Colicky Baby Records and Tapes

Another trip around the stupid sun

2010-11-01T16:51:00.001-05:00

Poem For My 43rd Birthday

by Charles Bukowski

To end up alone

in a tomb of a room

without cigarettes

or wine--

just a lightbulb

and a potbelly,

grayhaired,

and glad to have

the room.

...in the morning

they're out there

making money:

judges, carpenters,

plumbers, doctors,

newsboys, policemen,

barbers, carwashers,

dentists, florists,

waitresses, cooks,

cabdrivers...

and you turn over

to your left side

to get the sun

on your back

and out

of your eyes.

Return of the Son of the Third Cousin of the Shirt-tail Relation of the Girlfriend's Sister's Hairdresser of Ukulele Friday

2010-10-08T21:34:00.000-05:00

Also, still blogging at bark bugs leaves & lizards.

And anudder t'ing ...

2010-09-20T19:02:00.001-05:00

Head over, if you will, to bark, bugs, leaves, & lizards to peruse my first post there, a field report on the elusive classic Shuh-caw-go accent. Over by dere.

Bark, Bugs, Leaves, & Lizards: Soon with Added STDPM

2010-09-16T19:53:00.000-05:00

Not sure if anyone is left around here, after some months of inactivity. But, regardless, I'm checking in to publicize the fact that I've signed onto the team at dsb nola's bark, bugs, leaves, & lizards, and I plan to submit material for inclusion there reasonably soon, and hopefully on a regular basis. Stay tuned there or here for further word. And, yeah, who knows? Maybe it will liven things up here again, as well.

Marlon Brando in Libertyville

2010-08-07T21:17:00.002-05:00

A nifty website.

Hank leaves the band (2010)

2010-08-07T20:51:00.000-05:00

Dammit, I can't believe Turbonegro broke up ... again.

Fuck you, Hank! You Norwegian bastard!

From the CBRAT Print Archives: (We're All) The Children of Bosse-de-Nage #1

2010-07-27T21:58:00.003-05:00

Joan was quizzical; Studied pataphysical
Science in the home.
--Lennon/McCartney

The song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" probably remains the most famous reference to dead French weird writer Alfred Jarry's greatest¹ creation: the science of 'Pataphysics. Not being a great Beatles fan, the reference escaped me until pretty recently. My first knowing exposure to things 'Pataphysical came from comix artist Bill "Zippy the Pinhead" Griffith, who featured Jarry in a few stories and illustrated Nigey Lennon's 1990 biography, Alfred Jarry: The Man with the Axe, which I read in 1991, shortly followed by every Jarry book I could find in English.

In the winter, spring, and summer of 1991, I had a lot of free time. I had been out of college for a year, and I had been accepted to law school for the fall term, so I wasn't bothered by any sense of urgency to do anything I didn't feel like doing. I was working part time at a slack job, where I could read books checked out from the Northern Illinois University library all night long. When I wasn't reading, I was writing. I didn't make any money that year, but it was creatively productive. I put together a Xerox zine almost every week, and I was making trips to the post office every few days to mail off orders from Factsheet Five.

Another obsession at the time was the Victorian explorer and secret agent Sir Richard Francis Burton, known for, among other things, translating The Arabian Nights, bringing the Kama Sutra to publication, and making the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina while disguised as a Persian Shi'a.

If you lived through 1991, you might also recall that some other stuff happened that year. It went by pretty quick, so you could have missed it. Probably the only thing keeping the memory of this event alive is the movie "The Big Lebowski." Yeah ... I'm talking about the Persian Gulf War (August 2, 1990 – February 28, 1991).

My reaction to that particular war was to learn as much as I could about the culture and history of the people we were fighting. To that end, I read, among other things, an English translation of the Koran over a few lonely nights behind the desk at the Georgetown Motel in DeKalb, Illinois.

So ... all of this disparate but overlapping stuff went into a zine project called (We're All) The Children of Bosse-de-Nage,² a vague and trippy agglomeration of various loci of modern angst, dressed up as a combined homage to Jarry and Burton. Part Roald Dahl-esque adventure, part science fiction farce,³ it ... is what it is.

What follows in this post is issue number one. There were two ... then law school interrupted the sequence. The third issue has never been definitively canceled. So hope remains that it is forthcoming. In the meantime, here's the first chapter.

Endnotes:

1. Greatest, subjectively, in our opinion. Jarry's best known creation is, undoubtedly, the character of Pere Ubu, proto-antagonist of such plays as Ubu Roi and Ubu Cocu. Referenced thoroughly by a certain rock band fronted by David Thomas, as well as a prominent television production company ("Sit, Ubu, sit!")

2. Bosse-de-Nage est un personnage des Gestes et opinions du docteur Faustroll, pataphysicien d'Alfred Jarry. Cynocéphale papion hydrocéphale, il présente la particularité remarquable de savoir dire « Ha ha » en français, selon sa présentation au dixième chapitre. Il est depuis 1947 Staroste du Collège de 'Pataphysique, et assiste en cette qualité son maître le Docteur Faustroll, Curateur inamovible

3. The story that makes up the chief text of the first issue (and that drives the plot throughout) was derived almost verbatim from some science fiction I wrote in high school, probably in 1984, which I composed for the amusement of a physics-nerd friend of mine, who did get a big laugh out of it.

Pop Lecture and Video Seminar 5/15/10

2010-05-15T21:04:00.000-05:00

The Boomerang Effect. It's an old story, how traditional West African music has been the dominant influence on North American blues music. The Boomerang Effect describes what happens when Western instruments and Western pop music has its own influence on contemporary African music. Songs from the North Mississippi Hill Country and songs from the Sahel in Mali communicate with one another, sharing a rhythmic drone some people call "Trance Boogie." Case in point: The Tuareg band Tinariwen -- formed in 1979 and achieving global acclaim in the early 2000s.

Fred McDowell - Shake Em On Down

RL Burnside - Shake 'em On Down

Junior Kimbrough - Lord, Have Mercy On Me

Tinariwen - Imazeghen N Adagh

Tinariwen - Lulla

Tinariwen - Amassakoul

The Return of! Friday Night Veddeos!

2010-04-30T20:17:00.002-05:00

Less talk, more rock.

The Nazz - Rain Rider

Some men sail the waters, some men live on the land
I was born Apollo with the reins and the whip in my hand
Where I take the ladies is something you've never seen
But nothing stops a man who flies and glides like a flying machine

I don't need the motions that are made for that hill
And I don't do half the things you think that I will
And I don't see how you find it much of a thrill
That's unless you want to take a ride

Ride my chariot baby, my role is the sun
Ride my chariot baby, my steed's on the run
Ride my chariot baby, we're leaving by dawn
Come on, come on or else you're gonna see me gone

I got the belts and whips on hanging around my waist
I ride the skies of lightning with the clouds running over my face
Start out in the morning, sailing on the edge of night
I can save you with my left hand, I can destroy you again with my right

You've got one last chance to catch a ride on my tail
When I move my tracks are hardly leaving a trail
Leaving the sun and I leave every dawn without fail
So if you want to take a ride

Ride my chariot baby, my role is the sun
Ride my chariot baby, my steed's on the run
Ride my chariot baby, said we're leaving by dawn
Come on, come on or else you're gonna see me gone

You've got one last chance to catch a ride on my tail
When I move my tracks are hardly leaving a trail
Leaving the sun and I leave every dawn without fail
So if you want to take a ride

Ride my chariot baby, my role is the sun
Ride my chariot baby, my steed's on the run
Ride my chariot baby, we're leaving by dawn
Come on, come on or else you're gonna see me gone

Ride my chariot baby, my role is the sun
Ride my chariot baby, my steed's on the run
Ride my chariot baby, we're leaving by dawn
Come on, come on or else you're gonna see me gone

Ride my chariot baby, my role is the sun
Ride my chariot baby, my steed's on the run
Ride my chariot baby, we're leaving by dawn
Come on, come on or else you're gonna see me gone

Ride my chariot baby, my role is the sun

The Records - Starry Eyes

While you were off in France, we were stranded in the British Isles.
Left to fall apart amongst your passports and your files.
We never asked for miracles, but they were our concern.
Did you really think we'd sit it out and wait for your return?

I don't want to argue. I ain't gonna budge.
Won't you take this number down before you call up the judge?
I don't want to argue. There's nothing to say.
Get me out of your starry eyes and be on your way!

While you were on the beach, were you dreaming all about your share?
Planning to invest it all to cover wear and tear?
We paid for all the phone calls. The money's off the shelf.
Don't you know that while you're gone away, I've got to help myself?

I don't want to argue. I ain't gonna budge.
Won't you take this number down before you call up the judge?
I don't want to argue. There's nothing to say.
Get me out of your starry eyes and be on your way!

While you were in the pool, we were meeting with the boys upstairs,
Talking to the money men, and carrying out affairs.
We had no time for cocktails, or working up a tan.
The boys have all been spoken to. The writ has hit the fan.

I don't want to argue. I ain't gonna budge.
Won't you take this number down before you call up the judge?
I don't want to argue. There's nothing to say.
Get me out of your starry eyes and be on your way

Any Trouble - Second Choice

You begin your education on a nursery school floor
Now you're a little older and you want some more
Everything you say and do is wasted on my ears
Soon it'll be too late for me turning back the years

Chorus:
A simple life is all I need
Two shots of fantasy and one of make-believe
I never tried too hard to make this succeed
You're the only one I need
I never felt the need to cry or rejoice
I never felt the need to raise my voice
I only wanted to be one of the boys
Now you made me second choice

Now look behind you, baby, well, he's doing it again
He is going to get you but he won't tell you when
Stop, look and listen when you open up your door
Or he'll be in there with you, you'll be lying on the floor

The Motors - Airport

So many destination faces going to so many places
Where the weather is much better
And the food is so much cheaper.
Well I help her with her baggage for her baggage is so heavy
I hear the plane is ready by the gateway to take my love away.
And I can't believe that she really wants to leave me and it's getting me so,
It's getting me so.

Airport -
Airport, you've got a smiling face,
you took the one I love so far away
Fly her away - fly her away - airport.
Airport, you've got a smiling face
You took my lady to another place
Fly her away - fly her away.

The plane is on the move,
And the traces of the love we had in places
Are turning in my mind - how I wish I'd been much stronger
For the wheels are turning faster as I hear the winds are blowing
and I know that she is leaving
On the jet plane way down the runaway.
And I can't believe that she really wants to leave me - and it's
getting me so,
It's getting me so.

Airport -
Airport, you've got a smiling face,...

Airport -
Airport, you've got a smiling face,...

The Tubes - White Punks on Dope

Teenage had a race for the night time
Spent my cash on every high I could find
Wasted time in every school in L.A.
Getting loose, I didn't care what the kids say

We're white punks on dope
Mom & Dad moved to Hollywood
Hang myself when I get enough rope
Can't clean up, though I know I should
White punks on dope
White punks on dope

Other dudes are living in the ghetto
But born in Pacific Heights don't seem much betto

We're white punks on dope
Mom & Dad live in Hollywood
Hang myself when I get enough rope
I can't clean up, though I know I should
White punks on dope
White punks on dope

I go crazy 'cause my folks are so fucking rich
Have to score when I get that rich white punk itch
Sounds real classy, living in a chateau
So lonely, all the other kids will never know

We're white punks on dope
Mom & Dad live in Hollywood
Hang myself when I get enough rope
Can't clean up, though I know I should
White punks on dope
White punks on dope

Sparks - Something for the Girl with Everything / Talent Is An Asset

Something ...

Something for the girl with everything
See, the writings on the wall
You bought the girl a wall
Complete with matching ball-point pen
You can breathe another day
Secure in knowing she wont break you (yet)

Something for the girl with everything
Have another sweet my dear
Dont try to talk my dear
Your tiny little mouth is full
Heres a flavour you aint tried
You shouldnt try to talk, your mouth is full

Something for the girl with everything
Three wise men are here
Three wise men are here
Bearing gifts to aid amnesia
She knows everything
yes yes everyting
She knew way back when you weren't yourself

Something for the girl with everything
Heres a really preatty car
I hope it takes you far
I hope it takes you fast and far
Wow, the engines really loud
Nobodys gonna hear a thing you say

Something for the girl with everything
Three wise men are here
Three wise men are here
Where should they leave these imported gimmicks
Leave them anywhere
An-an-anywhere
Make sure that theres a clear path to the door

Something for the girl with everything
Something for the girl with everything
Something for the girl with everything
Something for the girl with everything
Three wise men are here
Three wise men are here
Three wise men are here
Three wise men are here

Heres a patridge in a tree,
A gardener for the tree
Complete with ornithologist
Careful, careful with that crate
You wouldn't want to dent Sinatra, no

Something for the girl who has got everything,
Yes, yes, everything
Hey, come out and say hello
Before you friends all go
But say no more than just hello
Ah, the little girl is shy
You see of late shes been quite speechless,
very speechless
She's got everything

Talent ...

Albert is smart, he's a genius
Watch Albert putter, an obvious genius
Someday he will reassess the world
And he'll still have time for lots of girls

When he grows up he'll remember us
When he grows up we are sure that he'll remember us

We made sure that Albert wore his mac
We kept all the strangers off his back

(Go away)
Everything's relative
(Go away Albert's mother say to me)
We are his relatives and he don't need any non- relatives

Talent is an asset
You've got to understand that
Talent is an asset
And little Albert has it
Talent is an asset
And Albert surely has it

One day he'll sever his apron strings
All of the while he'll be scribbling things, genius things
Look at Albert, isn't he a sight
Growing, growing at the speed of light

(Go away)
Everything's relative
(Go away Albert's mother say to me)
We are his relatives and he don't need any non- relatives

Talent is an asset
And little Albert has it

Talent is relative
That's hypothetical
We are his relatives
That's parenthetical
Spare your superlatives
There's the receptacle
There's the receptacle

Leave Albert's study room
Leave Albert's happy room
Leave Albert's neighbourhood
Leave Albert's city, too
Leave Albert's country seat
Leave Albert's coun-rer-y
Leave Albert's continent
Leave Albert's hemisphere
Leave Albert's planet, too
Leave Albert's universe

No one must see him now
Only the medical
No one must downgrade him
Don't be to cynical
Don't be to critical
Cancel the magazines
They're much to political
Don't buy him any jeans
They're much to casual
Talent is relative
We are his relatives
That's parenthetical

More stuff I wouldn't post on FB, now that it's riddled with relatives and the FBI, CIA, NSA, and the DAR

2010-04-30T11:31:00.000-05:00

Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore

John Prine

While digesting Reader's Digest
In the back of a dirty book store,
A plastic flag, with gum on the back,
Fell out on the floor.
Well, I picked it up and I ran outside
Slapped it on my window shield,
And if I could see old Betsy Ross
I'd tell her how good I feel.

Chorus:
But your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more.
They're already overcrowded
From your dirty little war.
Now Jesus don't like killin'
No matter what the reason's for,
And your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more.

Well, I went to the bank this morning
And the cashier he said to me,
"If you join the Christmas club
We'll give you ten of them flags for free."
Well, I didn't mess around a bit
I took him up on what he said.
And I stuck them stickers all over my car
And one on my wife's forehead.

Repeat Chorus:

Well, I got my window shield so filled
With flags I couldn't see.
So, I ran the car upside a curb
And right into a tree.
By the time they got a doctor down
I was already dead.
And I'll never understand why the man
Standing in the Pearly Gates said...

"But your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more.
We're already overcrowded
From your dirty little war.
Now Jesus don't like killin'
No matter what the reason's for,
And your flag decal won't get you
Into Heaven any more."

Boycotting the D-bags

2010-04-29T10:54:00.000-05:00

I was thinking of buying a cheap ticket (there are usually single tix available in the crappy seats) for the Cubs game tomorrow afternoon. I live pretty close to the park, and the weather's supposed to be nice.

But then I looked at the schedule and saw that Arizona's going to be in town. And I said to myself, "Self, we'll go another time."

A portion of my money -- small amount, true, but it's the principle that matters -- would have gone to the bigoted owners of the Diamondbacks. And I'd rather it not.

Plus, the Cubs suck. But that's another story.

Neither Maverick Nor Paladin Nor Marshal Dillon

2010-04-05T20:12:00.002-05:00

According to The Huffington Post, according to Newsweek, John McCain said, "I never considered myself a maverick."

I never thought of him as a Maverick, either. Maybe more of a James West, minus the low-rent-007 charm and coolness. Which leaves you with a short, bellicose jerk.

(So that would make Sarah Palin Artemus Gordon, minus the proto-MacGyver gadgetry and disguise kit. I guess. I refuse to take this premise any further. Ecch. I just involuntarily pictured Ross Martin in lipstick, high heels, and a designer dress purchased with RNC funds. Yucch. Hm, they do kind of have the same nose. OK, OK, that's it. I'm done.)

"Who are you, and what are you doing with Mr. Royko's sock?"

2010-03-28T11:49:00.001-05:00

In 1984, Rupert Murdoch bought the Chicago Sun-Times, and columnist Mike Royko quit in disgust, moving over to the rival Chicago Tribune. In keeping with its self-proclaimed image as the classier daily fish-wrapper in town, the Trib waged a classy and subtle marketing campaign to promote Royko's column. The centerpiece to the campaign was the manufacture and sale of gym socks bearing Royko's screen-printed autograph. As a budding journalist, I naturally bought a pair. And wore them, too.

I've mentioned the Royko Socks before. I still have one of the socks -- don't know if it's the left one or the right one, and don't know what happened to its mate -- I keep it at the back of my sock drawer, for ... I dunno, sentimental reasons or something.

And if anyone doubts my veracity, I slapped the old surviving Royko Sock onto the scanner for you. Yeah, it's an image you won't see every day, even in the deepest bowels of eBay. One Promotional Mike Royko Sock, Slightly Used.

From the CBRAT Print Archives: GmbH #2 "Eric Gill: Just as God Made Us"

2010-03-26T22:17:00.003-05:00

Insert the usual palaver about how time flies, etc., or spare the both of us, but it's been almost ten years since I published my last xerox mag. Not only that, almost ten years since I finished writing a piece of fiction. Until I started this blog in 2006, the zine reproduced below was the last thing to appear under the Colicky Baby Records and Tapes imprint. Dating back to fall 2000, here it is, issue number two of GmbH.

GmbH, as you might have figured, ran for a short span of two issues. The title is a business entity designation used in Austria, Germany, and Switzerland; it's an abbreviation for Gesellschaft mit beschränkter Haftung, which translates to "limited liability corporation."

I chose the name primarily because it looks to me like an unpronounceable faux-expletive. "Consarn razza frazzit! GmbH!!!"

But I also chose it because it connoted sleek industrial modernism -- particularly the kind of sleek industrial modernism pervasive in the typographic arts revolution that took place in Germany and Switzerland in the 20th century. (And since we all know what 20th century German modernism led to, the assertion of "limited liability" added a layer of meaning, as in, "We were just following orders," or "We didn't do any genociding; only the Nazis, the bad Germans, did that; besides, we weren't even born yet.")

Anyway, in 2000, I was very interested in typography, particularly typeface design. I was especially interested in Jan Tschichold -- so the first issue of GmbH was devoted to him.

Well ... not exactly. GmbH wasn't a fanzine about typography. Typography was just a hook, something to hang some silly short stories on. Really, it was just a starting point for jokes. I didn't know enough about typographic arts to teach anyone anything new about it -- or at least not anyone who was already interested in the topic. But I did know enough about it to make jokes.

So the general premise was that I would narrate these goofy short stories -- actually, would be a pivotal character in them -- involving various famous 20th century typographers, or typeface designers. Since these guys were all dead, I would have to be some kind of time traveler, or zonked-out mystic, or a combination of the two. And nothing really had to make any sense. There didn't need to be any plot, beyond what I thought was funny, and I could throw in lots of biographical data and factual trivia as distractions. While I was at it, I threw in some D.F. Wallace-ish footnotes or endnotes, just for fun.

The first issue turned out pretty well. Maybe I'll post that later. The second issue was a little trickier, and actually took me several weeks to thrash out. In the days before broadband, I actually used to kill time by writing and making Photoshop collages. Crazy.

For the second issue I decided to write about Eric Gill. That was what made it tricky. I probably should have waited to cover Gill until I had zined up a few less confusing and intricate characters. Eric Gill was a complicated guy. Today, he's probably best known for designing a number of popular typefaces -- especially Gill Sans -- but he was a lot more than a font guy.

Let's see ... how to sum up? Can't, really. But in case you don't want to go to Wikipedia, in a very brief nutshell, Eric Gill was an English Roman Catholic, a stonemason and sculptor, a printer, a back-to-the-country medievalist wacko, and a sex pervert.

At that time -- and believe this or don't -- I was going through a sort of "religious phase." To be specific, my "Catholic phase." I didn't seriously consider converting -- but I frivolously considered it. Long story short, based on a combination of my interest in typographic arts and my interest in Roman Catholicism, I became fascinated by Gill's religious art, which quite often crossed a strange boundary line into eroticism. (The cover of GmbH 2 excerpts a portion of one of Gill's most striking pieces, a wood engraving titled "The Nuptials of God.") So I knew for quite a while that I was going to make some kind of mag about Gill; the reason I should have waited is, once I'd made the Gill zine, I had no idea how I was going to top it, just for sheer weirdness of subject matter. There just aren't any luminaries in the world of typography to match Eric Gill for nut-a-roony-tudinalism. So I pretty much had to give up on the GmbH series right there. Sadly.

So here are a series of scans of the zine, which consists of four sheets of 8-1/2 x 11 paper folded in the middle and stapled. I probably distributed about 20 of them. Hi-rez pdfs available on request.

Below that, a digitized text reproduction of the story, complete with endnotes, which was difficult, because I had lost the original Word file. So, in conducting the exercise of building this blog post, I actually had to OCR-scan the story, then proofread it against the hard copy, paste it as plain text into Blogger, and add back any formatting (italics, font sizes, etc.). And because I'm geeky in that way, I had a pretty good time doing it.

So here it is.

Eric Gill

just as God made us

The discovery, then, of what is meant by ‘pleasantly readable’ involves more than questions of eye-strain, important tho’ that question is; it involves first and last a consideration of what is holy.

– Eric Gill, Typography

6/4/28 Expt. with Jan T. Spent 1/2 h. in his bed, placed p. in his a/hole.
Discovered that a Modernist will join with a man. This has to stop.

