a guy who's made the mistake of over-hasty and over-thrifty trouser selections, I gotta admit, I can sympathize. If I could get Haggar on the horn and make them throw in an inch here and two inches there, I would.
He does seem very pleased with himself when the gentleman at Haggar asks where he wants them sent, and LBJ replies, "White House," but wouldn't you? Sure, we're all humble and lovable shoe-shine boys and girls in our humdrum lives here, but I defy any one of you to become leader of the Western world without revealing a little pride when you give your address to catalog retailers. Although I like to believe I'd temper it a little bit -- "Yeah, send them to the White House -- basement apartment." Besides, I wouldn't really need to impress anyone -- I'd just be happy that my balls finally felt really good.
So, please enjoy. There's also a Real Media version and a real nice transcript hyah.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Ess Ayy Tee YouTube Arr Dee Ayy Why Nite Video Post: You Can't Spell "Gurnee" Without "Gun" Edition
I hope everybody had a nice Jesus Christ's Favorite Country's Birthday yesterday. I'm still up hyah in the wilds of northeastern Lake County, on the edge of nothing, at the tangential point between zero and the square root of negative one. Near the skeevy crotch formed by the Lake Mitchikan coast and the shockingly non-fortifried border with Winksconskin.
I last lived full-time in this region (in this house, even) in that decade I like to call "The Eighties." During the last half of that decade, I was pretty heavily into hardcore punk -- especially Midwest-style (you know, that Naked Raygun-type "Whoa oh" variety) -- an example of which being frontman Tesco Vee's Michigan/D.C. combo, The Meatmen.
Here's a fine Meatmen number that, for me, at the time, in the place, under the conditions prevailing, summed up the local Zeitgeist fairly close to 100 percent accurately. With references to Harleys, snowmobiling, monster trucks, Pabst, Montgomery Ward, and bowling, you've got just about every ingredient of this still-rural, brackish zone between IL and WI in the Reagan '80s. Not to mention the misogyny and general violent fuckheadery. I'm not sure if this Upper Midwest brand of redneck cretinism still dominates hereabouts, or if things have ch-ch-ch-changed, but I have a feeling you don't have to search with a fine-toothed comb to find plenty of dudes like the character in this tune.
Not that I have much latitude to mock. For a while in high school my own uniform involved a mullet and a flannel shirt, and my best friend drove an El Camino. And just yesterday I grilled up some brats, ja hey, and smoked some beers, so ... yeah, I guess I might be an Upper Midwest Redneck, too.
Who's for another beer? Hell, ja! You fuckin' betcha!
The Meatmen - True Grit
My wife laments -- I drink! I’m crass!
Plug her little sister in the ass
Please do not of house chores, dearest, speak
Cuz the truck pull derby is this week
I’m a scumbag -- I know what I like
Plodding loony on my Harley D. bike
Bowling league and a dozen beer runs
Snowmobiling over bunnies is fun
My four-wheeler is 60 feet high
Jack and Cokes in the morning, spouse cries
Poaching wildlife for personal gain
Gunaholic commie-hatin’ insane!
When I get all hostile, in a snit
I’m true blue dirtbag -- I am true grit!
When I shine my piece it gets real stiff
I’m a nasty, ass-kickin' prick when I get miffed!
Shooting pool at "White Trash Magnet Lanes"
Flirt with boozy, sleazy, bleachy dames
I was weaned on my dad’s sphincter ring
Ten years old before I said a thing
I’m a redneck -- I know what I like
Death for fudge-packin’ homos and dykes
Equal rights for the wenches? No way!
Mother, guts, God and Ronnie’s OK
Got a case of Pabst soaked in me gourd
Got my "Action Slacks" from Montgomery Wards
Poaching wildlife for personal gain
Gunaholic commie-hatin’ insane!
When I get all hostile, in a snit
I’m true blue dirtbag -- I am true grit!
When I shine my piece it gets real stiff
I’m a nasty, ass-kickin' prick when I get miffed!
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Summertime, and the blogger is lazy
Some people say there are two kinds of Republican voter: millionaires and suckers. OK. I'll buy that. But there's only one kind of Democratic voter: suckers. (There are millionaires who vote Democratic, to be sure, but they're subsumed within the "sucker" category.)
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