Hey, we got rock 'n' roll birfdays today! Today we got rock 'n' roll birfdays! And associated embedded YouTubes!

In the words of Ray Rayner -- Happy birfday, if it is your birfday.

Rock 'n' roll birfday number one: Joe Jackson

Hey, it's Joe Jackson's birfday today. If looks could kill, there's a man there who's marked down as dead. But, yet, he's still alive. I think.


I'm the Man


Awkward Age


(Accompanying Todd Rundgren) While My Guitar Gently Weeps

Rock 'n' roll birfday number two: Eric Carmen

Hey hey! It's Eric Carmen's birfday today! He doesn't know what he wants, but he wants it now.

Here is a veddeo of The Raspberries paforming on the Mike Douglas show in 1974. Incidentally, it is also Mike Douglas's birfday today. Although Mike Douglas died last year ... on his birfday. Wow. That's freaky. OK, before this becomes a bummer post, I will commence veddeo embedding now.


The Raspberries - Go All the Way

Not too old to rock 'n' roll

Hey, it's Ian Anderson's birfday today!

Yes it is. Therefore, here's a whole sackful o' Tull. Which sounds awful. But it's not, I swear!


Boureé


Fat Man


Mother Goose/Jack-A-Lynn


Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day


Hunting Girl


My God


Too Old to Rock 'n' Roll

Lee Hazlewood: July 9, 1929 - August 4, 2007

No Train to Stockholm

Cubs fans are dumb, and other things that go without saying

This blog has been, like, not blogging itself lately. Which is a shame, cuz I haven't been blogging it either. Maybe later. After spending the better part (or, more accurately, worse, worser, and worsest parts) of 2007 working on a new publication for my ayday objay (which new publication is now finally on the market, but spare me the invitation to celebrate -- I don't really do that, ever), I just haven't had any interest in playing with words in my spare time. Even this is painful, right now. Ouch! Ouchouchouch!!! But it's starting to become even more painful to look at the non-extant-ness of this white-on-black webular space, knowing full well that I could do better (the four most hateful words in the English language, in my opinion -- at least when placed in that specific order). So ... here's another empty threat: More posts to come soon. Or not.

I'm heading over to the Roky Erickson show tonight at Abbey Pub, so I might as well promise to do a review of that. Why not? I can always renege.

Tom Snyder Dead at 71

eom

It's like Romper Room ... I can see you, and you, and you, and you, and you ... and, uh ... that's all the visitors for today so far

Oh, Ameritech.net account in Bensenville, Illinois -- I'm so glad that, at this late date, somebody still cares about

what happened to wendy on steve dahl 2007

Don't ever change.

Great Riffs Think Alike - Friday Night Veddeos

Link Wray - Rumble



Richard Thompson - Shoot Out The Lights

Keen

This is the first decent clip from "Dobie Gillis" that I've been able to find on YouTube, and I have tried a few times.

It Is All Deja Over Vu Again With the Deja Vu, Again, All Over, Already, or, Nobody Goes There Cuz It's Too Crowded and Full of Total Cockholes

Hey! Long time since a baseball post! Or any post at all! But especially a baseball one!

Well, the White Sox particularly Suck right now. But ... hey, on the "bright" side, the Cubs have become a hot commodity again. Yeah! Fuck the heck!

Tonight the Cubs beat the Cards, 7-1, and the Brewers lost to Cincy, 7-3, so the Cubs are now just 2.0 back in the NL Central. And ... uh ... I dunno. Apropos of a rising interest among the suckers lately, I guess. In that the Cubs have become a hot commodity again in Chicago. Whoops.

Whoops.

Yeah

Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks perform "Orange Crate Art" in 1995.

'scuses

It's dangerous to ogblay about the objay, I know, but mine is really taking it outta me lately and leaving me with nothing much left that resembles a creative mind at the end of the day. Just complainin'.

"The green Brazil is hitting on the yellow Brazil. The green Brazil is fucking the yellow Brazil."

Breaking the blogging blight briefly to express joy at just discovering that a documentary about Tom Ze is making the film festival rounds. You go here now and read the synopsis, maybe watch the trailer. Plus you could go here and read a different take on it, and watch a different trailer (with English subtitles). And maybe go here and download a coupla mp3s while they're there. Oh, the places you have the option to which of going ... to ... thanks to the courtesy of the preceding hyperlinks, as provided free of charge, obligation, covenant, or bipsplevin munctus repribatum larkus lawyerus gibberishes, by us, CBRAT® Sports Entertainment Corporation Co., Inc., GmbH. That is all.