– diary entry

After a long journey[1] to Ditchling[2] on a shoestring budget I was distressed to learn that Eric Gill died of lung cancer on November 17, 1940. Having come this far, a short jaunt to the ruined monastery[3] at Capel-y-ffin[4] seemed ordinate. The Finns had the following to say about it: “Grange on toiminut jo 30 vuotta ja ratsastajat palaavat vuosi vuodelta ihailemaan upeita maisemia, nauttimaan luonnosta ja pakenemaan kaupungin aiheuttamaa stressiä.”[5] I was in no position to argue with that.

First fashioning a small effigy of Portland[6] stone dust and the blood of a leftover sacrificial chicken (not quite a proper Kaparot chicken; more of a Santeria chicken; I always have some on hand in the freezer along with vegetable scraps for a rainy day of atonement and a rich, gelatinous broth; I recommend it) I forced my brittle legs into the splits position and recited a careful prayer: “The Internet is not a fad.[7] Blessed is the fruits of its womb. And also with you.” The effigy exploded, blinding me temporarily. I rubbed my eyes for a few moments and when my vision returned I was greeted with the impassive stare of a three-foot-tall golem in the shape of a naked cupid. The golem took me by the hand and helped me to my feet. Motioning me to follow, the golem led me to a grotto hidden among sharp crags. A well-worn path led to a cave entrance. The golem refused to go further but encouraged me to continue. Proceeding slowly as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I followed a narrow, twisting tunnel downward. Just as I was about to lose my nerve and turn back, I found a broken composing stick on the tunnel floor and several pieces of lead type. I remembered something someone had told me: “A distribution box is made of many compartments. Each letter, number, and character is assigned a specific box of its own.”[8] I went on.

Inching forward, I soon found myself in complete darkness. Clutching the tunnel wall, I proceeded carefully. After what felt like hours I was at once cheered and made apprehensive by the flicker of torchlight ahead. Pausing to take a deep breath, I perceived the sound of tapping in counterpoint to the sound of my beating heart. It was unmistakably the tapping of a chisel upon stone. Listening more carefully, I could hear a soft voice repeating the Ave Maria.

Emboldened, I turned the final corner and crossed a threshold into a remarkable chamber, a fully equipped print shop carved from the living rock. My wonderment at the room, however, was immediately eclipsed by what I saw next. Sprawled against a far wall was Eric Gill.[9] He was clad in his familiar mason’s smock,[10] with a heavy chain binding him to the floor by his neck. A cord and a small pile of stone beads were on the floor next to him. His smock was open, and he was hammering at a wide, bleeding gash in his gut. He turned his face toward me. “Aligheri? Is it you? I have a new chapter for you. Condemned to an eternity making rosaries of my own gallstones. An almost Promethean torment, surely a new circle of Hell. I’m proud, quite proud. God is great, beneficent.”[11]

“I’m a friend of Jan Tschichold’s,”[12] I said. “Or I used to be. We had a falling out,[13] and I left Germany.”[14]

“Oh? Was it the ‘isms’?”

“The what?”

“The isms.[15] Communism, Fascism, Anarchism, Modernism, Futurism, Vorticism, Cubism, Fauvism, Fabianism, Manicheanism, Zoroastrianism, Ironism, Sarcism – ”

“Sarcism?”

“Sarcasm, I meant to say.”

“But that’s more of an ‘asm.’ ”

“Mmm.”

“At any rate, no, it was none of those things.”

“Maybe it was Pantism. Could it have been Pantism?”

“What’s Pantism?”

“The ‘ism’ of everything.”

“That’s it!!!”

Gill flipped over backwards three times and landed on his ass. Laughing, he unclipped the chain from the wall and stood up. "I'm allowed a respite," he said. "Let's have something to drink, and talk."[16]

We spent the first few hours discussing the pure forms of letters,[17] before delving into territory I had intended to avoid — namely, typographic design,[18] the arrangement of elements on the printed page,[19] as opposed to the structure of letterforms qua letterforms, divorced from considerations such as page size and the golden mean, kerning and leading, etc, etc. I changed the subject by asking Gill what he hoped his legacy to be.

He scoffed. "I have no legacy. Books typeset my way will sit in libraries until they rot, but my truth has no life left, no duration as a living thing. I spent a lifetime mitigating the modern, taming the modern. After I died, modernism ran roughshod over England, Europe, the Americas, even Asia. And when modernism died of its gluttony, what was its successor? Postmodernism? Even worse! The “postmodern” typefaces are beyond ungodly, they are inhuman. ‘Platelet,’ designed by Conor Mangat in 1993,[20] may serve a purpose in certain advertisements, but it is hardly serious. ‘Dr. No,’ designed by Ian Anderson of the Designers Republic in 1992,[21] lacks any appeal whatsoever. Its ‘whimsy’ nauseates. ‘Volt,’ a face by Taylor Deupree,[22] is inoffensive, but that is the best that can be said about it. We could go on. We won’t go on.”

He pulled out a hymnal and invited me to sing, but I demurred. “You know what?” I said. “I actually worship text. The text IS God. It started out as a joke to say that, but I think I really believe it. Not just any text, though – COMPLETE text. Actualized text. Elegant text. In terms of the meaning and the depiction. What the text says and how it is presented. I'd make it a trinity, but I'm at a loss for number three right now. Maybe the reproduction. Yes. Meaning, presentation, reproduction. All are holy.”

“I'm proud of you.”

“I can’t think of text except in terms of these three coordinates.”

“Mmm.” He was leafing through the hymnal. He had lost a lot of blood. I was surprised he could sit upright. He turned his face toward me, but didn’t quite make eye contact. “You know, giant ducks used to rule the world.”

“Giant ducks?”

“Yes, fifteen feet tall, and carnivorous.”

“Giant flesh-eating ducks?”

“After the dinosaurs died.”

“They ruled the world?”

“They ruled the world! They didn’t just exist, they RAN things! Commerce, culture, government! Mass transit! The world!”

“Did they have text?”

“I don't know. But if they did ...”

“Did they have sheets and devices? And devices for sheets? Fifteen foot tall sheets! Devices that ate meat!”

He blinked, swallowed, took a breath. He shook his head. “Have you observed that the pattern of the veins in a rose’s petal is similar to that in the skin of a man’s scrotum, when it is stretched taut?”

That had escaped my notice, I told him.

“Although it barely resembles a dog’s.”

“A dog’s – ?”

“Scrotum, yes. Neither is the pattern like that of a pig’s, nor a goat’s, nor Ananda Coomaraswamy’s.”

“Uhhh.”

“Which is not to say that a Hindoo is more like a dog than a man. I regret that work on the Stations of the Cross for Westminster Cathedral diverted me from this course of study before I could properly examine a cow’s.”

“A bull’s, you mean.”

“Ha ha! Of course! Coomaraswamy’s, let it be noted, bore resemblances to a lotus blossom stained with pekoe.”

“Pekoe? Not oolong?”

“No, just a few centimetres. Poor man.”

He coughed. “The nitre,” he gasped, and coughed again. “The nitre! For the love of God, Montresor!”

“Nitre? Saltpeter? Perhaps you could have used that while — “

He waved his arm to silence me. He grabbed a bottle of cheap sherry from a sideboard and opened it. He took a swig, which seemed to stifle his cough. “The best advice I can give you is this. It may be the best advice you get. My advice is to treat difficult text as if it were a recalcitrant lover. Cajole it tenderly and together you and it will find the form that is best for you both.”

“Typography as seduction.”

“No. Typography as caress.”

“I think I see what you mean. You must make compromises based on needs of the text that vary from your own needs.”

“I wouldn’t call it compromise. Never compromise. Stone has grain but the carver doesn’t compromise with it. Rivers have courses but the water doesn’t compromise with the riverbed. Just be open to the fact that finding the truth is a collaborative process, between lovers, between artist and medium, between man and God.”

“Ah. As the stylus of a pantograph floats slightly, and doesn’t force itself, or else the copy will be flawed.”

“Yes, this is along the natural lines.”

Endnotes

1 By foot, rail, horseback, steamship, aeroplane, jitney, hackney, catamaran, airship, junk, funicular, limousine, stagecoach, autogyro, time machine, pogostick, luge, bicycle, piggyback ride, surfboard, trebuchet, barge, etc., etc. Mostly borrowed. See Le Surmale (1902) by A. Jarry for a fanciful exaggeration on the rail portion of my journey, somehow described a handful of numbers of years before it took place, give or take. I had left Berlin in 1928 with intentions of reaching Ditchling by 1920. As a result of a simple miscalculation on my part (I should have known better than to make sensitive adjustments while impassioned) I arrived several trillion years ahead of schedule, specifically, in October 1941.

2 Sussex.

3 Llanthony Monastery, founded by 'Father Ignatiuus,' (Rev. Joseph Lyne, 1837-1908) in 1869, elevation 1,150 ft.

4 Wales. The name means "Chapel of the boundary."

5 < http://freespace.virgin.net/oxford.travel/fmnish/f grange I .html > The Internet is not a fad! However, if in fact it is, you may get a 404 error when you enter this URL.

6 Mostly. Some admixture with Beer, Bath, and Hoptonwood.

7 But if in fact it is, see, generally, endnote 5, supra.

8 I couldn't go on.

9 Typographer, sculptor, essayist. Born February 22, 1882. Died November ... wait, I said that already.

10 He was, according to his usual custom, garbed otherwise just as God made him.

11 Misquote of Qur'an, Surah 55, "Ar-Rahman" (?)

12 See, generally, GmbH issue one.

13 Devices of jealousy sheets, covetousness devices, sheet after sheet of ... no, I can't lie. It was a woman. Pour ainsi parler.

14 A small Alpine country. Known for Volk dances and colorful oratory.

15 Years later, Edgar Reitz and I were snowbound in a hotel in Alsace. There was nothing to do but hole up with a few bottles of schnapps and watch the American miniseries "Holocaust," then being broadcast for the first time in Deutschland. Drunk since morning, Reitz fell into a violent rage. "Zionismus!" he shouted. I tried to calm him down, gently at first, but when gentleness failed I was forced to smash an empty bottle against a bedpost and hold its jagged neck against Reitz's wet, swollen, red tongue until he collapsed into a long, dreamless sleep.

16 Gill drank a tepid, odorless chicory infusion. He nibbled on a dull cake that looked like tsampa (or tsampa-shaped marzipan) which he refused to share with me because I declined to join him in prayer. I had come to discuss typefaces, not to say graces.

17 Body sizes, x-heights, line weights, cap heights, character widths, adnate serifs, slab serifs, squared serifs, abrupt serifs, teardrops, ball terminals, beak terminals, bowls, and other dimensions of God's descriptive devices at their atomic level.

18 For we certainly had more philosophical and aesthetic differences than sympathies, insofar as that subject was concerned. I had devoted my youth to machinery, speed, war, action, dynamism, automation, technology, efficiency, the new, the future. Gill lived in the past. Baked his own bread, lived without electricity, sought quietude and constancy and eschewed all aspects of the Twentieth Century. By designing typefaces for machine punch-cutting, Gill showed some flexibility and willingness to accept technological progress. But from a design standpoint, Gill was decidedly backward-looking. His ornate, lavishly decorated initial letters alone would have been sufficient to induce a fatal paroxysm in Jan Tschichold.

19 Typeface design and typographic design are often confused and conflated. The difference is like that between defining musical scales and arranging orchestras.

20-22 [Postmodern typefaces not reproducible]

[The editors would like to eknowledge John R for reference - eds.]

"Question your besotment with a manky job," indeed

2010-03-20T12:08:00.002-05:00

To the extent that I have a personal philosophy of life, coach, it is encapsulated in the lyrics and music of this song.

Bankrupt the banks
Withhold the rent
Shitters are a wank
And the landlord's bent
It's time that the babies kept quiet
No it ain't

Open up the nicks
Close down the schools
The law is a prick
Not fit to write the rules
It's time that the babies kept quiet
No, they're cool
Time that the babies kept quiet
No it isn't, don't be silly

Uneasy sunny day hotsy totsy
Uneasy hotsy totsy sonny Jim

Question your besotment
With a manky job
Squat on your allotment
For thirty bob
It's time that the babies kept quiet
Shut your gob!

Melt the guns
Dismantle the bombs
Love your neighbour
Wherever they're from
It's time that the babies kept quiet
Up your bum!
Time that the babies kept quiet
No it isn't, don't be silly

Uneasy sunny day hotsy totsy
Uneasy hotsy totsy sonny Jim

London going junkie
Young and full of spunky
Don't care what you tell us
Old and fat and jealous

Uneasy hotsy totsy sunny day

Pills for fun
Damn the news
Different choice
Different things to choose
It's time that the babies kept quiet
Drink your booze!

Time that the babies kept quiet
No it isn't, don't be daft

Uneasy sunny day hotsy totsy
Uneasy hotsy totsy sunny
Uneasy sunny day hotsy totsy
Uneasy hotsy totsy porkie pies!

As the weird pro turns gone ...

2010-03-19T17:43:00.002-05:00

Yeah, this is going nowhere fast. And slow. Both.

The way I see it, this blog can go three possible directions. First, I could just quit for good, which is by far the most likely. I'm burned out on all aspects of writing and publishing these days, and I don't have anything approaching inspiration or an active relationship of any kind with whatever muse used to handle this blog's account. In short, I'm just not thinking in a "CBRAT" mode anymore.

Second, I could rant and rave about politics. I could come up with a lot of posts on that, since I generally foam at the mouth about that shit in "real life" all day, every day. But I don't want to blog about it, because I don't see anything to gain from it, and it'd just screw up my head even more.

Third, I could do something entirely different. I could come up with a theme or a concept, give myself something of a framework to work with. But if I do that, why do it here? Why not start something else?

At any rate, the gist is, I just ain't feelin' CBRAT. The feelin's gone and I just can't get it back. Thinking about something new ... I'll let you know if and when.

Cheers.

Thought of the day

2010-03-04T09:40:00.005-06:00

President Obama is full of more horseshit than the paddock at Churchill Downs.

This thought of the day has been brought to you by the letter "D," for "Duncan." As in, Arne Duncan, the fool and scoundrel nominally in charge of implementing Obama's awful education policy, which is worser than Bush's, even.

Yeah. Let's send a bunch of Chicago Democrats to the White House. What could go wrong?

POSTSCRIPT: It's amusing (in an "I want to bash my head against a brick wall" way) to see the Obama Zombie crowd at Daily Kos following their leader ever-deeper into the wild wasteland of Reaganism, praising the school district's union bustery. I used to think Obama was a crypto-Republican. I was wrong. He's not keeping it a secret at all.

This bloggggg is moribundddd

2010-02-26T08:31:00.002-06:00

But maybe I'll write something later today.

In the meantime, amuse yourself with Ozzie Guillen's twitter feed: http://twitter.com/OzzieGuillen. I know I am.

Examples:

Iam tired from bad very bad golf

3 day of Spring Training and im already boreddddddd

what I saw on the field today was a lot of grass...

Bed and bath I love this places

Looking for tickets to go to wrestlemania, I need help with that, they r way too expensive

I love what I'm doing now,Followers, don't worry, I will be here for all of you.

Although I'm more interested in spending my online time today hunting for more pix of the Canadian women's hockey team's sexysexy drunken on-ice champagne & cigar celebration.

Gene Vincent Post

2010-02-20T22:36:00.000-06:00

This video rules in at least 30 ways and you should watch it immediately.

Another blog theme song to throw onto the stack of them

2010-02-18T19:38:00.000-06:00

"I'm tough as dirt! I'm mean as blood!"

Big Black - Pete, King of All Detectives

(Ignore the two minutes of silence at the end of this ... if you get that far.)

Miracle on Slush

2010-02-14T12:54:00.000-06:00

Due to total lack of interest on my part, I am not watching the winter Olympics, but I just saw a headline that said the men's downhill skiiing competition was postponed because of a slushy course. My first reaction was, what a strange and wonderful banquet indeed would be one that included a Slushee course.

I can imagine a snooty French waiter lifting the big domed lid off of a silver platter to reveal several frosty paper cups full of swirled, froot-flavored goop. "Rad or Bleu?" the waiter would ask ...

Meanwhile, no word on the status of the men's uphill skiing competition.

Developing.

As shocking as a dead battery

2010-02-12T13:12:00.000-06:00

So Obama is essentially planning on being a one-termer. Makes sense. He should have enough time to wreak enough destruction on the squashed cigarette butt that is the remainder of the middle class. His function really has been (and note I'm saying "function" rather than "job" -- because as mathematical and biological scientists have shown, you don't need an intelligent designer for certain patterns to emerge) to effect a smooth transition from Republican to Republican, with more Republican in the middle, while throwing a wet blanket on whatever left-leaning (if sadly incoherent) sentiment had welled up over Dubya's eight years.

In an interview with Bloomberg BusinessWeek on newsstands Friday, Obama said a presidential budget commission needs to look at all options for deficit reduction - including tax increases and cuts in spending on such programs as Social Security and Medicare.

To misquote Bruno Kirby in Spinal Tap -- "Yes, we can, if Lloyd Blankfein says it's OK first. Because Lloyd calls all the shots."

Meta: The state of the blog

2010-01-31T12:10:00.001-06:00

OK ... no big speech here. Just me saying that I'm tired of the "white text on black background" look. So I might be attempting a redesign shortly. Or not.

Good grief, Google messed up the Blogger editing interface while I was on sabbatical. I can sort of understand why software engineers hate users (and all other humans), but I'm not sure that taking their generalized life-frustration out on everyone via punitive designs and randomly malfunctional applications is helping anyone's cause. Unless they are in league with the Computerized Hive Mind to kill us all. In which case ....... touché.

Right. Also perhaps in the offing: Some actual writing. No promises.

They aren't called "Nice Polite Republicans" for nothing

2010-01-31T12:01:00.001-06:00

Good old "liberal" NPR.

[Fairness & Accuracy in Reporting] has a new Action Alert about All Things Considered's obituary of historian Howard Zinn, which "balances" the praise of Noam Chomsky and Julian Bond with a substance-free attack by far-right activist David Horowitz.

Sure, obituaries always feature rebuttals. It's very common to get someone on there to argue that the deceased, in fact, sucked. I can only imagine the chorus of "con" arguments ATC aired when Ronald Reagan died. That is, I can imagine that totally not happening at all.

Horowitz:

"There is absolutely nothing in Howard Zinn's intellectual output that is worthy of any kind of respect," Horowitz declared. "Zinn represents a fringe mentality which has unfortunately seduced millions of people at this point in time. So he did certainly alter the consciousness of millions of younger people for the worse."

Stronger Than Dirt:

"There is absolutely nothing in Ronald Reagan's political record that is worthy of any kind of respect," STDPM declared. "Reagan represents a fringe mentality which unfortunately seduced millions of people in the wacky-wacky 1980s. So he did certainly alter the consciousness of millions of dumb people for the worse."

There. Fixed.

Thought of the day that is too negative for a FB status update: A continuing CBRAT feature

2010-01-25T12:40:00.000-06:00

I can't decide what's more annoying and moronic: "Who dat?" or "Da Bearsss." I think I'll just flip over all the cards and say the entire NFL is annoying and moronic. Thank the nonexistent invisible omnipotent-yet-emotionally-insecure giant sky father another football season is almost over.

"Let them see what is on the end of that long newspaper spoon."

2010-01-22T21:37:00.000-06:00

THAT LONG NEWSPAPER SPOON was a xerox mag I sporadically produced between 1990 and 2000. The name is derived from a quote from Naked Lunch. I stopped working on it in the middle of putting together issue number 37, for reasons that have never been clear. Just lost the thread, or something.

TLNS started out being pure political screed ... rants, raves, and peeves. Then I started mixing in some fiction around issue number three, and by the teens, certainly by the twenties, it morphed into a serialized novel. Always to remain unfinished.

At present, I can't stand to read any of them — from the beginning to the end — but the cheap, shitty collage covers crack me up. So here are three more artifacts from the early days of "CBRAT — The Print Years," in the form of three unfolded TLNS covers (back cover appearing on the left, front cover on the right) that I like to think of as "The George Herbert Walker Bush Trilogy."

Geese Ausbie has nothing to do with this little politics blurb ... I just like saying "Geese Ausbie"

2010-01-20T09:40:00.002-06:00

The Democrats are the Washington Generals of ... well, Washington. Their job is to lose, and they're comfortable with that role. I think they prefer being the opposition party, anyway, because then all the pols have to do is feed their constituents' anger, rather than actually deliver anything.

UPDATE:

Ahem. As I was saying:

The worst is that I can't help but feel like the main emotion people in the caucus are feeling is relief at this turn of events. Now they have a ready excuse for not getting anything done. While I always thought we had the better ideas but the weaker messaging, it feels like somewhere along the line Members internalized a belief that we actually have weaker ideas. They're afraid to actually implement them and face the judgement of the voters. That's the scariest dynamic and what makes me think this will all come crashing down around us in November.

UPDATE 2:

Now with improved correct spelling of Geese Ausbie! Same fun sound!

It crawled from the crypt ... er, vault ... no, crypt was right ...

2010-01-15T22:11:00.001-06:00

As part of my gradual buildup to a relaunch, here's a vintage Colicky Baby production — the covers to issue number 9 of "That Long Newspaper Spoon."

I did this one back in my old law school digs in Urbana. The clerk at the Kinko's near campus refused to xerox it due to copyright problems. (I wanted to get the "key op" to copy them instead of doing it myself on the self-serve machines, because the self-serve machines tended to suck.) Anyway, I didn't let that small brush with intellectual-property fascism stop me. I can't remember where I ended up photocopying them ... maybe on the office machine where I worked.

I never did latch onto any kind of xerox or zine culture scene in Champaign-Urbana, though, like I did in DeKalb — probably because I was too busy being in law school. So I don't think I distributed many of these. Maybe 20 copies, possibly as few as 10.

Yeah, that'll show 'em.

2010-01-15T17:26:00.000-06:00

Right now, there are still a few Democrats I might vote for this year. But every time a Democratic politician uses the words "perfect," "enemy," and "good" in the same sentence — in regard to health care "reform" or otherwise — I am scratching another name off the list of potential vote-getters.

CBRAT's Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss Says the Age of Mark Zuckerberg Needing an Atomic Wedgie Has Barely Begun

2010-01-10T13:43:00.002-06:00

Every time Mark Zuckerberg opens his mouth, I want to cancel my Facebook account.

Facebook's Zuckerberg Says The Age of Privacy is Over

OK

2009-08-17T11:43:00.002-05:00

This blog is dead, or at least dormant. No updates are planned.

Blogging resumes, for no particular reason, with a celebrity dream dreamt sometime during early morning July 11, 2009

2009-07-11T21:23:00.004-05:00

I dreamed that I was roaming around the no-longer-in-existence Lakehurst Mall in Waukegan, Illinois, with Al Franken. We walked past some kind of hair salon where all the hairdressers and all the customers were old ladies, but Franken thought it was a front for a whorehouse, and he decided to go and see what kind of tail he could lay into.

This didn't appeal to me ... the place seemed kind of crusty and mildewy ... so I kept wandering. I turned down one corridor toward a region of the mall that I knew to be mostly deserted -- I think the consumer survey people had their facility there, and there might have been a "Balloons and Clowns" shop on the lower level.

But today the entire sector had been dressed as a gigantic set from a movie that was currently popular in that particular dream world -- a comedy that took place in the main chamber of the United Nations. Damon Wayans was there, acting out his role in the movie -- the smart-talking, funked-up Ambassador who kicks ass, takes names, and teaches the world's nations to get along and love each other.

I stopped next to a Fannie May candy store to watch the show for a while, and then Damon Wayans spotted me and called out my name. I was surprised that he knew my name, but I figured I had met him somewhere once and had forgotten about it. We had a nice conversation for a couple of minutes, and then I decided I should look for Franken, in case he was getting into any bad trouble at the granny cosmetician brothel.

Then I woke up.

Sox Blogging Returns: Alexei Ramirez Benched

2009-05-07T13:24:00.006-05:00

Sophomore shortstop Alexei Nikita Gagarin Putin Ramirez has been slumping, so Ozzie Guillen has taken him out of the lineup for a while.

The Tribune reports:

"I’m not going to say this is the doghouse," Guillen said ... as far as we can tell.

Yeah, it's true that that guy is not easy to understand. Or as he'd say, "Dahgye ee noeez umstam. Nome saymg?"

Thanks, Trib, for translating, at any rate. Who says newspapers have no social value in today's market?

I imagine the actual interview sounded a little more like this:

Ayyayn sem dees no doghow. Hee no Smoopy omtop dere. Ha ha, 'Dis dark amstorm nigh.' Hey, Woobstog burr ... why I no hee curball nomo? Hawee gom weem gane?

Then, in an apparent mixup of Ozziness, Mr. Guillen screamed "SHARON!!!" and passed out.

It's, It's a Ballroom Blitz: Part Seven: It was 20 Years Ago Today

2009-04-18T22:23:00.012-05:00

All right. By this point, in 1989, I was emotionally wrecked and exhausted. And by this point, in 2009, I'm more than a little bit tired and crabby. But, in the words of Samuel Beckett, "I can't go on, I'll go on."

As I said earlier, I'm telling this story from my point of view. And from my point of view, this story was over and finished when Pastor Dave canceled the Wesley Foundation benefit concert for The Public Address System.

It was the end of my direct involvement, at any rate. I was there, but I wasn't there ... if you get what I mean. My cash cow was dead from brucellosis, or bovine spongiform loose cannonitis. My crazy dreams of a big push over the top into publishing viability were dead. I had thought I had, within my imminent grasp, the capital infusion, and the big-time cultural happening, for Fame and Fortune ... and then that was yanked away from under my feet like a strip of wet terry cloth on a flooded bathroom floor.

My head hurt, and everything was foggy. So I don't have as lucid a recall from those post-cancellation days as pre. The next few days after the Obscene Rock Show Posters scandal aren't so clear. Luckily, JC Bureau Chief O.Ball has stepped up again to help out. But, first, here are my few recollections, as assisted by some things I affixed to paper and audio cassette tape at or near the time.

I was DJing a radio show at WKDI from 6 to 9 a.m. on Sunday mornings that semester. Probably the graveyardiest of graveyard shifts. The drunks were all asleep by then, and nobody with any sense was awake yet. I think I had approximately zero listeners.

Naturally, I let that allow me to do whatever the hell I wanted, from mixing Charles Manson folk songs with field recordings of the Jim Jones massacre to G.G. Allin played at 45 rpm mixed with John F. Kennedy speeches to rambling at length about whatever I felt that morning. More people, I am certain, have listened to my own cassette recordings, as captive audiences in my own apartments, of those shows than anyone ever did on their radios.

During my WKDI show for Sunday April 16, a certain No Eraser Head dropped by the Kishwaukee Hall studio for a visit. He later admitted to me that he was under the influence of LSD, but I didn't notice any difference from his usual self.

NEH took a seat in the news studio and strapped on a set of cans. (Headphones, to you non-radio-nerd types.) And we spent a good several minutes talking about what had just happened. Which I managed to preserve on tape, and which you can download and, if you so choose, listen to, thanks to the Internet (as part of the audio package offered in the footnote below).

The thing that stands out most to me now -- because I do hold a grudge -- is how unconcerned NEH was about the impact his and Squeaky's fun-fest had had on the newspaper. He was remorseful about fucking up Otis Ball's tour ... but I suspect strongly that that was because he had big designs on coattailery, and he didn't want to jeopardize that.

At any rate, I'm a passive-aggressive guy, not an active-aggressive one, so I sucked up the dismissal, the "Bah! The newspaper! That's secondary!" stuff. But I didn't really swallow it. That has stuck in my craw for two decades now. And it's kind of cathartic, frankly, to say so now.

Not that his feeling bad would have served any purpose. Other than for my fucked up ego. But if I'd felt better about things then, maybe ... well, speculation is worth little. Better to get back into what happened.

And what happened was that NEH decided to try to make good for Otis. And I thought that was fine, in general principle, but I still wasn't involved at all. It was very much an "OK, you take it" situation. And the last chapter of this story is what happened when NEH took it.

Time was short to accomplish any fixing, because Otis was heading back to Jersey very soon. So NEH, I don't know the details, set up a make-up show. He contracted with a local restaurant with a banquet ballroom in downtown DeKalb, Matthew Boone's, it was called, to serve as a venue. He called on the estimable Dr. Tulk (cannot praise Tulk enough, in any forum) to do sound. And he secured the bands from the original ill-fated Wesley show to play.

But, as I can recall, even after a lot of archive-digging and memory-mining, little or no promotion was done. I guess he was counting on word of mouth. The make-up show at Matthew Boone's was just a couple days away, on April 19th, and it was sickeningly obvious that that was not going to be enough time to get the word across, especially if promotional efforts consisted of nothing.

I still can't fathom the motivations. Was it to salvage some cash for Otis? Was it to save face somehow? I still can't see, hard as I try, how either of those things were going to happen, or how anyone could believe they would.

But, in spite of everything, the show went on. Hardly anyone showed up, and the bands, venue, and sound man all went unpaid, but there was a show.

That show has become known, among the cognoscenti, as The Ballroom Blitz.

I was there, but just as a spectator. I didn't have anything to do with anything. Didn't work the door, didn't work anything. Even paid to get in. One of the few. So, at this point, let's let Otis Ball tell the story of The Ballroom Blitz, itself.

Ready, Steve? Killer? Bouj? Alright, fellas. LET'S GO!

Twenty years on, it still took half a bottle of vodka to write this post. There we were. It was supposed to be the big homecoming show. But due to oppression beyond my control, it had been canceled. I was going back to Jersey on the 20th. The knuckleheads had less than a week to correct their mistake and book a make up show. To their credit, they did manage to get that together. Even suckered in Dale Tulk, soundman to the Dekalb/Sycamore stars. In hindsight, I wish they hadn't. He deserved better. But you play the Ball where it lies, so to speak. Or the Blitz, if you weel.

The big show was off. Apparently the Northern Illinois University campus was too delicate to withstand a promotion consisting of naked stick figures. They weren't even anatomically correct! But that post has been posted. Whether you're just joining us or you have been impatiently waiting for each new episode, I recommend you download the audio version of the backstory*

I suspect Stronger Than Newspaper Tom Lung may have some additional comments on this zip. I prefer to comment videologically.

Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah. April 19, 1989. A Wednesday night. Somehow, one Matthew Boone's event hall had been procured. I was tempted to say "rented," but that would have involved a deposit. Too bad about their lax business practices. It was an interesting venue for a rock show. To the best of my knowledge, it had never been used for a rock show before and CERTAINLY not since. (At least some of those involved learned valuable lessons on this day, though not all.) In hindsight, I'm sure it was nothing more than a dining hall for rent. But to those of us used to church basements, university commons and old man drinking clubs, it looked like a venue better suited to proms or weddings. My god, it was practically a ballroom! Disco ball included! (Which is not to be confused with a disco Ball. That would take us back to the late 70's and remove us from the story at hand.)

Kissyfish was driving down from Madison, the Chains were in their various Chicago area locales and I woke up in Dekalb. With a grapefruit lump in my gut. I had a bad feeling about the evening show. Not only was it booked on a weeks notice, but given the circumstances, let's just say that there was not a whole lot of promotion. And it was a Wednesday night to boot. And I sensed another boot could well be imminent, if we didn't watch all our P's and Q's. And stick figures.

Enough beating around the bush. We knew it wasn't gonna be the best Otis Ball & The Chains show. Christ, we had a pretty good idea it wouldn't even be the best of the tour. And it wasn't. That would be the IMSA show, discussed in the previous post. But goddamn it! There was a job to be done! I spent the afternoon with the Public Address System crew, which is documented in the PAS 23 mp3s [linked in the footnote below]. We were all understandably nervous for our own reasons. They needed a successful make up show to print the next edition. I coulda used some cash to get home and make up for taking two weeks off of work for a no budget homecoming tour. Thankfully the Cover Me With Roses cassette and T-shirt sales were doing fine. I was far more concerned about leaving my Dekalb reputation in tact. God knows why.

So we loaded in that afternoon. Kissyfish showed up, loaded in and we spent the afternoon pacing. Which changed not one thing of the impending show. Doors opened. $4 admission. Seemed overpriced to me, but I wasn't promoting the show. My concern was what happened on stage.

Good thing. Attendance was light early on. Not only did I know everybody, but between Kissyfish, OB&C and the PAS crew, we coulda handily defeated em in a fist fight. And that is not bragging about our collective pugilistic skills.

Kissyfish opened the show. I thought they were fine. But Ryan was not happy. More than once he apologized from the stage. I dunno why. They sounded just fine then and now. They opened with an excellent Hava Nagila. An arrangement I would blatantly steal over a decade later when asked to play at my cousin's wedding. They did a decent amount of their hits and a couple new songs, but ended after about a half hour. They were clearly feeling as nervous and unsure as I was feeling. The smell of curse was in the air.

Up next was No Eraser Head. One of the PAS crew. An old Dekalb pal. Soon to join me in Jersey and roadie for the OB&C midwest tour a year later. (I'm sick of saying "that's another story." Figure it out.)

NE was a unique performer. Like BB King, he couldn't play guitar and vocalize at the same time. Unlike BB King, he couldn't even play guitar. But that didn't stop him. Nor should it have. He did what he did and there was no one else doing anything similar. Before or since. He choose to use the first half of his set to both encapsulate the story of the show and do a greatest hits of his stand-up routine. All in about 5 minutes. For his second song, he performed a Stooges song backed by an old vaudeville routine. Rather than go into detail, I implore you to watch his entire set that night.

Under any other circumstances, I would have thought this No Eraser Head set was the greatest performance I had ever witnessed. But for the fact that the owner and/or manager of the venue had appeared with her two young children. She was looking for her money. Ironically from this anniversary vantage point, there could not have been more than 20 people in attendance. I knew she wasn't getting paid. The PAS crew knew she wasn't getting paid. Fuck, she probly knew she wasn't getting paid. Meanwhile, NE was playing a solo guitar version of I Wanna Be Yer Dog while two other gentlemen explained the definition of "To come" and smashed 78 rpm lacquer records over their heads. Me? I was curled up in a ball in a shadowed door jamb.

But now it was time. Might as well get this over with. I guess if ya gotta play a show, might as well throw in for the handful of friends who showed up. So Otis Ball & The Chains took to the stage one last time.

I guess we all knew this could be it. And it was. While Otis Ball & A Chains would play with A Kissyfish one year later, this collection of musicians and old friends would never gather again. Not all at once. Some attendees would disappear, never to be heard from again. (Steve Laux! Phone home!)

If this was a movie, (and someday it may be! All copyrights held by One O Ball and Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss!) the show would have been amazing, properly documented and hundreds would have been streaming in after the big football game let out. But that is not what happened. The attendees who were attending were already attending. We knew this was "a major loss for the band." (You are watching the accompanying videos, aren't you? I didn't upload em for my health!) And the video is very poor quality. But a rock show is a rock show. There are a lot of things I am lazy about. But when it comes to show time, well, it is show time.

And that is where our story does take a turn for the better. You see, while the audience was sparse, they were all hardcore. So they all acme prepared for The Request Bucket. TRB. An OB&C mainstay. (Along with acronyms.) At most shows, I would put out the bucket. Fans were invited to drop requests in the bucket. Not Otis Ball song requests. ANY song requests. And we aimed to please. The very first time The Request Bucket was employed, we got a request for a Metallica song. Leper Messiah. Well, we did not know Leper Messiah. So we made up a song on the spot. Called Leper Messiah. THAT is how The Request Bucket works.

This fucked up show was a financial disaster. It was not to be anything resembling an ego gratifying homecoming show. But thanks to the fifth member of the band, TRB, it was a success. My buddy Jody had been making notes for months. She came to the show armed with at least two dozen requests. The Associations' Windy! New York, New York! You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman! Green Acres! And someone requested Ballroom Blitz.

So the show happened. Which is more than we expected at the time, under the circumstances. And I do have to say, despite the doom hanging about two feet above the dance floor, despite the fact that NO ONE was making any money that night, despite the fact that we might never see each other again, we managed to end the night with the most triumphant rock moment Dekalb has ever seen. Or not seen in this case.

For the big finale, we called up Kissyfish to join us. We chose two very special covers and an anthem to end the night, the tour and the very special friendship all those in attendance were bonded by forever and always. As I did that night, I would like to dedicate these three songs, this rock and roll encore of all encores to all those on stage that night, all those in the audience and all of you who have joined us in this 20 year anniversary remembrance.

From Otis Ball and Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss, thank you, friends.

And now, finally, it has been told.

To follow, perhaps, an epilogue or two. We'll see.

Thanks for reading. Thank you very much.

-- Mr. Newspaper aka STDPM

___________

* The backstory Otis refers to here is a combination xerox and cassette zine I made in April 1990 called "The Pub ic Address System 23." The audio consists of WKDI broadcasts, various musical interludes, and acoustic solo Otis Ball songs in reference to the event in question. It is available at http://www.megaupload.com/?d=D6F1KOZB.

It's appropriate, I think, to relegate what I call "PAS 23" to a footnote. It was my first post-mortem on the fiasco, put together about one year afterward. It was also my first xerox zine. Here's the cover:

And here, from that zine, is my ... er, Mr. Newspaper's ghost writer's ... first one-page attempt at telling this story.

Plus, just for you, here is a little bonus. With each of the 23 copies I made of PAS 23 (about 16 of which were distributed to various very important people), I got Squeaky himself to draw a different unique obscene drawing in his own unique obscene style, and to number and autograph them on the back side. So, to finish this horrible epic, why not close with that? Here's one example of what made this all so possible, complete with autographed backside.

It's, It's a Ballroom Blitz: Part 6.1: It's, It's an IMSA Blitz

2009-04-16T17:14:00.005-05:00

In the words of Chuckie Baby Barris, here we are, back with more ... stuff.

The big DeKalb show was dead, but the rock kept on rolling elsewhere. Specifically, about 45 minutes down I-88 in lovely Aurora. Thanks to Jersey City CBRAT bureau chief, One O. Ball, here's a multimedia sidebar. Since I didn't, unfortunately, make this scene myself, personally, we'll give Otis the floor to tell you all about it:

To is a preposition. IMSA is an acronym. Stands for Illinois Math and Science Academy. And home of the greatest captive audience you will ever find.

The first Otis Ball & The Chains show ever was at IMSA. April 11, 1987. Me, Killer and my drum machine. Couldn't ask for a finer debut. IMSA was a high school academy for the finest and brightest minds Illinois had to offer. A live-in high school for the cream of the crop of IL students. My on again/off again guitarist Steve was an advisor/counselor there. Thanks to nepotism, I was often invited to perform at the in house entertainment gala, Club Pseudo. (side note - I wanted to name my debut album Club Pseudo. But the label rejected it.)

I videotaped my Charles Manson's Birthday video at IMSA. We even played a New Year's Eve party at IMSA. (The students were home for the holidays and we had the whole place to ourselves.) I made some good friends at IMSA. The Dunham twins, Dave Cung and, of course, my webmeister extraordinaire, Derek Wolfgram. Derek started the Otis Ball website before I even had a computer. I owe that man more than I could ever repay. Plenty more IMSA goofballs, too numerous to mention.

On April 16, 1989, Otis Ball & The Chains returned to IMSA with Kissyfish. Almost two years to the date of the first show. By this point, the big Dekalb show had been canceled. There was no telling if another venue would be found for a make-up show. For all we knew, this might have been the last show of the tour. And I got pink eye. Literally adding injury to insult.

But this show was, without question, the best show of the tour. Both bands were well on top of their respective games. Kissyfish not only led a magnificent game of Bison, Bison, Yak, but held a dance contest with the winners awarded a date with a member of the band. They played all the hits and it was well worth the drive from New Jersey just to see them play this show.

But there was more. Otis Ball & The Chains were on the bill. And we rocked. The request bucket was full and Kissyfish were there to watch our backs. We played well over two hours, including an acoustic set in which I was backed by Kissyfish Minus One.

I could gush on, but a video paints a thousand words. In honor of the 20th anniversary of this IMSA show, I have posted almost 40 minutes of it on YouTube. But this is not quite the end of our story. Please join me and Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss this Sunday, April 19, for the conclusion of our story, It's, It's a Ballroom Blitz.

It’s, It’s a Ballroom Blitz: Part 6: Pastor Dave’s Vengeance: They Were “Gross” and She Did Not Like Them: “Very funny fellas. Who you workin’ for?”

2009-04-14T18:18:00.007-05:00

Imagine how the students, faculty, and staff of Northern Illinois University must have felt on Monday morning, April 10, 1989. Imagine waking bright and early, as always, ready for another day of learnin’ and educatin’. Imagine rollin’ out of your fluffy dorm bunk bed and wipin’ the sleep from your innocent little eyes, or staggerin’ off the futon in your crappy boarding house room and kickin’ the cat shit out of the way, or joltin’ awake in your flea-bitten armchair in the clothes you were wearing last night and cursin’ the dawn in your firetrap apartment converted from substandard housing built for immigrant barbed-wire factory laborers in the late 19th century and draggin’ your dispirited carcass down to the heart of campus and bein’ greeted by ...

Penises! Tuchuses and nay-nays! Stick figure hermaphrodites! Evil, evil cartoons! Giant posters of three-titted and two-dicked freaks! Shameful, wicked, and disturbing images everywhere, all around! Why? Why?? And who and what? But especially -- Why???

There must have been hundreds, thousands of Munchian screamers running around in dazzled circles that morning in the Martin Luther King, Jr. Mall.

I can only imagine. I slept late that day, as usual. Or I tried to. I was shocked into consciousness around, I dunno, let’s say 10 a.m., by my most hated enemy, the telephone. The Stickler answered it, and I was able to tell tout de suite that it was not a happy fun call. This suspicion was confirmed within a minute or two, when The Stickler started crying.

It was Pastor Dave -- our man at the Wesley Foundation -- and he was not his usual cheerful self. Pastor Dave, in fact, was not happy at all. Pastor Dave was angry. Pastor Dave was disappointed, chagrined, and dismayed. Pastor Dave had had it with those crazy kids at The Public Address System.

The verdict came suddenly, and it was blunt. The Otis Ball & The Chains, Kissyfish, No Eraser Head, Dude, Slut Kings et al. show scheduled for Friday was off. No show. Canceled. Kiboshed. Plug pulled, with extreme prejudice.

Furthermore, there would never be another Public Address System show at the Wesley. Ever. Never, ever, never. The Public Address System and its irresponsible, untrustworthy proponents were banned from the Wesley Foundation for eternity. Excommunicated, effective immediately.

After all the other problems we’d had with our shows -- kids smuggling in booze and weed, kids fighting and stealing stuff, weird band names rankling various Christers and Christees -- the Loose Cannons’ promotional orgy from the previous night was the last straw. Pastor Dave was actually sorry to do it, he said. He said he knew The Stickler wasn’t to blame, but unfortunately she -- as The Public Address System’s main contact person with the Wesley -- had to take the heat.

Pastor Dave himself had been under the gun all morning. I’m sure he didn’t have a good day at the office at all. Not only did he have to field angry, yelly phone calls from the university administration, as well as angry, yelly phone calls from his employers, the Wesley’s board of directors, he was taking shit left and right from just about everyone.

And soon enough, so were The Stickler and Mr. Newspaper.

It wasn’t long before the phone started ringing off the hook again. I sure wasn’t going to answer it. They didn’t want to talk to me anyway -- poor The Stickler was who they were after. It was the shitheels at the official campus newspaper, and they’d gotten The Stickler’s name from Pastor Dave. So it fell on The Stickler to do some damage control with the press, which I think she did about as well as could have been done, under the circumstances. And she had the advantage of being personally blameless, or very nearly.

Here is a scan of the story that ran a few days later (click on the picture for a larger, readable version):

Actually, I don’t remember if it happened that fast. I know for sure that the posters were torn down very quickly, and not too long after that -- possibly not until the middle of the week -- the show was shitcanned. At any rate, after the student reporter’s interview, the scandal was pretty much over with, as far as The Stickler and Mr. Newspaper’s direct involvement. Other than, of course, having to attend journalism classes for the rest of the semester under the disapproving gaze of their professors, TAs, and fellow students. (Mr. Newspaper still managed to graduate from the NIU Journalism Department with high honors, and today works at an undisclosed location in a relatively secure and punk-rock-free niche of the media world, but I digress.)

For other involved parties, the trouble was just getting going.

I did field one phone call during the ongoing fracas that week. I couldn’t dodge that one; it was meant specifically for me.

It was Otis on the line. And in place of “Hello,” what Otis said was “WHAT DID YOU DO?!?!?!”

“Homina homina homina” was about all I got out before Otis started laughing, and I heard the trademark deranged giggle of Squeaky in the background. Apparently No Eraser Head was there, too, but I don’t recall any direct audible evidence.

Squeaky and NEH were, understandably, afraid of possible discipline from the university, since it had been made known that Student Judicial Officer Larry Bolles (picture Dean Vernon Wormer as played by Bernie Mac) was researching the double-secret (seriously, nobody was ever allowed to see a copy of it -- I always suspected it didn’t really exist) NIU Student Judicial Code for possible charges and punishments. And, although I’m still not convinced they were capable of any degree of what reasonable people would call true remorse, they knew, deep down, that they were Guilty.

They didn’t want to get busted, but they wanted to see if they could make things better, if not entirely well. So they paid Officer Bolles a visit, incognito, to see if they could find out what any possible terms of surrender would be, without actually admitting anything, or even divulging their names.

NEH or Squeaky could probably tell this part of the story better -- or at least they could have 20 years ago, since they were there, and I wasn’t. But, by now, my memory of their description of this meeting is probably about as lucid and complete as anything we could get out of them today.

At any rate, Bolles wasn’t having any of it. And he saw right through their “we’re just curious noninterested third parties here, not any hunks of plastic explosive shoved down a gopher hole or nothing, just a couple of friendly squirrels” ruse.

“Very funny, fellas,” Bolles said. “Very funny.”

“We’re not saying we did it,” Squeaky and NEH bravely contended. “And we don’t even know who did. We’re just curious as to what the charges might be.”

“Well,” Bolles countered, “If you didn’t do it, and you don’t know who did it, then what business is it of yours what the charges are?”

Check and mate. But Bolles wasn’t finished.

“I will say that, whoever did this -- and I ain’t saying you did it -- is in a whole lotta trouble. A whole lotta trouble.”

Bolles still wasn’t finished.

“Now, are you `Otis’? No? Are you `Otis’? Well, who you workin’ for? Huh? Who you workin’ for? Are you workin’ for `Otis’?”

At this point, NEH and Squeaky had had enough of the third-degree fire-hose hot-lights treatment, so they got the hell out of there.

Eventually, it turned out that there was nothing in the Judicial Code to charge anyone with. There were no provisions covering obscene rock-show posters, or obscene anything, or anything else analogously germane to the bad acts in question. Once this became clear, one of our Loose Cannons ginned up the nerve to write to the official student paper, more or less fessing up and offering an example of his own inimical defensive style:

And by then, that was about that. The Obscene Rock-Show Poster scandal, along with the spring semester, was pretty much over and done with.

But none of this explains why this mammoth story has been titled “It’s, It’s a Ballroom Blitz.” For that, you have to tune in for Part Seven.

It's, It's a Ballroom Blitz: Part Five: Cannons Break Loose: Secret Messages and Helpful Hints: Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll, and Filth and Flarn

2009-04-10T13:17:00.011-05:00

Step back with me again through the Time Portal to April 1989. Place: DeKalb, Illinois, the campus and surrounding curtilage of Northern Illinois University.

Otis Ball was heading back to DeKalb, joining back up with The Chains, and bringing Madison's Kissyfish and a host of other supporting plate-spinners and cat-jugglers to play a benefit show for The Public Address System alternative newspaper in the basement of the Wesley Foundation. And the staff and friends of The Public Address System were as excited as a troop of electrified gibbons who have eaten nothing but three meals of Cap'n Crunch every day for a month. Washed down with bottomless cups of coffee at The Junction.

I think the technical term for what we did for the Otis Ball and the Chains show was we "promoted the everloving shit out of it." And here is the documentary evidence.

First up, here's the oversized 11-by-17-inch poster apparently produced by Otis's label, BarnOne, and customized by, judging from the handwriting, No Eraser Head:

Notable for its creative use of the words "FARTS" and "MASTURBAYSHUN," this is the tamest piece of promotion associated with this event. Also notable for mention of the acts Slut Kings and Dude, about which more will be revealed later.

The following item doesn't look salacious at first glance. Maybe a little weird -- featuring, as it does, the then-governor of Illinois, Big Jim Thompson, and the helpful suggestion on the left margin, "Grow morning glories and eat the seeds!" along with the radical political sentiment "Animal suffrage now!"

This one is also the work of No Eraser Head. Apparently we had stolen a "UP&A" stamp. (I don't remember what UP&A stood for, but it was the campus administrative organization that screened and approved things for posting on campus bulletin boards. We weren't an official campus group, so we couldn't have had UP&A privileges. At any rate, I think the statute of limitations has expired, so whoever is responsible for pilfering that stamp is probably safe from legal consequences.)

The Big Jim flyer also mentions an April 7 show at the Eagles Club, but neither Otis nor myself has any clear recollection of whether that show ever happened. Anyone who knows, clue us in, please.

Yeah ... the poster might look tame enough on the surface, but if you looked closely ... hidden and terrible messages emerged. This was accomplished by putting the flyers into the paper tray of the copiers at Kinko's and then copying a "secret messages" sheet onto them. Since the copier toner was slightly raised, if you looked at a certain angle, the black-on-black messages became visible. (Credit for this technique goes to the late, great John Rininger, who worked at Kinko's at the time -- this flyer, in fact, marks the first time I met John.)

Since you can't see the messages in the jpeg no matter how you twist your monitor around, here's a scan of the messages sheet itself:

For the jpeg-reading impaired, they are: "JUGHEAD," "DROP 'EM IF YOU GOT 'EM," "LSD," "SATAN," "ACID," "BIG JIM'S GAY," and "INSERT PENIS HERE."

I think you can see the direction we're heading.

Not to be outdone, Loose Cannon Numero Dos, Squeaky, contributed his own effort to the hype-fest:

Yep, that's fan-favorite Charles Manson. It also contains a swipe at the music & entertainment columnist from the official campus paper (the name of which I refuse to type), Allen Roscoe, who was, predictably, offended (more on this, also, later). Subtle use of Nazi imagery in the background ... also, in case people weren't enticed enough by the promise of seeing Otis perform, they were sure to be roped in by "6 Hours of Family Sex."

But our Loose Cannons were just getting warmed up. And what good is a cold cannon anyway, really?

The way I remember what happened next happening is as follows.

I believe it was the Sunday after the Kissyfish/OB&C show up in Madison. Squeaky, NEH, The Stickler, and Mr. Newspaper were all hanging out late at night at Kishwaukee Hall -- tiny but beloved home of WKDI (93.5 FM on your cable radio dial, or Channel 8 on the dorm TV system).

For some reason, someone had dumped a large stack of promo posters for some movie -- I have no memory of what movie it was; pick any screwball comedy released around that time, and that could have been it -- in the lobby of Kish Hall. I have no idea what their intended purpose was -- it didn't seem likely that anyone at the radio station was going to put up a whole bunch of giant posterboard advertisements for some dumb motion picture.

Anyway, it doesn't matter what movie the posters were for. What's important is that, on the reverse side, the posters were blank.

Another thing strewn about that night in the lobby of Kish -- a whole bunch of El Marko®-brand marker pens. The large variety.

So ... you've got a big stack of giant blank posterboards, a bunch of magic markers, and two Loose Cannons. This, dear readers, is a recipe for Trouble. With a capital T, and that rhymes with B, and that stands for Bolles. (More on Bolles ... you guessed it ... later.)

Squeaky and NEH got a-goin' ... and a-goin' ... and a-goin'. With any two other people, I'd ascribe the fruits of their labors to marker fumes. But, with these guys, I think a classic "Russian Reversal" applies -- Loose Cannons make markers act goofy, not the other way 'round.

Yeah, I laughed. And I also told them I didn't think it was a good idea to put their artwork on display anywhere. NEH just looked at me like he would have looked at his mom if she'd have ever told him to stop playing with himself. Squeaky just giggled.

The Stickler and Mr. Newspaper retired to bed that night with vague but distinct feelings of unease. If they'd have known what awaited them the next morning, they never would have been able to fall asleep at all.

It's, It's a Ballroom Blitz: Part Four: Drove Sixteen Hours, Didn't Stop to Go Piss

2009-04-07T19:27:00.008-05:00

When I left off last time, things were finally starting to get rolling for The Public Address System. A series of financially successful rock shows earned us the cash to publish three well-received issues of the paper. And, thanks to the business acumen of The Stickler, we were even selling a few adverts -- Record Revolution, Northern Lights Bookstore, Mama’s Restaurant, and the local food co-op all contributed to our slowly growing revenue stream.

I know I forgot a few of the bands that did benefits for the paper in my last post, and I apologize to anyone who reads this series and notices an omission. Jill, one of the people who helped us with booking, reminded me over the weekend of one punk band, The Misled, which opened one of the shows -- probably the main fund-raiser for the second issue, although I really can’t remember. Twenty years is twenty years, and some of the millions of brain cells I’ve lost over the decades probably contained that information. Plus, we probably did twice as many shows as issues of the newspaper, which added up to a good number of musicians. If you happen to be one of them, please leave a comment and take some credit.

Back to the story.

Coincidental with our efforts to build an alternative newspaper empire were Otis Ball’s efforts to build a rock and roll career. In April 1989, those dreams joined forces ... and, much like I’d imagine taking place if “F Troop” were armed with battlefield nukes ... mayhem ensued. Comical but brutal mayhem.

And that mayhem had a lot of outside help, from forces we’ll call outside agitators. Or you could call them two goofballs. Loose cannons. Whatever you want.

To protect the guilty, we’ll proceed using pseudonyms. Loose Cannon Number One has been called several things (but never late for dinner) -- for this story, I think I’ll go with his late-’80s stage name, No Eraser Head. NEH for short. I believe NEH had dropped out of school by this time, but was still holding down a prime-time air shift as Ringmaster of the “Sonic Carnival” show on WKDI, Northern Illinois University’s cable-based radio station.

Loose Cannon Number Two was the news director of WKDI, a guy we all called Squeaky, for reasons that have never been clear to anyone, certainly not to Squeaky. Squeaky was once described by a member of the Residence Hall Association -- who wasn’t aware that Squeaky was in the room at the time (not that that would have changed anything) -- as “Someone you probably wouldn’t want to take home to dinner.”

The reason that person said that was this flyer Squeaky made for a 1988 campus protest against tuition hikes:

I appreciated Squeaky’s work quite a bit more than the dorm dork, and he and I collaborated on several inflammatory and controversial political flyers together after that one, in our capacity as members of a certain campus left-wing activist group ... but that’s another story. I also knew NEH through the same group, and I had my own WKDI shift and did some news reporting for the station ... so that’s the gist of our connections at that time, in that place.

I’m not sure how NEH met Otis Ball, but NEH was heavily promoting Otis and his music on the Sonic Carnival show. In that connection, NEH introduced me to Otis, and I interviewed him for the only issue of The Public Address System’s short-lived precursor, MUSH. After Otis moved east and recorded an album, I ... er, somebody close to Mr. Newspaper, that is ... put together the following for the Public Address System -- presented here in its gritty, archival glory, in a scan from the original layout sheet:

After the third issue of the paper, we were, as usual, cooking up our next big showbiz escapade. Then, one day NEH came to me with the news that Otis was coming back to the Midwest for a tour. NEH got to work and booked Otis and some other acts, and The Stickler scheduled a date with the Wesley Foundation. I got started on promotional work.

I’ll let Otis himself pick up the narrative for a bit. The following excerpts are from his April 6 notes to his Facebook page:

OK, well, here we are. Almost twenty years after the "incident" and apparently few lessons have been learned. But that's another Facebook fan page. And a very left turn from the story at hand.

You might want to check the Cover Me With Roses Vol. 1 notes found elsewhere on this page if you care to be a completist on this saga. Or is it an epic? Well, I will let history be the decider, as that seems to be the thing to do these days. I cannot more highly recommend that if you have not already, you immediately go to http://colicky.blogspot.com/ for the set up to this story. If you're reading this after the fact, this is episode three feeftee in the It's It's a Ballroom Blitz story. Ask Mr. Google to catch you up if your manual searching skills fail you.

But let me take you back to early April 1989 in Hobroken my Boken Hoken. In late August of 1988, I packed up and moved from Dekalb, IL out to New Jersey to sign a record deal with Barn One Records. I put a band together, found a job, started recording my debut album and learned to navigate city living. It was an exciting time.

So I can't remember who instigated the homecoming tour. Maybe I was doing the tour and then asked to perform a benefit for my Dekalb buddies' newspaper or maybe they asked me to come out and I built a tour around it. Either way, it was as much a vacation as a no budget rock and roll tour. I choose to reunite with some ILL. Chains (to use the abbreviation of the day) rather than bring my Jersey band out. I was also looking forward to seeing and playing with my Madison friends, Kissyfish.

My bass player Killer and guitarist Steve would be my band, but we needed a drummer. I could not have been happier when Kissyfish's drummer, Steve Laux, volunteered for that slot. Which meant he would be doing double duty on the shows.

Let us now praise Kissyfish. I met Kissyfish at Dekalb's Wesley Foundation when I was still living in Dekalb. I was immediately taken. I don't believe I was performing the first time I saw them. They drove down to Dekalb with their friends My Cousin Kenny (who will reappear in a future mp3/story post.) I fell head over heels for Kissyfish. I felt I had found a soulmate band. And I had.

Ryan Jerving, John Papageorge, Shalini Chaterjee and the aforementioned Steve Laux comprised Kissyfish. Exceptional songs, brilliant, genius stage performance and wonderful arrangements. A perfect pop band, in my opinion. I covered their song Thanksgiving on Cover Me With Roses Vol. 1 and there will be yet another KF cover on Vol. 2. Which I have not forgotten about.

So I drove the 16 hours from Hoboken to Madison, WI, where I hooked up with Killer, Steve and Steve to rehearse for our tour. We spent two days in the Leisure World basement going over the songs we would be playing. And in retrospect, I am astounded by the variation in the show set lists. We musta been working. It was the Cover Me With Roses tour. Or so I thought. Little did we know, the tour would be renamed in retrospect.

Needless to say, we at The Public Address System were stoked. The big Otis Ball & The Chains show must have already been planned at the time we cooked up the third issue of the paper, because Mr. Newspaper himself made some hay out of it in a parody of Chicago-based Marxist-Humanist organ "News and Letters" -- with which I'll leave you until next post.

POSTSCRIPT: Ah yeah, as mentioned in the "Booze & Sweaters" parody -- the Kissyfish show in Madison, April 6, 1989. Good times, indeed.

Again from Otis Ball's Facebook page:

Which brings us to April 6, 1989. The first date of the tour. Otis Ball & The Chains opening for Kissyfish at O'Cayz Corral in Madison, WI. I now present selected mp3s from said show.

Said mp3s available for download here, for your enjoyment, which you will, I promise, experience if you download and listen to them.

It's, It's a Ballroom Blitz: Part Three: The Wesley

2009-04-04T00:20:00.015-05:00

Before I get any further, I want to introduce some of the other characters in the story. So far, it's mainly been me, me, me, with some vague "we" business. Just to prove that "we" was not meant in the obnoxious royal sense, here's a breakdown of the three main personalities that formed the core staff of The Public Address System.

Mr. Newspaper -- Editor in Chief and Publisher. Mr. Newspaper -- notable for his ever-present cigar and newspaper hat -- started out as a purely fictional character, of the cartoon variety, a combination of Perry White, J. Jonah Jameson, and Lou Grant. Being both lefty egalitarians and cowards, none of us really wanted to admit being in charge, and there were no formal titles, just de facto roles. By the second issue, however, the role of Mr. Newspaper had been thrust upon a specific person. That person didn't choose to become Mr. Newspaper. It just happened. I'll give you a couple hints as to Mr. Newspaper's secret identity. Rumor has it that early in his brief tenure as a reporter for the official campus newspaper, he told an editor for that paper that she lacked two brain cells to rub together, or something of that nature, at which time it was mutually agreed upon that his brief tenure as a reporter with that publication had come to an end. He has also been known by a different alias in recent years, with the initials STDPM. Like Lou Grant, he hates spunk.

Mr. Newspaper, a self portrait

The Stickler -- Business Manager, Sales Director, and Layout Editor. I'd just as soon leave The Stickler out of the story, for personal reasons, but she was just too integral to the narrative to exclude. She almost certainly would have been happier not to have been involved in anything having to do with The Public Address System and any of these shenanigans at all, but since she lived with Mr. Newspaper at the time in a small apartment, and Mr. Newspaper was, allegedly, a "self-centered and manipulative" guy, she was, I think you could say, railroaded into the enterprise. She also did some photography and writing. All of which she was good at -- and she did newspaper layout work professionally for a while -- but eventually the allure of accountancy led her away from the world of ink-and-dead-tree media.

Kurt -- Art Director. Known to many in the Chicago karaoke scene these days as Kirby The Beekeeper, Kurt was the person most responsible for the look of the paper -- apart from its trademark cheapness resulting from its being made of typewritten strips of paper and rubber cement. Kurt did most of the front page graphics and collages, rendered various illustrations, and drew some cartoons, as well as obtaining cartoons from other artists on campus. Kurt's presence during layout sessions also helped Mr. Newspaper and The Stickler to refrain from killing one another. He also booked bands for fund-raisers and played in one of them -- which brings us, finally, to the rock and roll and money part of the story.

Yeah. Money. The main problem with money was, we didn't have any. And we needed some. It cost about $400 for a press run. That might not sound like a lot, but we were poor college students. We barely had enough spare cash for gin and LSD. And books. Right ... books.

So we turned to a time-honored tradition immortalized by Spanky MacFarland and his gang -- we put on a show. Several of them.

The venue for most of them was the basement at the Wesley Foundation, a Methodist Church on the edge of campus, which is a locale that deserves its own chronicler. And several people on the "DeKalb Rocks" Facebook group have put some effort into that. The basement at the Wesley Foundation, or "The Wesley," for short, was the site of a ton of great shows (sponsored by, most notably, Greg Dunlap and Dan Grzeca of THIS fanzine) in the late 1980s -- Snailboy, Jesus Lizard, Defoliants, Didjits, Smashing Pumpkins, to name a few.

None of our shows were as big as those, but unlike the promoters of those events, we were in it for the cash. The filthy lucre. The do-re-mi.

Ah ... The Wesley. How I miss it.

The Public Address System had a close relationship with the folks at the Wesley -- particularly, another key character in this story, whom we'll call Pastor Dave. Pastor Dave was a truly tolerant soul, with a wide open mind and a kind heart for left-leaning causes. Which, ostensibly, The Public Address System was. I still feel guilty about the way things turned out. But, once again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Even before the Public Address System was called the Public Address System (leaving open the possibility for "The Story of MUSH" for some future date, or not), Pastor Dave let us use the Wesley for meetings. As evidence of how close we were to the folks who ran the Wesley, we even had a key to the front door. Mr. Newspaper, The Stickler, Kurt, and others (No Eraser Head, Squeaky Zip, and others) spent many evenings with the run of the place ... arguing, laughing, plotting. The Wesley was our clubhouse.

All successful animals know, and some humans, you don't shit where you eat. But, once again ... ahead of myself. Sorry. I'll get back on track in a chronological narrative flow now.

OK, so we had a clubhouse. And that clubhouse was already a key venue for small rock shows in DeKalb, Illinois, USA in the late 1980s. So what happened next was natural.

We had a clubouse, the clubhouse had a basement. Other people were throwing rock shows in that basement. Kurt had a band. You can do the math.

I can't find documentation for the earliest Public Address System fundraiser shows, so I can't remember how many there were. But I do remember that Kurt's band, Flesh Merchant, headlined at least one, maybe two of them. And I know that we made enough money to publish the Collector's Edition First Issue of The Public Address Sytem. Hooray!

Let me tell you one thing about all the Wesley shows we did. I've never considered myself much of a money guy -- my mother calls me a "hippie" (because "my son doesn't care about money") -- but I was ruthless at these events. The Stickler handled the contacts with Pastor Dave et al., and other people generally booked the acts, but I worked the door, and I worked it hard. Nobody but nobody got in free. All the bands we booked were willing to play anywhere for no pay at all. And I allowed no guest lists. No girlfriends, no freebies at all. I made them cough it up. And I hugged that gate boodle jealously to my side until I made it back to my apartment.

Yeah, I was driven. Moreso than I ever had been or ever have been since. Gotta publish the paper. Gotta publish the paper. Total Captain Ahab OCD trip. This psychological detail is important to grok for understanding of what commences later.

Anyway, all the shows were, like everything associated with the whole Public Address System experience, massive amounts of work but insanely fun. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, the gratification quotient from those events was, along with the profit margin, very close to one hundred percent.

For most of the shows, I insisted that the bands play through their own amps, and it was a small enough room that it didn't seem to me to matter much. An exception was the following show -- which funded our second issue, and for which I do have graphical evidence -- January 27, 1989 (art by Kurt).

Here's where the rubber started to meet the road, and the road began winning some rounds.

Up to here, the shows we'd done (and I think we'd done three prior to this one, all told), things had been pretty easy. Kids would show up -- mostly high school kids, some undergrads -- and we'd take their couple few bucks, and they'd have a good time. Rock would rock. Everyone would leave, and we'd sweep up, leave things as clean as we found them. Take some money home for journalisming. Easy peasy.

Then things started to get a little bit dark.

Bwah hah hah.

But seriously. First of all was this: The Wesley's governing board was getting kind of uneasy about shows being held in their basement by a band named "Flesh Merchant," and plus there was some chatter about kids smuggling in ... gasp ... alcohol and cigarettes and mary ja wanna. No good. No good a tall. And then, what's this about an event comprisinating some outfit by the moniker of ... what's this? ... "Bludgeoned Nun"?

Well, we explained, Flesh Merchant was a commentary about the excesses of capitalism in the music business, you see, like, the way it forces you to compromise yourself for capital. Like, the music business is the flesh merchant, and the band is a commentary on that, right?

They bought that readily enough, but ... Bludgeoned Nun? Jesus H. Whuh?

OK, see. Yeah, I know it's inflammatory. It's harsh and rough. But that's the point, see. It's about US imperialism in El Salvador. Remeber those nuns that were killed by death squads? Right. It's a commentary on that.

Which I'm not sure they totally bought (hell, I'm still not sure I buy it), but they did seem to realize that were were against bludgeoning nuns. We were in agreement that bludgeoning nuns was a bad thing, and this show was not an attempt to contravene that precept.

And Pastor Dave, good old Pastor Dave, backed us up. Completely. He went to bat for us, and with Pastor Dave's sympathetic help, the show was allowed to go on. Unlike other shows, Kurt browbeat me into hiring the esteemed and incapable-of-overpraise sound magician Dr. Tulk (who will return later in this story) to do professional and totally kickass rock and roll fucking fuck sound with the booming noise and ear bleedery sound for the show, which cost us about $150 overhead, which just about gave me a fucking heart attack to agree to ... but we still cleared at least $350 profit, which was enough for a paper. Huzzah!

But, before that, we had to survive the show. Which wasn't easy.

Bludgeoned Nun was a hardcore band from Rockford. Very good. Rocked hard. Loved em. But they and their fans didn't give a shit for the platitudes we sold to the Wesley board to get them to OK the show. In fact, they did their damnedest to trash the joint. I personally had to stop several assholes from looting the chapel, and there was a pretty vicious fight in the parking lot that drew the cops and rescue squad, after a dude got a beer bottle smashed over his head.

It was hairier than any of us wanted, especially me, so we decided to tone things down for the next show. (In the meantime, we put out a paper, but yadda yadda, we're into the rock show stuff now, so never mind that.)

I don't recall exactly how the booking came about, but I think what happened was that a friend of the paper's, Jill, set us up with a Chicago punk band called I.D. Under, who played the next gig, along with supporting group Not Us. This show went much more smoothly, and was, from my perspective, the perfect show. The best Public Address System show ever. I.D. Under was a kickass group (I didn't even mind that The Stickler had a crush on the lead singer), they didn't demand any payment at all or an expensive sound system, and the kids were well-behaved and turned up in sufficient numbers to provide me with a happy gate net (almost 100% profit, yeah). We cleared plenty for the next issue of the newspaper. Yay! We were rolling now!

The only hint of negative dark foreboding and gloom, perhaps, is the gall we were beginning to show in our promotional efforts. As exemplified by the following poster for the March 3, 1989, I.D. Under show (art once again by Kurt), with which I will leave you until next time.

It's, It's a Ballroom Blitz: Part Two: The Public Address System

2009-03-31T18:58:00.009-05:00

This story, like any story involving disparate characters (and some desperate characters), could be told from a number of different points of view. But I'm telling it here, so I'm telling it from mine.

And from my point of view, it's a story about a short-lived alternative newspaper a few friends of mine and I perpetrated upon the campus and surrounding environs of Northern Illinois University in DeKalb between 1988 and 1990, called The Public Address System. We only managed to publish four issues of the PAS -- and this story is, in large part, the story of why our output was stifled ... but I don't want to get ahead of myself.

A little bit news, a little bit political commentary, a little bit post-"Realist" satire, and a little bit pre-"Onion" fake-news comedy, The Public Address System had a decidedly leftist bent, but we were more about having fun than anything else. I'd have to say we were more "bent" than "left," but a very positive "Factsheet Five" review gave us credit for returning humor to the otherwise then-humorless left-wing underground press scene, or words very close to that.

At the time, I was heavily influenced by Discordianism (I even corresponded with Kerry Thornley for a while, and published a couple of his things in the paper), and Eris knows the NIU community needed some good-natured chaos.

Bill Griffith let us run a few "Zippy" comics free of charge, and we ran a couple poems and comics by somewhat-known small-press artists of the day, but it was otherwise entirely home-grown. The real goal was to make our own fun at a place that had (and still has) a bad rap as a "suitcase school" where nothing much was going on.

The truth, of course, was that lots was going on at and around NIU. We had a small but vibrant music scene, many amazingly talented visual artists, and a political activist community that, for a time, outshone Madison's for sheer guts and energy.

The official campus paper (this was before it became the college home of famous "Daily Kos" blogger Markos Moulitsas Zuniga, who was editor in chief of that rag in 1995) was almost entirely indifferent to all of this -- when it wasn't blatantly disdainful. Which rubbed me exactly the wrong way -- not the smallest reason for which being that I was a journalism major and attended classes every day with these jerks, and I had lasted about three days as a reporter on that paper before cussing out an editor and stomping off (I used to do that sort of thing a lot back then).

Frustrated with living on a one-paper campus -- and a drab stick in the mud of a paper it was -- a few of us got together and ... skipping ahead through several chapters, false starts, bitter fights, and hard lessons (maybe to be detailed here someday later), The Public Address System was born.

This is the above-the-fold view of the "Special Collector's Edition First Issue," November/December 1988:

This was before the era of affordable computers, kids, and desktop publishing software itself was still new and prohibitively expensive. So our paper was a very, very low-budget and very, very labor-intensive product. Every single character of every single line of text and every headline was typed, by yours truly, on an electric typewriter. We dragged headlines to Kinko's and, after calculating the size we needed, blew the typewritten text up on photocopiers. We cut the text columns into strips and pasted them with rubber cement onto tabloid-size layout sheets purchased from the campus bookstore (where they were sold for newspaper layout classes).

It used to take a solid weekend of no sleep -- double all-nighters, yes, I shit you not -- to physically put together one eight-page issue, which we would then schlepp over to a plant in Naperville to be printed on good old-fashioned honest to goodness newsprint ... and then we'd load 5,000 fresh, hot copies into the car to lug back to DeKalb to dump at dawn in every major building on campus, as well as several student haunts around town.

It was a lot of work, but of course it was all more than worth it when people would tell me, "I love this!"

Over the paper's short life, we developed a few running jokes. The most successful was a parody of something that used to run in a local advertising rag, "The DeKalb Nite Weekly," called "Coed of the Week," featuring cheesecake photos of local wanna-be models (that publication's claim to fame: very early swimsuit pix of pre-famous supermodel Cindy Crawford) -- only our coeds were men. Generally tattooed, pierced, or otherwise ... uh ... nonconventional men.

Another running joke was falsely reporting the death of Gavin MacLeod. I think that was my fault. I'm not sure why I thought that was hilarious, but I did. In that jugular vein, here's a scan of the very beaten up but still extant original of a collage-cartoon we ran (by me) shortly after the death of Andy Warhol, titled "Love Boatmen on the River Styx":

But I digress.

As I was saying, it was hard work putting out an issue, but the positive reception we got was worth it. Of course, not all the reception was positive. Far from it. My fellow journalism students -- once I was outed -- were colder than cold about it. I think the word I took from them (and a few professors, too) was "shit." And the NIU administration was not terribly crazy about us at all. The bureaucrat in charge of the campus student center, in fact, ordered the janitors to throw out all the copies of the paper we tried to distribute there. So we just dumped more.

By and large, the feedback was good, though. And after someone said "I love this," they'd invariably ask, "When's the next issue coming out?"

To which I'd reply with a sigh and say, "As soon as we can."

In a perfect world, we'd have published monthly, or even more often. But it wasn't a perfect world. The problem was not with the amount of work involved -- the problem was money.

Which is what really drives this story.

And we'll get into that in the next part, later this week.

“To” is a preposition; “cancel” is a verb: It’s 1989, OK, all across the USA: It’s, It’s a Ballroom Blitz: Part One: Very funny, fellas, let’s go!

2009-03-27T21:59:00.001-05:00

In the annals of rock history, along with the magnificent success stories, there have been many spectacular disasters. Altamont. The Who in Cincinnati. Sly Stone.

And in the annals of the postwar American struggle for freedom of expression, there have been many casualties. Lenny Bruce. George Carlin. Larry Flynt. Terry Southern. Paul Krassner.

But there is only one event I know of that brutally combines rock and roll mayhem with blistering, inappropriate obscenity, and that is the event – or series of events – known to savvy historians as “The Ballroom Blitz of DeKalb 1989.”

Over the course of these following days and weeks will unfold, here and elsewhere, that story.

It’s a complicated story, with many players, and events and conflicts, and to those not directly involved, it might seem a little bit “inside” at times, but the major elements are more or less universal. Fun, sex, hate, strife, money, passion, work, play, immortality, tears, laughter, music, Jesus, hope, fear, youth, violence, art, rebellion, confusion – the whole human condition.

With the exception of, perhaps, death. Nobody died. Not literally, anyway. But I can give you injuries. Oh yes, there were injuries. (Cue the mysteriously foreshadowing Foley effect of various objects shattering over skulls, at various times, in various places.)

Next time around, we’ll set the stage. Introduce some of the characters and situations, get the ball really rolling. But for now, first, we need a theme song. So here that is. Let’s go!

Take This, Rick Steves: Travel Blog Report: This Wheel's on Fire: From D.C. to Newark in Three Beautiful, Appalling Hours

2009-03-20T19:39:00.007-05:00

So, last time around I promised exciting tales of foreign lands ... which I can't exactly deliver. But while I was gone from here I did spend a week in two damned strange places -- three and a half days each in Washington, D.C. and Jersey City, New Jersey.

Strange places, yes. Yet familiar, since I've made about half a dozen business trips to D.C. in the last decade, and I've visited J.C. what? a dozen or so times? in the same time span. Close to that number, anyway.

This was the first time I linked the two, though -- which was hella convenient and not at all expensive, thanks to the subsidized folks over by Amtrak, the passenger train people.

If Amtrak is short on money -- and of course it is -- I have a suggestion. Sponsor a reality TV show called "America's Most Fucking Squalid Views." All they'd have to do is stick a goddamn video camera in the window on the Amtrak route from Washington, D.C. to Newark, New Jersey. And let the shit tell the story.

Like some kind of twisted anti-Arlo Guthrie tour-de-feces, the Amtrak "Regional" leaves the truly pretty Union Station in D.C. (I'm not kidding -- it's a dazzling, cavernous, dramatic building) and winds northward through a litany of fucked-up eastern seaboard towns -- Baltimore, Wilmington, Philadelphia, Trenton. The train heads all the way up to Boston, but my destination was Newark's downtown Penn Station, exactly three hours from Washington.

"All aboard!" Everyone queues up ... sort of ... if a queue can be semicircular in shape. This is travel in some kind of hybrid casual-yet-efficient mode. They glance at your I.D., but there are no metal detectors. No TSA to be seen at all. And -- by Benito's ghost -- the damn train left on time.

About five minutes outside Our Nation's Crapital, the first thing that struck me was how quickly the landscape hicked the hell up. One second it was tagged bridges and brick walls. The next second ... it was like the outskirts of Peoria, or some hamlet named after a "Crik" in the Allegheny Mountains of central Pennsylvania. Rotting shacks and rusted pick-em-up trucks ... and lots of trees and empty spaces between what passed for dwellings.

I recall it staying pretty 'billy-pastoral until Baltimore ... happened. Oh man. I don't have the powers of hyperbole to capture it. Just take the trip. It won't cost you much. Totally worth the price of admission, provided you get to watch it from the relative comfort and safety of an Amtrak train.

Baltimore is the place where, apparently, every dilapidated, burnt out, busted, rat infested row house came to die. And before dying, to reproduce like Irish rabbits and cluster together alongside the railroad tracks, perhaps on the off chance that the train might derail and take them out of their misery.

After Baltimore, it's all gravy, really ... gravy studded with cigarette butts and used condoms and slicked with the grease of a million corpses' unwashed pubic deltas ... but there's about two and a half hours to go, and there's much more shittiness to come.

Actually, from Baltimore all the way to Newark, with a few rural interruptions and river bridges, it's pretty much more of the same. Graffiti tags, sickly Suessian row houses, and empty factory buildings. Broken glass, broken bricks. Decay.

Yeah, I know -- pretty things don't get built next to the train tracks. Not in recent history, anyway. I've traveled by train enough to know that that's the score. And I imagine that most railway journeys give you a good look at the seedy side of things. This particular route, I have to believe, offers one of the more densely concentrated visual obituaries for Modern Industrialism available.

For that reason, I recommend it. Not to mention that it's a pretty cheap, easy, and fairly quick way to hoist your carcass from D.C. to the NYC area, if you're so inclined. And apparently a fair number of people are, because the goddamn train was packed.

Sorry, but I don't have a solid finish to this one. So I'll embed up a vid ... which, even though it's not really thematically related very much, it's my goddamn blog.

Outage Report

2009-03-10T18:56:00.007-05:00

Don't bother checking for updates for about a week. I'll be out of posting range.

After that, bob's yer uncle. Gonna be updates from hyah to ... thyah. (In pseudo-mathematical terms: from hyah to (hyah + n).) Updates and updates. Posts and posts. Tales of distant shores and strange lands. And all that kinda stuff.

Until then, if you're looking for a website to kill some time on, check out English Russia -- "just because something cool happens daily on 1/6 of the Earth surface." It's definitely Russia ... and it's sort of English. Need enticement before you click on that hyperlink? OK, how else you gonna see the photos to go with this caption?

This dog is going for a walk with a car. Some people were joking that they have got out of fuel in Ukraine so now use dogs as a pull force for cars.

Or, even better:

Miss Russia contest, once again. Now the most fresh as of 2009.

And this post description, seemingly devoid of cognizance of the Yakov Smirnoffiness of it:

In Soviet times they had parties too.

OK, comrades. See you next week. Ish.

POSTSCRIPT: No, I'm not taking a trip to Soviet Russia. I'm told, though, that where I'm going, there be socialists, arrrgh. Which I don't believe is true (I wish it were) ... but apparently most people get through whatever public and/or parochial education they endure these days, without learning what the word "socialist" means. It does not, despite common (mis)usage in this manner, mean "of, characterized by, or having cooties." The proper word for that, as you know, is "Republican."

G'Dye, mate! Can o' grog! Bludger'll grab some billabong!

2009-03-06T11:57:00.004-06:00

The White Sox are playing Team Australia later this afternoon at the Cameltoe. I think streaming will be available online for free, but I'm more likely to be playing hooky outdoors, since it's one of the 20 nice weather days we get per annum in Chicago.

Anyway, it's all I can do to keep from filling this post full of wacky Aussie slang ... takes a fair dinkum amount of matilda-waltzing willpower to resist ... a veritable baby-eating dingo's supply ... must ... resist ... stupid Aussie ... slang ... resistance ... slipping ... shrimp on barbie ... shrimp on barbie ...

Krikey, I give.

G'Dye Jermaine, where's the Sheilas? The Foster's on ice and the Vegemite's on me!

So get a good pozzy, veg out, and strap it down under. It's a ripper day for baseball!

Hot Cactus Report: Space-sharing at Cameltoe: "Will you quit touching me?! Mommm!!! He keeps touching me!!!": Key-Party in the Broadcast Booth

2009-03-01T22:48:00.011-06:00

Well, all right.

If it's on TV, then it's real. Therefore, spring training is officially in existence.

Like most pre-season contests, today's game was pretty unremarkable qua baseball, but there are several things to note. For one, it was the first scrimmage between the Sox and the Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles since they started sharing the fancy-shmancy Cameltoe ... er ... Camelback Ranch spring training facility in Glendale, Arizona, and you have to imagine there was a touch of sibling rivalry, or something like that.

Who got the bottom bunk, I wonder? The Sox were the "visitors," so I guess they did. Wait ... which one is the worse bunk? Top or bottom? I forget. I guess it depends on whether your little brother wets the bed or not.

A.J.? We're lookin' at you. And don't try to say Toby Hall put your hand in a bowl of warm water. Toby's not with the club anymore.

Actually, I prefer to think of the White Sox and Dodgers as the Odd Couple ... two professional baseball clubs, sharing an apartment, driving each other crazy.

Which one's Oscar?

Come on. You shouldn't even have to ask that question.

Imagine, if you will, that some kind of crazy science fiction calamity happened -- like an asteroid collided with a wormhole and a super-string and a cosmic Slinky and caused a massive explosion that knocked Los Angeles and Chicago into outer space, and somehow glommed the cities onto the surface of a comet that barely could fit them both, and they had to share that inadequate space.

You know damn well which town would be Felix, and which would be Oscar.

It's not that L.A. isn't wild and crazy and all that. It certainly is. But it is in California -- a very, very uptight state. California has more rules, regulations, warning labels, and disclaimers than all other places on planet Earth combined, times a million.

Chicago, on the other hand, is a slob. Sure, it's repressed and touchy and Midwestern ... but mostly about the subject of being a slob. There are plenty of rules and fascistic bullshits ... all aimed at enforcing and maintaining the general slobbiness.

So ... anyway. There's that subtext. To Cameltoe Ranch, that is. Crispy-cleany, polished-teethy Dodgers versus ... the Chicago White Sox.

Nuff said?

Well, there is one other complication. They had to tell their landlord that they were gay, or else he wouldn't sign the lease. So ... that could be interesting.

Right.

Another new beginning that started to begin to take effect for the first time today was the broadcasting partner-swap between Hawk Harrelson on the TV side and Ed Farmer on the radio side. Yep, DJ Darrin Jackson has switched places with MC Steve Stone.

Here's a prediction. At some point in July, watch for the square dance caller to shout "Allemande left!," at which time DJ and Stone will do-si-do with Jimmy Piersall and the ghost of Anthony Perkins, and will promenade offstage long enough for Steve Dahl and Garry Meier to take places in either and/or both booths for 30-year-anniversary retrospectives on Disco Demolition. It's almost bankable.

But, for now, the new partnerings seemed adequate today. I don't have any worries about Stone on TV. And on radio, Farmer's already proven that he can handle working with a lummox. So ... no worries.

Really, worry more about shortstop. And third base. And center field. And leadoff.

And what about PECOTA? That Baseball Prospectus bastard fucker computer fucker bastard.

In 2008, PECOTA predicted that the Sox would finish in third. The Sox, in fact, as you recall, finished in first. This year, after much booping and beeping and flashing of lights, the slip of paper the computer spat out said, in no ambiguous terms, "Last place."

Last place. After Minnesota. After Cleveland. After Detroit. After Kansas City.

OK, so Detroit oughta rebound. Cleveland should contend. And Minnesota is always in there. But Kansas City?

Say it ain't so, robotic baseball nerd!

The good news is that I operate entirely on guesswork, and my record is about the same as PECOTA's. And my best guess is that the Sox will finish no worse than third place, and have a better chance of finishing on the very top than the very bottom.

Which could be worse. And look on the extra bright side -- every rule of probability says that the Cubs are going to have a sucktastical year this year. Lots of freak injuries, endless rounds of slapstick on the infield, controversy and acrimony in the clubhouse. Hell, this could be the year that the upper deck of Wrigley Field collapses during a nationally televised game. (Of course, I'd hope and pray that, miraculously, no deaths or serious injuries would result -- just sweet, sweet property damage.)

Yes. Much to look forward to.

Huzzah.

Only Saps Click on Rogue Facebook Apps

2009-02-28T11:55:00.003-06:00

Sorry for the lack of posting, all you readers out there ... all almost none of you. Been meaning to revive the blog -- for one thing, it's a refuge from the increasingly intrusive and, frankly, disturbing Facebook (and aside from the title and this parenthetical gripe, that's the only relation this post has to The Blob That Swallowed The Internet) -- but my excuse du jour is that I'm nursing a cold or some other form of yucky virus. And, uh, laziness.

Tomorrow is the first televised White Sox spring training game, if I recall correctly. So maybe I'll throw together a pre-season post, including some thoughts on the PECOTA software's dire predictions for the '09 season.

But for now, I'm gonna keep it simple and play another game of "Books the Cats Knocked Off the Shelves Last Night." Without further ado and in no particular order, here is a list of the books that the cats knocked off the shelves last night:

Ape and Essence - Aldous Huxley
Letting Go - Philip Roth
The Roar Devil - Kenneth Robeson
The Partridge Family #5: Terror by Night - Vic Crume
The Toynbee Convector - Ray Bradbury
Island - Aldous Huxley
The Assistant - Bernard Malamud
Incident at Exeter: UFOs Over America Now - John G. Fuller

I suspect the only one they were really after was the Partridge Family novel:

DOWNBEAT FOR DANGER!

The Partridge Family is all set for a great vacation.

But fun soon turns to fear when night comes to their lonely beach house on the New England coast.

Somebody or some thing is out to get them ... and when Keith tries to find out why, the rock stars' vacation becomes a nightmare ...

Eff yeah ... I bet you want to read it now.

Finally, this blog has something in common with Joe Biden -- Plugs!

2009-02-17T20:27:00.005-06:00

Well, a couple plugs for other people. Which Biden might have, too.

Pitchers and catchers have reported, which heralds a new season with the crew of the Palehose, as imagined and rendered by Carl Skanberg. There's also ordering info on the site for Carl's new book, Three Years on the Palehose. I already ordered mine, ~~so get going!~~ and now it is sold out. Better luck next printing, slowpokes.

Next, not to be outdone, Otis Ball has a Cafe Press store up and running. T-shirts and caps, you bet! Including new new new merch promoting YouTube phenoms Uncle Tiny Tim and Gilly. Woooooo!

Blogging? Nobody blogs anymore. These days, all the cool kids are over by the Book Face

2009-02-17T14:56:00.006-06:00

Yeah, I know it's dead here. In the meantime, here's a Chicago joke.

Man's sitting at a table in a Chicago restaurant. Calls over the waiter, sez, "Waiter, there's a fly in my soup."

Waiter bends over to look. Straightens up and sez, "I'm sorry, sir, but that fly is a real estate developer, and he's allowed to go wherever and do whatever he wants."

"But that's my dinner!"

Waiter leans over to look at the bowl again. "Well, it is a TIF district, sir."

"I'm paying good money for that soup!"

"Now, sir, you know you can't stop progress."

The argument continues for a while, until finally the waiter subpoenas all the man's friends and relatives, who convince the man to give up and go home.

All right, my friend. Now you laugh. Or my associate Rocco here maybe stops over by yer house for a little chat later on tonight. Maybe he brings his pal, Louisville Slugger.

OK, that's better.

Harry Subterranean Homesick Nilsson Blues

2009-02-12T22:31:00.001-06:00

More Luv for Lux

2009-02-10T20:53:00.001-06:00

Fine rendition by Gus and Fin of my favorite Cramps tune:

Boogie Stop Shuffle

2009-02-05T22:22:00.002-06:00

OK, so I didn't blog for a week, got kinda perturbed by cosmic vapors, thought about kicking it in entirely, but let's do non-that, let's just blog every crazy thought that creeps toward my skull bone, such as, as follows ... a fine rendition of a Charlie Mingus classic by Chadbourne and Zu, by the title of "Boogie Stop Shuffle." It enjoys me, and it might enjoy you as well.

Hot Rock n Roll Obits Stove Report

2009-02-05T21:24:00.001-06:00

Lux Interior of the Cramps has died.

Also passing this week, Chicago radio legend, Ed Schwartz. More to come on Ed soon.

Subterranean Governor's Mansion Blues

2009-01-29T19:34:00.010-06:00

Apologies to Zimmerman.

Patti's in the basement
Cursin' Cubs management
Blago's on the pavement
Runnin' the government
Blago in his track suit
Woke up, no joke
Takin' Blago to the poke
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
Fitz knows when
And you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man from Kankakee
In the big pen
Wants eleven packs of smokes
You only got ten

Blago comes fleet foot
Wig full of black soot
Talkin' that the heat put
Rahm into bed but
The phone's tapped anyway
Sam Adam says he can't say
Easter Bunny knocks in early May
Orders from Oba-may
Look out kid
Don't matter what you did
Jog on your tip toes
Don't go on talk shows
Better stay away from those
That wear support panty hose
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don't need the Skilling clan
To know which way the wind blows

Hair thick, clothes black
Tap Burris for your hack
Talk smack, Reid's flak
Democrats are sure to crack
Try hard, get barred
Get jailed, make bail
Quote some poets, you can't fail
Look out Trib
You're gonna get hit
But users, cheaters
Six-time losers
Hang around Springfield
Lawyers and their steno pool
Won't represent a big fool
Meanwhile the leaders
Privatized the parking meters

This thing's gold, won't fold
The fuck you say, no way, pay to play
You schmuck, get fucked
This teat is here to be sucked
Please me, please her, demand gifts
It's not stealing, not a grift
Six years in office
And they give you shitty short shrift
Look out, Quinn
You'll be the next one done in
No one'll light a candle
Good luck avoidin' scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
Pinched between the cheek and gum
Machine still works
Same old vandals turn the handles

Dirty Politics

2009-01-28T17:27:00.003-06:00

"Stimulus package." Think about that for a minute.

Heh heh heh.

And presidents. We've had two Bushes and two Johnsons. That's a good even number. When there are more johnsons around than bushes, trouble could erupt at any time.

Heh heh. "Erupt."

But I think the dirtiest president was Harding. Hard. Ding.

Heh. Heh heh.

Yeah, he's got a package for you. And it's already stimulused.

(This has been my throwawayiest blog post ever.)

Screw the hot stove -- spring's about to sproing; I can feel it

2009-01-21T19:08:00.009-06:00

After last week, this week's weather -- with sunny days in the 20s -- has felt like, well, warmth. Which puts me in the mood for ... you know what. And also too as well -- baseball.

I'm hype-averse (plus, hey, I had actual work to do), so I did not watch any of the inauguration festivities, but I caught wind of the massive "na na hey hey goodbye" chorus with which the crowd serenaded Ex-Commandante Bush. And I do proclaim that to be excellent. It will be good to have a Sox fan in the White House.

In that connection, I have a very small suggestion for President Obama, which I think will go a long way toward cementing the success of his first year in office. That suggestion is as follows: Issue a proclamation making the following the official song of the 2009 Chicago White Sox season. Yes, it's Finnish, but we've only just begun.

Eläkeläiset - Humpatkaa (Thunderstruck)

HISTORICAL FOOTNOTE:

In re: "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye," Wikipedia sez:

The song was transformed into a stadium anthem during the 1977 Major League Baseball season. Chicago White Sox organist Nancy Faust had played the song many times before when opposing pitchers were relieved or when the Sox had clearly won the game, but without much reaction from the Comiskey Park fans. During a critical series with the Kansas City Royals, however, the crowd began singing along with the tune, and a tradition was born.

My very first White Sox game attended in person by me was in 1977, versus the K.C. Royals. I don't have specific recollection as to whether that game was during the above-referenced critical series, but I do recall much joyous na-naaing and hey-heyying (not to mention good-byeing) taking place, and that commotion being one of my favorite things about the night.

"I am what you call a 'controversial figure.' People either hate me or they despise me."

2009-01-17T20:09:00.015-06:00

Quick pop quiz. Who said the above?

If you guessed Rod Blagojevich, you're wrong. But you're close.

The 40-somethings among us in the (peanut-free, allergies being what they are) gallery may remember a charming little man (probably best-known for his frequent appearances in the Retching '80s on Late Night With David Letterman) named Brother Theodore. To jump the gun just slightly, I happen to believe that Brother Theodore and Rod Blagojevich are one and the same ... or twin brothers. Well, there is a certain temporal dysplasia between them, so perhaps they are better described as dutch uncles and nephews (or nieces or cousins or shirt-tail relatives of some other taxonomic designation, I don't know what, exactly).

At any rate, they're both deranged fellows with crazy hair and a fine sense of fashion. Can you dispute the resemblance? For the sake of my thesis, here are two depictions of Brother Theodore as a young(ish) man:

To complete my argument, two recent photographs of Governor Theodore, er, Blagojevich:

I might have mixed them up. I ... I'm not sure. So ... look-alike-able. So ... indistinguishable.

Through all of Governor Blago's travails, all his Kiplingings, all his Roland Burrisings, his "I will fight, and fight, and fight and fight and fight, fight fight fight, fight fight fight, the Itchy and Scratchy show" self-defense vowingsings ... I keep seeing nothing and nobody but the ghost(s) of Brother Theodore ... the Ghost of Theodore Past, and the Ghost of Theodore Yet To Come.

Yes. Yet to come. The Governor may be down, but don't count him out. When he gets a little bit of what my old law-firm boss used to call "gray matter" on his poufy head, don't be surprised if you find Rod B. turning up on late-night talk shows and in dingy store-front theaters, acclaimed as a genius. Perhaps, even, THE genius of our time.

For a preview of that, watch these. Squint a little, and ignore the slight Germanic accent, and you may be able to imagine what low-rent TV will be like 25 or 30 years from now. (First a short one that captures the gist of my case, and then a longer one, enticingly titled "That Itchy Chick.")

BONUS BASEBALL-RELATED THEODORE:

Here's our man riffing on a little "Who's On First" action with Sammy Davis Junior (Billy Crystal) in an old HBO special (featuring Chris Guest, and with Eugene Levy doing very little.)

Mingus and Piper's Book Club

2009-01-16T12:08:00.002-06:00

At some point during the night or morning, the cats knocked a single paperback book from the bookcase next to their food dishes. I wonder if they're trying to tell me something.

That book: Will: The Autobiography of G. Gordon Liddy.

Meanwhile, in the Aleutian Islands ...

2009-01-14T19:06:00.005-06:00

My goodness, it's cold. It's so cold I can't even work up the gumption to swear. Let alone write -- or even think up -- a blog post. Forget it. I'm hiding under blankets until further notice.

ICONOGRAPHICAL POSTSCRIPT: I did manage to create this nifty fascistic personality-cult poster over at Paste Mag (even though they're getting crippling traffic & the site isn't working properly, so I had to make a screen capture to save it).

The moral of that story: STDPM DON'T TAKE NO GUFF FROM NO MACHINERY!!!

Hit Steve Gnaws?

2009-01-09T10:32:00.002-06:00

Sorry for the garbled title, but my ears are ringing from being overloaded with incessant and shrill news coverage of the Cubs' acquisition of Milton "Silly Name, Too Easy to Mock" Bradley.

I was going to say I didn't care about it, but I guess I am looking forward to the remote possibility that Bradley will get in another fight with a racist, moronic umpire. I respect the beauty and majesty of the game and all that jazz, but I do enjoy a good fight now and then. Especially if an ump is involved. We're not big fans of "The Man" here at CBRAT HQ -- where we don't care which way the flags are pointing in the outfield, daddy-o, because you don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows. Or something. Plus, since we're underground, wind is not really an available factor in our weather forecasts. But I digress.

Speaking of digressions, did you know that Milton Bradley and Parker Brothers are both brand names owned by Hasbro? And here I thought they were different companies. Huh. And Hasbro owns a Japanese subsidiary called Kosuke Fukudome, but the outlook is not particularly good for that line of toys. Market research shows that once Kosuke Fukudome board games are purchased -- at extremely high prices -- consumers tend to play with them once or twice and then put them away in a closet, toy box, cupboard, or even a dugout, where they are forgotten forever ... except when the monthly installments have to be paid. Plus, the translator takes up a seat on the plane that could be put to better use. Like, for storing Lou Piniella's booze. (That joke would work better if the Cubs were managed by Tony La Russa, but you play the ball as it lies, I guess.)

Meanwhile ... down at 35th and Shields, the sound of crickets. Which is no mean feat in January, when all the crickets are sleeping -- hibernating in their little caves, like the grizzly bears, mountain lions, and Ligues.

The top headline on the White Sox home page today is: "Sox rotation questions similar to 2008." Can you beat that for excitement? Yes, you can. Even if you are incredibly boring.

The story does contain an account of Don Cooper being questioned about a rumored possible not-gonna-happen-but-there's-nothing-else-to-talk-about trade of Gavin Floyd for Brian Roberts -- but that would be so much more entertaining on TV or radio. Because Don Cooper always cracks me up. And his thick NYC accent is a nice contrast from that of local sports radio hosts, such as, say, "jerk off" Mike North. In a written story, I have to imagine it, which is fun enough, but it usually leaves me wishing that sports writers could get away with phonetic spelling of dialogue.

Anyway, I would think that a Floyd-for-Roberts trade would raise totally different questions about the rotation from any that characterized the 2008 season. Such as -- "How exactly are the Sox going to replace Floyd in the starting rotation?" Because adding a hot leadoff hitter -- while a worthwhile thing to do, in itself -- doesn't exactly accomplish that task.

One (two-part) question about the Sox rotation from '08 that will go pleasingly unasked in '09 is, "Does anyone honestly expect me to believe that Jose Contreras was born in 1971? Don't they have the last two digits inverted?"

OK, that's enough Hut Stiff Noobs for now. Keep it warm, but keep it.

"Hot Stove" News: "Everybody Get Yer Hankies Cuz We Only Talk Wankees"

2009-01-06T18:50:00.009-06:00

So ... one thing has already happened this year. The newest bastard child of Bud Selig -- the MLB Network -- a whole channel about professional United States of American baseball, in case you hadn't guessed -- or noticed it, since it's way way way up in the five-digit channel numbers, right next to such powerhouses as "The Albanian Folk Dance Channel," "The Arts and Crafts by Mutes, for Mutes, Network (TAACBMFMN)," and "C-SPAN 2" -- has finally sprung into life on the cable television, over by there. If you call that living. I guess I could wait until the season starts before I start bitching about it, but why? I'm not waiting until Inauguration Day to bitch about Obama's rocket-powered Cannonball-Run-like "drift" to the right. And I see no reason to treat pre-baseball MLB-related television programming any differently.

Of course, their current pre-actual-baseball-season flagship programme is called "Hot Stove." I haven't gotten any cease and desist letters or any other forms of threat due to my mockery of the trademark, but maybe if I try real hard, I will.

Anyway, here's my impression of MLB Network's "Hot Stove" (cable) televisual showcase:

This just in! Derek Jeter had Chinese for lunch today! This just in! Hank Steinbrenner farted this morning and made his personal assistant take the blame! This just in! Joe Girardi was spotted at a Manhattan nightclub last night with a booger in his nose that he didn't seem to realize was visible, and nobody felt socially bold enough to tell him!

This just in! Yankees, Yankees, Yankees!

YankeesYankeesYankeesYankeesYankees!!!!!
YankeesYankeesYankeesYankeesYankees!!!!!
YankeesYankeesYankeesYankeesYankees!!!!!
(huff huff huff huff ... deep breath)
YankeesYankeesYankeesYankeesYankees!!!!!

Oh yeah, and something called "Red Sox" exist, too. Strange world we live in.

But, mostly ... YAANNNKEEEEEEEEES!!!

(Then the out-of-breath sports-dork host drops dead on the spot, and an old Arte Johnson looking dude in NYY pinstripes waddles onto the set and sweeps his body up. Credits. The end.)

The best thing about it is that it's re-run about six times a day, so -- in case you missed their in-depth coverage of every waking moment of every employee of the New York Fucking Yankees, and every inch traveled by every penny of every one of the uberkaboodleplex million dollars they will spend in 2009 -- you have plenty of chances to catch up.

CATCH UP ON THE HOT STOVE NEWS ABOUT THE NEW FUCKING YORK FUCKING YANKEES!!! EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR, PLUS AGAIN EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES, OVERLAPPING!!! FUCK YEAH!!!

In short: No sir, I don't like it.

Hey, who spilled bubbly on the Hot Stove News?

2008-12-31T16:42:00.002-06:00

One last post for 2008, but just a quickie, cuz I gotta take a post-work nap before heading over to a par-tay next door. But the Cubbies have been busy today, huh? Mark DeRosa traded to Cleveland for the standard "three guys nobody has heard of," where I guess he'll be joining good ole Kerry Wood (how we hate him). Aaron Miles picked up from the Cardinals to, I guess, fill DeRosa's (f)utility role. And it looks like Jason Marquis will be going to Colorado in exchange for Luis Vizcaino, which seems like a fairly even crap-pro-crappo deal to me.

OK. Here's wishing everyone a cup o' kindness and all that. Happy New Year to you and yours.

Year Out, Year In -- Auld Blog Syne

2008-12-31T13:52:00.002-06:00

Here's my wrap-up on 2008:

Sucked.

Here's my forecast for 2009:

Gonna suck even worser.

Late Letter to Santa Claus

2008-12-23T18:20:00.002-06:00

Well, since the temperature surged up into the 20s today, I organized a sortie outdoors to see how entombed my car was within a plow-induced igloo of frost. And the answer is lots. Lots entombed.

I took a snow shovel to the icy gift-wrapping surrounding my mighty 4-cylinder Japanese sleigh, and the shovel bounced off the rock-hard snow-mass twangily, and I tried again, several times, and then I started to sweat and exhibit signs of an impending heart attack, so I went back inside.

So I might be spending at least Christmas Eve, if not Christmas Day as well, here, in the apartment, with the kitty cats. Which I won't mind. Although the food situation here is not as good as it will be at the folks' house. I won't starve, but I'll be bored. Maybe I'll be able to move the car later on in the week, or over the weekend.

And maybe not. I'm just about fucking disgusted with the futility of owning a car in winter in this town.

But then if there's anything I'm overly excellent at, it's being fucking disgusted. At everything. All the time.

I'm not just colicky. I'm super duper extreme colicky. And even I find me irritating.

Anothing thing about me that I'm irritated by is, why do I waste so much time reading so many liberal blogs? Especially ones that spend most of their time and space bitching about whatever insane shit the asshole conservative blogs are yapping about?

I mean, I've done a great job of avoiding the pajamas people, whoever they are, and the little green footballs, and even the National Review Online. I've never even seen Ann Coulter on TV once, but every time she spews a vile turd of right-wing outrageousness, I end up reading all about it online. Feh and fooey.

I don't want to know. I know those people are nuts -- I have heard every single tired argument and slur spewed by ultra-conservatives, and they haven't changed in 20 years. Yes yes yes, poor people, unions, and minorities are responsible for every single problem in America, not to mention teh gheys.

Doesn't (what passes for) The Left have anything better to do than exchange endless fusillades with their counterparts on the alleged other side of the continuum?

Somebody must find it really fun to fire up The Tubes and find out what creepy, disgusting nonsense so-and-so has cooked up this morning, I dunno. But I don't.

So why do I keep visiting these (purportedly) lefty blogs?

Because I am an idiot.

Please, Santa, if you're reading this -- I've been a pretty good boy this year. I drank too much too often, and I engaged in lots and lots of sloth. But, really, my list of middle-aged sins for 2008 is rather boring. Which, in my opinion, counts as good.

So, Santa, can you bring me some sense this year? Can you drop me off a little sanity?

If so, I just wanted to let you know that I might be stuck here at CBRAT Central on Christmas morning, so if you can swing by in your magic flying chariot and check, I'd appreciate it vastly.

Thanking you in advance, Santa.

Love,

Stronger Than Dirt

Chestnuts suck, who don't think so?

2008-12-21T22:44:00.008-06:00

Friend of the blog, Foojang, over by Portland, Oregon, writes as follows, and I respond as follows that, and that's what this post is, and it's too fucking cold for me to type anymore. Cheers.

Whelp, the weather has been mizherable here for over a week now,

Me and you both, Sahib. Today the warmest it got was -3. Fahrenheit.

I thought I had my xmas shopping done, but I realized tonight that I bought the same damn stuffed moose from the Swedish museum for the same damn person last year. So now I have to account for that error. I think I can juggle the "who gets what" and make it work. If not, I have to shop more, and .... fuck, I hate that.

Plus, it's supposed to snow like a fuckass on xmas eve, and I don't want to miss Italian beef sammitches for lunch that my mom is serving for the annual hectic mayhem thing with the deranged relatives.

My cousin _____ will be visiting on leave from Iraq, where he has been volunteering to go along on bomb defusing missions for extra money. So ... that's Sanity Claus for you, ho ho ho.

My sister's boyfriend _____ might sit it all out, because he's pouting. His _____ is in jail, and his _____ is a nut, and _____ is pouting because my sister's family is "perfect." Yeahhhhhh. The Mosses. Of Gurnee, Illinois. Perfect. I wasn't aware of that definition of the term. But anyway, _____ is having a major snit of self-pity, giving my sister the business about "You never had to live on wheels!" etc.

This is how the world ends. It's ending now. It fucking better be.

Don't Touch That Stove; That Stove Is Hot -- Another Cubs Report

2008-12-16T23:01:00.003-06:00

While everyone is exercising themselves over the transformation of Wrigley Field to hockey rink containing facility, Jim Hendry's Cubbies have signed speedy fast-ster Joey Gathright to a one-year, $800,000 deal. That pooping sound you hear is coming from Reed Johnson's pants.

And that's about as exciting as I can make that non-story.

Meanwhile, reporters report that the Chicago Hockey Blackhawks have the top attendance record this season in the National Irrelevant They Still Play Hockey? Professionally? League, improving from 29th out of 30 last season. Just goes to show what can happen when an unpopular owner goes the way of all flesh. Or what can happen when there's no place to go but up.

Hockey. I still have contusions and peculiarly warped limbs from my efforts to play at that game during my stupider, teenage years. And I still have the skates. I'm sure they still fit, although I haven't strapped them on in over a decade, and all signs point to that record remaining unbroken forever.

Stove is hot. Clear down range. Ken Williams? Your move. Been a long time since any White Sox news happened. And Darrin Jackson moving over to radio -- completing a media swap with Steve Stone -- doesn't count.

"We are confident Ed Farmer and Darrin Jackson will partner to provide White Sox fans a solid broadcast experience," said Mitch Rosen, WSCR 670 AM program director.

A solid broadcast experience. Very well. For a medium consisting of intangible waves, that's something. Not sure what. But something.

Maybe he just means the tower will fall on us. That would be solid.

Stay tuned. The gas bill is paid up, the knobs have been taken off this sucker, and all burners are blue jets of awesome off-season baseball fascination.

Cue the theme song.

Hot stove news! Hot stove news! Hot! Stove! News!

'Tis STILL the season?!? Oh, Jaysus, what'd I do to deserve this?!?

2008-12-12T20:32:00.003-06:00

As per allusions I've made over on another blog (no further hints here, Google stalkers), I like the Pogues and I like Kirsty MacColl.

Meanwhile, despite honest efforts to the contrary, I hate Christmas. But, still, here below is a confluence of the thrixt of em. Which turns out pretty nice on balance, even I have to admit.

By the way, did you know that if you add enough alcohol to a Swede you produce an Irishman? I think it's true, anyway. Apropos of nothing. Add more alcohol, and you just get a drunker Mick. Sorry. I don't control physics.

Well, I don't.

Anyway. The below-embeddenated number, "Fairy Tale of New York," is a favorite of mine, Christmas or no. In terms of "Christmas = yes," it is way, way up there. It's in my top three favorite Christmas songs, probably. I've never listed them, but I figure it's worth that grade.

There is also some personal history that goes with the song, but I'll not convert that to narrative for you at this time, but will save it for later. Amen.

One last thing, though. Next week, the 18th, will mark the eighth anniversary of the tragic death of Kirsty MacColl, who we'd all be better off having around now, if we'd have been so lucky.

Cubs Report: The Stove Is Cold, the Oven Is Slack. Peavy's Not Comin', and Cotts'll Be Back

2008-12-12T19:26:00.004-06:00

Well, the whole report is pretty much in the title. No sense gilding the lily, as they say.

But the fact remains, it is deep, dark meteorological winter (if not astronomical same), and baseball, baseball is what I miss.

The other sports don't do it. I'm not against football, basketball, hockey, or mixed martial arts, but ... they don't do it. For one thing, you can't find a song about football like this one:

Harpo Marx - Take Me Out to the Ball Game

POSTSCRIPT: Yeah, I know I said no more YouTubes never, but ... one can't hurt. And rules were made to be broken. Especially the rules I make.

Omigod omigod omigod ... I hope it's ... YES!!! Blago arrested!!! Thank you, Santa!!!

2008-12-09T16:52:00.003-06:00

I don't want to let the Funnest News Day Ever® go by without a post, but I'm too damn excited (I feel like a kid on Christmas morning) to sort out my thoughts coherently ... so I'll just re-purpose an email from me to my mom, who prompted me thusly earlier this afternoon:

> Your dad wants to know your reaction.

Well, I knew they were building a big case against him, but I'm surprised like everyone else about the extent of it, and the complete audacity of trying to blatantly sell the Senate seat.

The FBI's chief investigator on the case said that "even the most cynical agents were shocked," and I'm with them.

I took the day off, and I've been having fun watching all the coverage. I'm trying to guess who the pseudonyms in the complaint are -- Candidate 1 seems to be Valerie Jarrett. Candidate 6 is probably one of the Pritzkers. Speculation about Candidate 5 -- the one who allegedly offered half a million for the seat -- is that it's either Jesse Jr. or Emil Jones. My guess is Jones.

Another thing -- those Blagojeviches sure have filthy mouths. Every word word is "fuck." As in, "fuck him [Obama]," "fuck the Tribune and their Cubs deal," etc.

So far, Obama seems to have stayed out of the Senate appointment scandal, but there's a bunch of "pay-to-play" stuff in the complaint involving Tony Rezko. Now that Blagojevich is a caged animal, I would expect he will be looking to cut a deal and cough up whatever he has on Obama, if anything.

I really like the U.S. Attorney, Fitzgerald. He seems like a stand-up guy. I hope he has a chance to get Daley.

One more thing -- I'm almost certain that Rahm Emanuel is wrapped up in this somehow, but I'm not sure if he "dropped a dime" and tipped off the feds (Rahm seems to be "President Elect's Advisor A" in the complaint), or if he was the go-between on one of the proposed deals.

My personal guess right now is that he cooperated with the investigation. Blagojevich has very few friends, and I think Rahm was not happy that he was trying to push the Obama camp around.

Obama is already showing that he doesn't feel beholden to anyone he doesn't need anymore -- he had already pretty much turned his back on his former mentor, Emil Jones, because Jones is too much of a hot potato to have around -- too controversial and transparently sleazy.

Whatever anyone thinks about Obama, he has some remarkable skill at maneuvering in the Democratic Party. Five years ago, he was basically a nobody. The first time I heard of him was at a New Year's Eve party at the end of 2003. So I think he's got a lot of political smarts -- which is why I think he'd have Rahm help deep-six Blagojevich.

And that's also one reason why I think Candidate 5 is Emil Jones -- because the complaint says Obama didn't want Candidate 5, and Obama had made it known that he didn't want Jones in the job.

Obama wanted Valerie Jarrett -- Candidate 1 -- who seems to have withdrawn her name from consideration after it became clear that favors and/or money to the governor would be required.

It's all like a big mystery novel -- the biggest dream come true for politics junkies since Watergate. And I was too young to know what was going on back then.

OK, email over.

There are also strong arguments, based on the time-line, that Candidate 5 is Jesse Jackson Jr. And also a case to be made that Rahm Emanuel discussed a bribe arrangement with Blagojevich involving the setup of a 501(c)4 lobbying organization (backed by Warren Buffett and Bill Gates) in exchange for Rahm's influence in selecting an interim replacement in the Illinois 5th Congressional District until a special election could be held. And ... probably many other bizarre and twisted cases.

Should keep us busy for a while.

Stronger Than Dirt’s Coping Strategies for 2009: Your Guide to Surviving the End of Life as We Know It: Part One

2008-12-06T20:48:00.007-06:00

Now that it’s become abundantly clear that we are either in a full-blown economic depression or about to be in one, I thought I’d throw together a few tips for living (reasonably) decently while mired in a state of poverty. I’ve had some experience with that, and I’ve taken plenty of notes. I’m neither rich nor poor at the moment, but I have always lived well within my means, as a matter of compulsion ... and because I knew this train wreck was coming.

And it is coming. Do I look like I’m kidding? OK, don’t answer that.

I’m not kidding. I mean, I’m trying to be funny, but I’m dead serious. So, in an effort to give back a little bit to the online community that has given me so, so much, here are the first three items in what I foresee as a continuing series. Although, if I get a lot of hits for these -- as I believe I should -- I might have to start charging for future installments. Because even poor-living gurus have got to get paid.

And here they are. The advices you’ve been waiting for.

STDPM’s First Three Preparedness Tips for the Imminent Catastrophe Threatening Your Doomed Asses and Your Doomed Asses’ Portfolios

1. Do your homework. Read (or re-read) some John Steinbeck novels. Or even watch the movie adaptations. I suggest Grapes of Wrath and Of Mice and Men to start. They will generally orient you to the new bleak economic landscape and will help you grasp the awful reality of massive unemployment and the violent crackdowns that are sure to follow. Of course, in 2009, those crackdowns will be conducted by Blackwater mercenaries -- in severe cases, by the U.S. Army itself -- and resistance will be totally futile. Still, Steinbeck will prepare you for the abject helplessness, worthlessness, and despair that will dominate the zeitgeist next year, and probably indefinitely.

2. Get to know our friend, the cabbage. Cabbage is cheap and nutritious, and it keeps well. We’re going to be eating a lot of it in the coming months and years. It can be used in a wide variety of dishes, from salads to soups to side dishes to entrees. (I don’t know of any cabbage desserts off-hand, but ingenuity does tend to flower in hard times, so I could end up contributing a few to our national collective cookbook before we reach the other end of this fudgy tunnel.) You say you don’t like cabbage? Too fucking bad. The near future will be no time for picky eaters. Unless you are comfortable with starvation.

3. Make peace with your mom and dad. Or your inlaws, or your sons and daughters, depending on age and circumstance. Because many of us are going to be spending a lot more time with our ... ugh ... families after the shit hits what it's aimed at. Kids (even those of us in our early 40s) will be moving back in with the folks, or the folks will be moving in with the kids. This is really just a reversion to the way we used to live in this country as recently as a few generations ago -- actually, the way many people already do live. I made the mistake of generalizing. I’m talking about primarily white, middle-class, etc. etc. ... well, you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s a good news-bad news situation. The good news: Extended families will be back, along with all the mental health benefits that seem to accompany that arrangement. The bad news: Extended families will be back, along with all the mental illness that seems to accompany that arrangement.

Meta: Now With Extra Twittiness

2008-12-06T14:40:00.004-06:00

Because we at CBRAT World HQ® are nothing if not way into last year's online fads, we've added "Twitter Updates" to the sidebar (below the "Previous Posts" and above the "Archives" listing). You can also click the link to get twitty with STD Pete Moss, should you so desire.

Dahl downsized ... and not by Seattle Sutton

2008-12-05T16:50:00.008-06:00

During my early adolescent years (right now being my "late, protracted, seemingly never gonna end" adolescence), which I'd peg roughly as 1979 through 1986 or so, I was an insane Coho-lipped follower of Chicago radio's El Jefe scumbag worm-meat idiot, Steve Dahl.

And aside from a few law-school-and-afterwards years in Champaign-Urbana when I couldn't pick up the signal (part of that time was the era of the amplitude modulation "Loop" on AM 1000 -- complete with Ed Schwartz overnights -- when I could tune it in, kind of weakly -- but when he was on FM, no way), I kept listening. There have been ups and downs (notable down: the ESPN 1000 phase, with Bruce Wolf, which was mostly a down because I was practicing law in Ottawa, Illinois, newly married, totally miserable, and catching only about 10 minutes of the show a day on the way to the second worst job I've ever had), but being generally nostalgic, I stuck with him. Sided with Dahl when Meier quit, bounced from station to station and time slot to time slot.

I lost a lot of enthusiasm during the moribund "Dave and Joy" years, but I thought the show picked up a lot of steam when Buzz Kilman took their place ... because Buzz Kilman is my personal hero. Guru, really. But I digress.

I've had problems with some of the twists and turns ... I was bummed when Wendy Snyder was fired, even though I got a ridiculous number of hits from blogging about it ... and I was never particularly interested in all the TV gadget coverage in latter years. But, by and large, some 20-plus years of listening ~~was~~ has been worth it. [Edit made because, dammit, he's not dead; just enduring another interruption in transmission.]

For one thing, Dahl is responsible for my cultivating interest in a bunch of fine songwriters, whose work I was aware of, but who I'd never have gotten to know as people so well without Dahl's show. Such as Harry Nilsson, Jimmy Webb, Brian Wilson, and Jim Peterik. Not to mention Joe Walsh.

Same thing with comedians -- Andy Kaufman and John Belushi were frequent guests on Dahl's show ... and Dahl's show was where I first heard about Belushi's death. His interview with Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas during their promotional tour for the "Bob and Doug" movie fit in perfectly with my SCTV fixation at the time.

Lately I've been more or less a casual listener, but in those "early adolescent" years, I was pretty well obsessed. I used to listen to the Steve & Garry show every day after school, from the moment I got home until sign-off at 7:00. I taped hours of the show on my crappy K-Mart tape machine, and listened to the tapes over and over. Celebrity Jeopardy (Ozzy Osbourne ... Marcus Palmer's "Omar Sadat" crack-up). Blues News. "Ayatollah" (and "We have no Chicken Kentucky!"). "Skylab." "Falklands."

In those WLS-FM (94.7) days, Steve & Garry were controversial for their irreverent, sometimes taste-questionable take on news events -- but, for me, the show was the first place I turned for much needed "coping through laughter" therapy when world tragedy struck. When the space shuttle blew up in 1986, Dahl was off the air at the time, between gigs, and I missed him.

When I say I was obsessed, I mean I was obsessed. When he and Garry did a remote broadcast from the "Snowshoe Saloon" at Six Flags Great America, I had a season pass to the park (just a couple miles down the road from my house), so I hung out and watched them do the entire show, like a miniature stalker. Still have my high school ID with Dahl's autograph on the back from that day.

I used to try to phone in a lot, but I could never get through. The show was hella popular then. It took effort. But I succeeded one time, on a Saturday -- Steve and Garry were still doing six days a week then -- when I was about 14. When I heard Dahl's voice on the other end, I felt a shock of realization that I didn't actually have anything to say, so I dived into my standard repertoire: bitching and moaning.

Me: Your station is so boring! I used to be an insomniac before I tuned in! You play the same songs over and over!

Dahl: Oh yeah? Well, we know something you don't--

Me: [interrupting] I'm surprised!

Dahl: You're a little smartass! Anyone ever tell you that? Now, just listen!

Me: OK.

Dahl: The reason we play those songs over and over is because the polar ice caps are expanding, and we're about to have another ice age. We're going to be buried under glaciers! Then there won't be any entertainment. Everything's going to be destroyed. The only thing to do for entertainment will be to sing songs ourselves. So we're doing you a service.

Me: [vague and twerpy protesting and scoffing]

Dahl (or Meier, I forget): OK, well, let's test you. Can you sing the Go-Gos, "Our Lips Are Sealed"?

Me: Yeah!

And I gave it a shot. I crooned most of the first verse before I screwed up. "See!" Dahl said. "You're not prepared yet!" And then they played the Go-Gos record. And after that, David Bowie & Queen's song, "Under Pressure," which Meier intro'd as "Under Glacier."

I have that on tape somewhere ... with a couple backup dubs, so I expect it still exists. Maybe I'll digitize it and find a way to post it ... if I can stand the embarrassment of my voice, which hadn't quite changed yet into the manly baritone it is today.

I played the tape later that evening for my mom, who still proudly tells people that "Steve Dahl called my son a smartass!"

Which is as good a punchline as any with which to wrap this up. Cuz CBS canned Dahl, and his last show was today. Heard it on the car radio on the way to the office this morning. He has a couple years left under contract, so he could be off the air for a while, but I know he'll be around in one medium or another, and I expect he'll be on the air again someday. Until then, thanks, Stever. Thanks muchly.

White Hot Sox Stove Report: The "Plus, He Can Throw Out Base-Stealers While Drinking a Glass of Water" Edition

2008-12-04T17:29:00.010-06:00

Sox GM (the non-bankrupt kind) Ken Williams on catcher Tyler Flowers, who was just acquired in the "Javy Vazquez & Boone Logan to the Braves for four young guys nobody has ever heard of, plus an enormous feeling of relief that Javy and Boone are not pitching for the Sox anymore" trade that just happened:

"I've seen him now for seven or eight times in the Arizona Fall League. I think this guy is going to be an All-Star catcher."

Well, I'll give Williams credit for, as Joe Morgan would put it, "concetrating" on the relevant details.

Because all I can think of when I see the name Tyler Flowers is that both his names are the last names of has-been celebrity ventriloquists -- Willie Tyler (of Willie Tyler and Lester fame) and Wayland Flowers (the human -- and, alas, dead -- half of Wayland Flowers and Madam).

Totally distracting. And the creepiest Sox-and-ventriloquist connection since this.

BONUS BROILER:

Some of you ("you" meaning, in this case, literally, "people who are not me") may have heard of also-included-in-this-tradester, Brent Lillibridge, who has had some major league experience ... I guess.

Anyway, Tribune say:

Williams said that Brent Lillibridge will serve in a super-utility role that Pablo Ozuna performed for 3 1/2 years, but that Lillibridge had a bigger upside.

Uh, I think they left an "f" off of that compound adjective describing what Ozuna did.

Actually, I always liked Ozuna (much like Tessio always liked Mike Corleone), but business is business, so I couldn't let that easy joke go by.

Also ... heh heh, he said "bigger upside." Heh heh. Heh heh heh.

That one writes itself.

Today I am thankful for the elastic waistband

2008-11-29T20:19:00.004-06:00

Oh ... my ... God ... I am fat and old.

Here I am, lounging around on a Saturday night, watching Peanuts movies on the Family Channel, and I had to change into my sweat pants because I've been overeating for a week.

Burrrrrp. Oh yeah ... that's better.

I got an early jump on Thanksgiving last weekend, cooking up such fare for Moss, myself, and I as roast chicken, mashed potatoes with horseradish and sour cream, Polish cabbage and egg noodles with more sour cream, shepherd's pie, a few ham and fried egg and swiss cheese sandwiches ... and then Thursday happened, with the shrimp cocktail, creamed pickled herring, and sardines and crackers before dinner (us Swedes ... that's how we roll -- obscenely piscinely) ... along with chips, dips, chips, salsa, and the occasional radish, scallion, baby carrot, and cherry tomato ... and then the standard turkey dinner with stuffing, gravy, potatoes, gravy, succotash, broccoli in cheese sauce, rolls and butter, candied yams, and cranberry sauce ... and thennn ... pumpkin pie and red velvet cake for dessert. Not to mention the beer and wine. Lots of beer and wine, all week long.

Don't look at me. I'm ... hideous. Grotesque.

OK, enough of that. I still have leftover turkey and potatoes and gravy to dispatch. Plus one last wedge of pie. And maybe I'll roast some broccoli to assuage the conscience. Or brussels sprouts. I have a bag of fresh brussels sprouts I haven't dented yet. Anyway, we're on a schedule here! No crumb must go uneaten this weekend! And no alcoholic beverage shall escape the filtering labors of my liver!

Yeah. So I crated up the cats and headed up north to the far far far north burbs for Thanksgiving, which was pretty calm and peaceful, and gluttonous. Well, not so peaceful for the cats, who were still sleeping off the excitement today. Mingus had spent a couple weeks up there recently, while Piper was convalescing, so he was right at home. "Hey! I know this place! Toys! Food! Attention! Goofy old fat white cat to chase! Yayyy!" Piper was more timid and 'fraidy. She spent most of the time hiding behind the couch, only venturing out to eat up the last of the summer catnip and dig up some houseplants.

But family harmony prevailed this year. For one thing, my dad and I discovered we share a rare political commonality, in that we both aren't crazy about Obama. For different reasons, of course, and to different degrees. My dad, being a right-winger, can't stand him. I, being lefty to the core, am merely unhappy with the rightward lurch he's taken since ... well ... since his Senate term started in 2005. And I suppose dad has more reason to be disgruntled than I do. He thinks his world has been turned upside down. Whereas I ... don't. Both divergent sides of that viewpoint coin being the nut of our respective discontents. But you take your commonality where you can find it. It beats the yelly "America: love it or leave it" lecture I used to routinely get as an argumentative youngster.

Ah, memories. And speaking of which, Family Channel showed "A Boy Named Charlie Brown" tonight, which I haven't seen since I don't remember when. But I remember the first time I saw it, which was sometime in 1970, at the no-longer-extant Waukegan Drive-In. It was the first movie my parents took me to see. Not a bad start.

CBRAT Meta Post: Now With Less Stuff Up Front

2008-11-26T12:09:00.005-06:00

Firefox 3 continues to be the shittiest browser I've ever used ... and I continue to keep using it, because I like AdBlock Plus, mainly. And I refuse to touch IE. And too many pages won't load correctly in Opera. And Google has enough of my goddamn personal info without me using Chrome.

Anyway, Firefox 3 and embedded YouTube videos do not play together nice at all, at least on this computer, and I have gotten dead sick of waiting 15 minutes for the page to load every time I want to look at the blog. Seriously, every time I proofread a post, and every time I need to insert a fricking missing comma or misspelled word, I have to deal with this fucking browser locking up, and sometimes freezing completely.

So. First of all, I've limited the number of posts displaying on the front page to seven. It's archived weekly, so it should be easier to load bits of the archive, if for some reason you need to catch up on older ones.

Second ... I know this is going to break zillions of hearts out there ... no more YouTubes. They just work way too much like shit. And I have to put up with too much shit in other aspects of life to be willing to put up with it in a toy blog. I'll leave in the ones already embedded, but I have embedded my last YouTube vid here. Ever. From now on, if I really fucking want somebody to check out a vid, I'll paste in the url. But for the most part, this cocksucker is going to be limited to words, and the occasional still foto.

So ... welcome to the brave new audiovisual-less world, CBRAT-wise.

OK, that's all. See you on the other end of tomorrow's gluttony.

Cheers.

Getting a jump on trying not to hate Christmas this year

2008-11-24T21:21:00.004-06:00

As dedicated CBRATsters know, I have issues with Xmas. Big, hairy ones. Big, scary ones. We won't get into the reasons right now, but I will say that it's a wet paper bag I'm always trying to fight my way out of, because I used to enjoy the season.

And the season it is, with the sparkly lights all over Clark Street in Andersonville and the shop displays fulla tinsel and GLBT/Communist-friendly, secularly flashy displays of all sorts. So ... for the nth year running, here goes ...

Let's go back to the early '80s ... probably 1982 or 1983.* That year, we traveled east to Pennsylvania to spend the holiday with relatives, which I don't think we did any year before or after. We stayed at my aunt Carolyn and uncle Clair's house, which was full of humanity, since they had five kids ... which ... arithmetic, arithmetic ... added up to 11 people in one house. Plus half a dozen or more other relatives visiting at practically any hour of the day or night. This was a strange world. I grew up in a cold, antiseptic, WASPish nuclear family environment, with tons of personal space and tons of distance between kin.

So this was not what I was used to.

But my dim memories of that Christmas are mostly pleasant, mainly because of one evening in that house, a few days into the trip, when we had all seemed to settle into the rhythm of the dynamic. Everybody milling about, doing their own thing. Very raucous, but somehow relaxed at the same time. It was one of the few "big family" moments I've ever enjoyed.

My favorite thing about that night was the hour or so I spent with my mom at the kitchen table, taking a cartooning lesson from her. I was always too clumsy and too easily frustrated to get much from her drawing lessons (I'm a fair doodler and that's about it), but I enjoyed the experience.

We were working on caricatures, and I said, "Draw David Bowie!" And damned if she didn't do an excellent job, a properly spacey profile from around the "Diamond Dogs" era. Without any reference -- from memory. That was impressive. I wish I had saved that drawing.

The other thing that I remember fondly about that same evening is pissing my uncle Dave off with my Dungeons and Dragons dice, which I'd actually dragged all the way out there. Dave is ... well, Dave is the black sheep uncle in my family, although he hadn't yet been fully ostracized at that time. Dave has had some longstanding drinking problems, and spawning random children across the hills and vales problems, too. Anyway, for some reason, I was showing my D&D dice to Dave, and he was particularly pissed off by the four-sided die. As in, the whole four-sided die concept.

"You can't roll that!" You have to imagine a thick, Allegheny Mountains accent, if you can. "How can you even roll that?!"

I tried to explain that you can still toss it in the air and generate a random number with it, but he just (dryly) spat a curse and headed wherever, for more booze, or, I dunno, annother incubator for his copious sperm.**

Yeah. So, ho ho ho and batten down the hatches, er, topsail the mistletoe there ye scurvy bosun, er ... whatever.

Holiday season. Here it comes. Let's pray we get through it again.
_____

*Actually, come to think of it, this may well have been 1981, and it probably was a visit of over two weeks in duration. Because I distinctly recall watching a Muhammad Ali fight on TV at that place (I was and am a huge fan of his), and Wikipedia sez Ali fought (and lost to) Trevor Berbick on December 11, 1981 -- Ali's last fight). Earlier Ali fights don't fit the date profiles of other visits, so ... could be.

**There, maybe that will raise my masculinity quotient. Easily that gets me to 63, 64%.
_____

BONUS GEEK ANECDOTE: On that same trip, my dad had neglected to carry sufficient reading material. So, about midway in, I lent him a book I had with me, one of the "Elric of Melniboné" novels by Michael Moorcock. Which he read.

"Weird," was the gist of his review. "That book was really weird."

CBRAT: Now With 60% Masculinity

2008-11-24T15:39:00.003-06:00

Have you heard of this thing, "GenderAnalyzer"? It's one of those "type the URL in the blank and click the button" doohickeys, and it purports to "[use] Artificial Intelligence to determine if a homepage is written by a man or woman."

The verdict on this here site:

We guess http://colicky.blogspot.com is written by a man (60%), however it's quite gender neutral.

Fair enough. I am a man, I guess. And I am quite gender neutral, in terms of the way I write. Isn't one supposed to be?

Also, I guess my knowledge of proper comma usage is superior to yours, Mr. and/or Ms. G.A. dot Com.

What of it?

(By the way, "DefensivenessAnalyzer" has not, to my knowledge, been invented. But, if it had, I'm guessing that CBRAT would garner a score of at least "75% defensive." And if you don't like that -- too fucking bad.)

I'm losing ... I'm losing ... I'm losing ... I'm losing my Vitamin D

2008-11-21T10:43:00.003-06:00

Actually, it's pretty sunny today (cold, but bright), which is good for my seasonal affective disorder, but it's annoying, in that it exposes just how lousy a housekeeper I am. If dust were Euros, I could retire. Have you ever tried to dust a ridiculously large number of stacks of CDs and DVDs and books leaning precariously (some stacks having already lost that fight with gravity and/or pet-related mayhem) all over your living room? Me neither. And the rug needs vacuuming, cuz I have two cats who seem to be practicing to be place-kickers for a feline sandlot football league. Goddamn litter everywhere. Which -- d'oh! -- I forgot to buy at over by The Jewels's this morning. I guess the current supply will hold out a little longer. Maybe I should feed the monsters some cheese. Constipate em up. I hope the judges of the Pet Owner Award of the Year don't read this blog.

Anyway ... I'm "telecommuting" today, and I have a stack of work right by my side here at CBRAT Central, but I'm taking a holiday week next week, so ... my "business before pleasure" ethic is facing a challenge at this particular moment.

While I'm at it, I want to go on record with the claim that I have been making jokes about pretending to be confused between Janet Napolitano and Johnette Napolitano for yeeears now, ever since Janet N. was attorney general of Arizona. That's 10 years, folks. Now that she's being considered for an Obama cabinet post, everyone (OK, two or three blogs and/or commenters thereon) thinks that joke is the heighth and breadth of wit. Anyway, of the potential appointments being bandied about, Janet Napolitano is probably the one I have the least to complain about, so far. And I always liked Johnette pretty well.

Concrete Blonde - Joey

Oh yeah, one last thing. It's flu season, people. Get your shots, and pound that good citrus. It's probably lame and passe (I think it's kinda limp-wristed myself, if you know what I mean), but if you need to put lime in your beer to get it, that's OK with me. This has been a public service message from Seattle Pilots manager, (Chicago's own) Joe Schultz. Joe adds, "Shitfuck. I've been dead for 12 years and I still have more sense than you idiots. Fuckshit."

Can - Vitamin C (truncated clip, unfortunately)

This Just In: John McCain Confuses Self with Kim Basinger

2008-11-19T19:02:00.004-06:00

Via HuffPo: John McCain: Jackson Browne Used Me

In other news:

The return of "Musical Commute Report"

During the drive to and from the upper upper lower upper north burbs over the last couple of weeks, I've heard this song about a dozen times on the Loyola U. station, and it's growing on me. It's muddy, it's poppy, and the (Brooklyn-based) band's name references weird creepy dead reclusive Chicago outsider artist Henry Darger:

Vivian Girls - Where Do You Run To

Hot Stove Report: Japanese League Edition

2008-11-17T19:18:00.002-06:00

According to news reports, Japan could soon have its first female professional baseball player. The Kobe 9 Cruise, a franchise in a new independent league, has drafted 16-year-old Eri Yoshida, a knuckleball pitcher.

I don't know what the rate of success is for draftees in Japan, but I'm sure the washout rate is quite high, as it is in the United States. Still, given that it's a new league, maybe she will get a chance to play, and maybe she'll be the one that finally breaks the gender barrier.

Particularly (pathologically, even) obsessive/compulsive readers of this blog might recall that I mentioned in a post some time ago that, in 1986, shortly before his death, former White Sox owner Bill Veeck wrote in the epilogue to second edition of his autobiographical book, The Hustler's Handbook, that he foresaw the eventual shattering of said barrier:

There is ... one source of talent that has never been tapped: the female of the species. In 1980, I had a promotion worked out, secretly, with Coca-Cola to conduct a national hunt for the best of the female players, with the winners to be placed in the minor leagues and brought along like anybody else. It was not a stunt.

Although the female of the species lacks the upper-body strength to stand much of a chance in the competition for the power positions, young women are more than competitive when it comes to dexterity and agility. If everything had gone according to plan, we would have had a female playing second base in Chicago within three years and, unless I was off the mark, a pitcher with style and control within five.

Unfortunately, Veeck never got to carry through on the experiment, and subsequent owners have lacked his vision. Major League Baseball hasn't even been able to put women umpires on the field -- and that's a profession desperately in need of an increase in its talent pool.

But the drafting of Eri Yoshida represents a step forward, so maybe someday, maybe soon ...

The Meme Game ... Listy! Listy listy, bo bisty ... etc.

2008-11-15T18:46:00.003-06:00

OK, although I haven't posted a post every day this month, I've been kind of inspired by Feral Mom's dedication to the whole "National Blog Post Month" concept (if that is its real name), and in connection with this post over by there, here, from me, to you, is the following "playing along with the whole 'getting to know you' meme burgoo" posting. Please to enjoy.

Three Things You Want To Do Before You Die:

1) Read every George Herriman "Krazy Kat" strip ever drawn
2) Take up art again and make something good
3) Take up fiction writing again and finish some goddamn thing

Three Names You Go By:

1) Moss
2) Dirt
3) STD

Three Physical Things You Like About Yourself:

1) Neckbeard! (Kyle Orton, woot!)
2) That one crazy eyebrow hair that grows about an inch a day
3) Third nipple

Three Parts Of Your Heritage:

1) English coal miners
2) Pennsylvania coal miners
3) South Dakota farmers

Three Things That Scare You:

1) Sarah Palin
2) Unemployment
3) Success

Three Of Your Everyday Essentials:

1) Beer
2) College/indie radio
3) Comix

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now:

1) Captain Hand t-shirt
2) Gray jeans I found $12 in the pocket of this morning
3) Eyeglasses the cute little redheaded optician helped me pick

Three Of Your Favorite Bands/Musical Artists:

1) Cheap Trick
2) Ian Dury (with or without The Blockheads)
3) Charles Mingus

Three Of Your Favorite Songs (at the moment anyway):

1) M.I.A. - Paper Planes

2) Diesel - Sausalito Summernight

3) The Kings - This Beat Goes On/Switchin' To Glide

Three Things You Want In A Relationship:

1) Someone to eat cheese with
2) No Republicans
3) Must love White Sox

Two Truths And A Lie (in no particular order):

1) Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear
2) If I kill all the golfers, they're gonna lock me up and throw away the key
3) I know a lot of Bill Murray movie quotes

Three Things You Want To Do Really Badly Right Now:

1) Bong hits
2) Tina Fey
3) Pee

Three Careers You're Considering/You've Considered:

1) Tavern owner
2) Lighthouse keeper
3) Librarian

Three Places You Want To Go On Vacation:

1) The Painted Desert
2) Coconino County
3) Back to the Big Island, Hawaii

Three Pet Names You Like:

1) Toots
2) Cholly
3) Pally

Three Ways That You Are Stereotypically A Girl:

1) My tits hurt when I drive on bumpy roads
2) I want you to use utensils and a napkin when I make you dinner
3) I want to tell you about my day long time, GI Joe

Three Ways That You Are Stereotypically A Boy:

1) Total slob
2) Loves the baseballs
3) Yes, I like boobs a lot; also, I like big butts and I cannot lie

"Fire Joe Morgan," RIP

2008-11-14T15:28:00.003-06:00

Bummer. The folks over at "Fire Joe Morgan" have called it quits. They don't have time anymore, work and family, etc. and so forth. Oh well ... it was hilarious while it lasted. And it opens the door for me to provide their "making fun of bad sports writing and broadcasting" services, which I fully intend to do, with the spirit of ineptitude and half-assedness my dozen of regular readers have come to expect over the last 507 posts (and counting). That's right, folks, CBRAT is going nowhere. Fast!

Hot Stove News: Calculating the Square Root by Performing Logarithmic Functions, While Multiplying Percentages Exponentially by Division Edition

2008-11-13T18:08:00.006-06:00

As anyone who cares has no doubt already heard, the Sox dealt Nick "Swishy Knickers" Swisher today to the Yankees for some dudes no one has ever heard of. Chicagoland peroxide dealers are on 24-hour suicide watch. I'm not sure what the deal does for the Sox, exactly, but they didn't really have anyplace to put "Dirty Thirty," and, frankly, they already have more than enough joker-jester-trickster representation from Toby "If It's Funny Once It Must Be a Hundred Times as Funny the Hundredth Time" Hall.

And, in other non-exclusive news, the (for my tastes, much too gradual) purging of local professional athletes with girls' names continues, with the Cubs finally cutting loose Kerry "Carrie White" Wood after eleventy thousand dozen years of disappointment. And they acquired relief pitcher Kevin "I Don't Have Any Jokes for This Guy Yet" Gregg from the Miami Swordfish, who will probably close if Carlos "Nice Marmot" Marmol continues to succumb to, in his native tongue, "dee shpilkes" every time he's asked to play that role.

That's it for now. Stay tuned for more hot "Hot Stove on Hot Stove" action, and watch for our soon-to-be-released no-holds-barred DVD, "Hot Stoves Gone Wild" -- you won't believe what these stoves will do for the camera! Hot!

"If I was P.F. Sloan, I'd say the Dow Jones can suck my bone, yeah!"

2008-11-11T20:47:00.003-06:00

YouTube videos!

The "Republicans, one and all:
their tallywhackers are mighty small" Set

Mojo Nixon & Skid Roper - I Hate Banks

P.F. Sloan - Eve of Destruction

DEVO - Secret Agent Man

The Fugs - Crystal Liaison

The Holy Modal Rounders - Boobs A Lot

Dr. Hook & The Medicine Show - At The Freakers Ball

Jimmy Carl Black - Lonesome Cowboy Bert (from "200 Motels," feat. Phlorescent Leech & Eddie and various other Mothers)

Meanwhile, in the land of faulty analogies ...

2008-11-11T09:50:00.002-06:00

Herein, the President of the United States is compared to a washed up, mulleted, pop-country one-hit-wonder:

Miley's dad wants Obama girls to help hype 'Hannah'

So many ironies in the following paragraph that it defies smartass remarking:

"They are kind of like me before I started my own career," the "Hannah" star said. "You are kind of put in it because their dad and because of my dad so I would want it to be normal and they could come hang out on the set with normal girls. I think that would be fun for them."

Here Now at This Time, in This Location: Global World Premiere on an International Basis of Uncle Tiny Tim's Rock Futon

2008-11-08T20:06:00.006-06:00

Yesterday ... Somewhere deep below the Jersey swamps, in the subterranean HQ of SMonkey Enterprises (parent company of CBRAT), our Northeastern USA Vice President, One O Ball, marked the passage of another year on Earth, and then he shrugged. Another birthday in paradise, he said to no one in particular.

Today ... He woke up and made this -- the world premiere pilot number one episode of "Uncle Tiny Tim's Rock Futon" (featuring Super Karaoke Fun Time Band's pahfahmance of "American Band") -- ~~which we now embed without further anything:~~

[Never mind -- apparently this video has been inadvertently deleted by its maker. Nothing to see here. Scroll down, folks.]

And there's more! In the form of this! Which consists of Black Stooges whomping on "I Wanna Be Your Dog"! Don't watch too closely or else you might not miss several cameos from a certain blogger.

Meanwhile ... we've been busy, too, in Chicago, at CBRAT Central Nerve Center. Among other things today, we installed a new electronic dart board, a new analog scratching post, and a new shower curtain, here being in the same room with mascots of the blog, Piper and Mingus.

That is all.

Wait -- one more thing. Get well, Neckbeard. Get well quick. We can't stand Sexy Rexy. From one (small "n") neckbeard to another (big "N") Neckbeard. Seriously. Get back in there. Walk it off! Rub some dirt on it! BEAR DOWN!!!

OK, now that's all. Back to the dart mines for me.

That was a short honeymoon

2008-11-07T12:03:00.003-06:00

The incoming administration's chief of staff addresses "progressive" Democrats, letting them know, in no uncertain terms, what they can expect:

If you feel like dancing, here's this version. Same message, bouncier beat:

And, in case you took some acid ... well, you probably don't need to watch this. But the rest of us can watch it, so as to better understand your reality:

Sox Fan in the (White) House

2008-11-05T13:46:00.001-06:00

As his first act upon taking office, I would like President Obama to issue an executive order declaring that the shortened form "Sox" refers to, and only to, the WHITE Sox, and not the Red Sox. Henceforth and forever after. Amen.

The Indian of the Group: RIP

2008-11-03T16:54:00.003-06:00

Well, doggone it, this thing is turning into DeathBlog: 2008 lately. Maybe if Killy McGee up there would take a break, I could write about something else. Or ... maybe if I wrote about something else, Killy McGee would take a break up there. Kind of an awesome responsibility, come to think of it. But I digress.

Just found out today that original Mothers of Invention drummer Jimmy Carl Black (trademark quote: "I'm Jimmy Carl Black, and I'm the Indian of the group") died on November 1. He was a funny guy. I always liked him. But he says not to be sad, so, OK. I won't.

Here's a clip of Jimmy with Dr. Eugene Chadbourne performing Captain Beefheart's "Dropout Boogie" in Tokyo on June 6.

Also passing away on November 1 -- exotica music goddess, otherworldly Peruvian soprano Yma Sumac. Mang ... I didn't even know she was still alive. I used to enjoy getting baked and listening to her back in my "exotica" phase, in the early 1990s. Les Baxter, Martin Denny, Arthur Lyman, Esquivel ... fantastic stuff. Here's a taste. If you like it, I suggest YouTube mining a little bit. Totally worth it, baked or not.

You can't change time, man ... time changes you

2008-11-02T10:48:00.003-06:00

At some point over the weekend, my age changed to a prime number. Which is apparently meaningful to some people I know, prime number ages, although I don't know why. Also, through no action or intention of my own, this morning I found myself awake an hour earlier than my clocks said it was, which just means that I have too much time to kill before wasting the afternoon watching the Bears game. Damn you, time! You suck! Who don't think so?

Who's up for a few videos?

I have the following itinerary in mind. Kind of a belated Halloween line-up. Bruce Springsteen has a new song, in which he appears to be channeling Captain Beefheart, minus most of the insanity. A clip from a French TV show from 1980 will illustrate what I mean. And, wrapping it up, a cover. OK, here we go.

Bruce Springsteen - A Night With The Jersey Devil

Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band - Big Eyed Beans from Venus

GUGUG - Grow Fins (Melodica Version)

Take it easy, but take it

2008-10-31T18:24:00.005-05:00

Of course I knew Studs Terkel had to die someday ... but I still kind of thought he never would. I'm not going to try to out-obit the world or anything, but I will say that Studs always made me grateful that my life-span overlapped his. He was a great historian, unparalleled broadcaster, and the essential Uptown citizen, but more than anything else, his spirit was amazingly infectious. I only saw him in person one time -- speaking at Bughouse Square five or six years ago -- but it was a great thrill, I say completely without irony. I'll miss him, but he will continue to be a big influence on how I try to navigate this crazy world.

Now baseball is over again.Long ... take place ... baseball

2008-10-29T21:45:00.003-05:00

Ahem.

Congratulations to the Philadelphia Diminutive Nicknames for winning the "World" Series.

Now here's a few YouTube videos.

First, here's one to describe my feelings about the 2008 Series in general:

Blondie - Rip Her to Shreds

And now here's a classic number by a fine musical artist from The City of Brotherly Love (and Racist Cheese Steak Vendors):

Todd Rundgren - You Cried Wolf

One from one of the best-known Philly Soul bands:

The O'Jays - For the Love of Money

More Philly Soul:

Teddy Pendergrass - Love T.K.O.

And lastest but not leastest, a band that brings to mind the following anecdote. Freshman year in high school, my "History of Western Thought" (honors history) teacher, Mr. "No Relation to William Jennings" Bryan was telling a story that ... as far as I can recall, had no point whatsoever. But it had something to do with what he considered to be the irrational price structure of pop culture ephemera, I guess. See, he was over by the Lakehurst Mall in Waukegan to get a birthday present for his son, who he always called, "The Kid," like he thought he was some kind of D-List Tribune columnist or something, like an incredibly impoverished man's lice's Eric Zorn. And he heads over to The Camelot there, the record store, cuz The Kid likes this pop group, "Oates and Hall." So, The Camelot's got two Oates and Hall cassette tapes on sales there, one for $8.99, and the other for $6.99. But -- get this -- they're BOTH Oates and Hall tapes. Which ... isn't that just irrational and totally nuts?

Anyway, as I was saying, lastest but not leastest, here's this:

Hall & Oates - Rich Girl

Where have all the rude ukulele boys gone? . . . and other ssstuff

2008-10-23T18:38:00.004-05:00

Fourteen days have come and gone, and this afternoon Doctor The Vet took the staples out of Piper the cat's healed-up belly and removed the crazy cone from her head. The cat's head, I mean. If Doctor The Vet wore one of those things, I'm not so sure I'd trust her. But anyway ... the mood is predictably upbeat hereabouts this evening. Which calls for ... A little YouTube Video Juke Box action.

GUGUG - Blank Expression (Specials cover)

The Ethiopians - Train to Skaville

Toots & the Maytals - 54-46 Was My Number

Madness - Baggy Trousers

Junior Murvin - Police & Thieves

Leroy "Horsemouth" Wallace - Herb Vendor

Skafish - Disgracing the Family Name

Deceased But Not Decreased: Rudy Ray Moore

2008-10-22T17:36:00.003-05:00

Best known for his epochal character, Dolemite, comedian, godfather of rap, and super genius, Rudy Ray Moore has died at the age of 81.

If you don't know him, you should. There's a reasonably priced collection of his films available out there on DVD, so get to work. In the meantime, there's a recent interview at this site.

And for the audio-inclined, here's a recording of one of his most famous interpretations of an old, old story from African folklore, "The Signifying Monkey."

Rest in peace, Rudy Ray Moore, and don't take no shit from all them no business, insecure, rat soup eatin', junkyard motherfuckers in the afterlife, whatever it may be!

A Self-Rebuttal on the Subject of Noisy Fans

2008-10-20T22:29:00.005-05:00

Earlier today, I disparaged southern sports fans for making repetitive noises in a cretinous and irritating manner. After some reflection, I realize I was unfair, and I'm going to issue a rebuttal to myself in the form of a single photograph:

So ... to all southern sports fans, as well as all union locals of the International Brotherhood of Cow Bell Bangers, I apologize. It's way worser up north.

We Need Less Cowbell

2008-10-20T10:39:00.002-05:00

Now that the World Series matchup has been set, it's time to pick a dog. Which is easy -- I'm rooting for the Phillies, and not just because expansion teams sicken me. I want the Rays to lose, if only because of that goddamn cowbell bullshit at that shitty excuse for a stadium they play in down there. What is it about southern sports fans and irritating, repetitive noises? Oh yeah, I forgot. They're cretins. Unfortunately, I think the Rays are going to demolish the Phillies in straight sets. At least it will be brief.

A Belated Requiem

2008-10-17T22:10:00.002-05:00

I should have posted this a while ago, when it would have been fresher, but it just occurred to me. Here's a repeat from 2006, the post titled "Not Quite a Sonnet." Even has an added dimension of faux-sense, with the "rays" reference in the fourth line. Heh heh. Oyyy.

-----

The Pale Hose doth break my heart
with errant bat and faulty throw
Still's better to have soared so much
that solar rays do melt one's wings
than crawl around like Cub or such
and dine on soil with lowly things
We flew so high that none can ken
how bittersweet the landing's splay
But when snows transfix The Cell athwart
and Farmio plays golf all day
we'll wait for spring's warm winds to blow
to start again this futile art
this game for boys played by rich men
who poot perfume each time they fart

Levi Stubbs, RIP

2008-10-17T14:39:00.001-05:00

Levi Stubbs, lead vocalist for the Four Tops, has died at age 72.

In honor of Mr. Stubbs, here's a live rendition of my favorite Four Tops tune.

Bernadette

Democrat, Heal Thyself

2008-10-16T13:24:00.003-05:00

So I just read an entry on a librul blog (which shall remain name- and link-less) bitching out Preznit Bush for signing, on Monday, that ridiculous intellectual property remedy-enhancement law that, among other things, doubles fines for selling knockoff (counterfeit) products and creates a cabinet-level "Copyright Tsar" post.

But if you look up the Congressional vote tallies, guess what? The fucker passed UNANIMOUSLY in the Senate, and 381 to 41 in the House. Only 22 of the "nays" were Democrats (and that group did not include my congress critter, Jan "Just Lost STDPM's Vote" Schakowsky).*

I despise G-Dub as much as the rest of the 77% of the population who can't stand him, but he had a LOT of help with this one. And he's had a lot of help with pretty much every piece of crappy legislation he's signed. Much of that help coming from The Donkey Party. Even after they took ostensible "control" in 2006.

Yeah, I know you're all too busy being terrified of a Palin/McCain administration, yadda yadda yadda, to pick on the Democrats. Not me. I admit I'm less scared of an Obama admin than the probable alternative, but on at least two big issues -- intellectual property law and foreign policy (the latter of which I won't get into right now) -- the GOP and the Jackassery might as well be the same party. So I intend to continue to bitch about Democrats when they piss me off. Which, I'm sure, will be early and often.

-----

*Dennis Kucinich voted "nay." Good old Dennis Kucinich.

Feline Update and Other Nuggets: Cat Slightly Happier, Owner Hanging in There

2008-10-10T10:59:00.003-05:00

Waal, we outfitted the Piperoni with a more-comfy blue cloth cone, which she can use instead of the nasty plastic one, so long as she doesn't wrestle it off of her head. And she got the go-ahead from the vet for playing (as if she could be stopped), so here she is with her favorite toy.

In news of shameful personal weakness, the stress this week sort of caused to me to start smoking again. Bad human.

After all the excitement last night, I did manage to catch the end of the NL game. I'm not sure I care, but since I predicted a Phillies-Red Sox series back in early June, I have my prognosticatorial reputation at stake ... which, of course, is worth exactly nothing.

Here's an item of note: Now that the baseball off-season has commenced, at least locally, my favorite Chicago sports web comic strip artist has shifted back to festivities over by Smells Like Mascot. Leaves falling off the trees, unreasonable hopes for the Bears burgeoning, and Smells Like Mascot up and running. Yeah, it's fall.

And while I'm recommending stuff, if you haven't taken a look at the "Reel Geezers" movie reviews on YouTube, they're worth checking out. I won't go too deep into background, because you can find that out easily if you want, but the dude geezer, Lorenzo, wrote for the 1960s "Batman" TV series, so that might be some enticement. Anyway, to easify it for you, here's the latest installment, which I particularly enjoy. It's about political movies, and two excellent highlights include bashing of Frank Capra by Lorenzo and discussion of one of my all-time favorite flicks, "A Face in the Crowd," starring Andy Griffith.

Bad Cat Craziness

2008-10-09T22:08:00.002-05:00

Stressful week here at CBRAT HQ. "Rowdy Roddy" Piper the kitten has had a hard time with her incision from getting spayed last week, and has opened herself up a couple times. I thought she was over the worst of it, but tonight she busted herself again and started bleeding, so I ran her over to the emergency vet over by Clybourn and Belmont. They said she was healing inside OK but the outer skin layer was still not closing all the way, so they put in some staples and fitted her with one of those dreaded head cones. She is one miserable kitty cat at the moment, and having a ridiculous time trying to navigate around with that thing on. And her brother Mingus is hella confused. And I am exhausted.