Hooray fer Oomeereeka!

"Een MY cone-tree, Oomeereeka YouTube veedeo watch YOU!"

Thank you, Yakov Sneerenoff.

In honor of this crappy broken nation's birthday, while the Cheney Administration is busy giving America 231 spankings with a nugatory writ of habeas corpus (made of real nougat, and a canoe paddle), I offer you the option of enjoying the following. To facilitate singalongery, here's the opening couplet, sort of a theme song unto itself for myself:

Well I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed
That I set my sights on Monday and I got myself undressed

Yup, that's right, it's:

America - Sister Golden Hair

Oh it's been so long

That's what she said.

Anyway, wow, I suck. No blogs lately.

The muse remains on summer break, but in the meantime, here's a small YouTube contingent in tribute to the anonymous dude behind myself, pulling the puppet strings that are Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss ...



The Nazz - Not Wrong Long

Addendum:



(Too-short snippet of) Lord Buckley - The Nazz

Seriously, watch that one. Gate of Horn -- you cannot hardly get more "Chicago" than that. Take that, Michiflanderers and Hosers (or whatever you're called)!

There. Now I feel a little less inadequate qua my blogeurishness.

PS - Remind me to do an obsessive post about Chicago folk music history someday. I'll enjoy putting it together.

Here is an appetizer:



John Prine - Souvenirs

PPS - And one more because I can't resist:



Steve Goodman and Jethro Burns - City of New Orleans

Saturday Night Ouyay Ubetay Ostpay

Homer & Jethro - The Battle of Kookamonga

Too clement to blog

It's summer. Shut off the computer. Go outside. And don't slam the screen door on the way out.

Poopery

It's a poopery post, people ... hubris gone wiiiild ... unwaning arrogance -- the unwaning arrogance of several obscure 1980s-Chicago politics/media (i.e., Harold Washington/Mike Royko) references in a row, right in the first sentence of this post, the one explaining that it's a throwaway post of unconnected crap, kind of like a Neil Steinberg column, except much less horrific. Items probably to be added gradual-like over the course of this windy evening, as I think them up ... so check back periodically for updates. Hah. Right.

•The Weather Item. So much for the Windy City thing being a myth. Holy shit. Hatten down the batches, folks -- we have a midwestern SuperStorm® on the way tonight. Tommy Skilling promises 90 mph winds, flying monkeys, and this time the wicked witch wins instead of that insipid bitch Dorothy.

Yes, there is a 100% chance of falling-tree-induced death tonight in the entire Middle West region, as well as a 1,000% chance of toronados, cieras, and cordobas -- every type of crappy 1970s Detroit car -- rusting all over the place and taking up one-and-a-half parking spots, each.

So, as Hawk Harrelson would say, "Strap it on tight and shove it in deep" ... or whatever it is he says. Something creepy and disturbing. "Can o' porn!"

•The Cubs Item. One thing bugs me about the Cubs' new backup catcher, Koyie Hill. Koyie don't live on hills! They live in ponds! If his name was Koyie Pond, he would merit his own blog post, in the "Cool Chicago Sports Names" category. Or, at the very least, he'd qualify to be Autumn Champion's landscape architect.

But the bright side to the name Koyie Hill is this: Now the Cubs just need to sign Frankie Valli as a pitcher and they will have the most antonymic battery since Liza Minnelli walloped David Gest. Does that joke even make sense? I hope not.

•The Item Where I Make a Smartass Remark About Feder's Column. Yesterday's R-b F-d-r joint declareth thus:

At least one Chicagoan was delighted by news Tuesday that the New York-based Museum of Television and Radio has been renamed the Paley Center for Media (after the late CBS founder William S. Paley).

"That means the only museum of radio and television in America is right here in Chicago," said Bruce DuMont, founder and president of the Museum of Broadcast Communications here.

"They've abandoned a brand and a mission," DuMont said of his counterparts. "We don't walk away from the word 'museum.'"

Uh ... OK. But, Mr. DuMont, last I heard, the Museum of Broadcast Communications didn't even have a building yet, since it moved out of the Cultural Center location in ... when was that? 2003? 2002? A long time ago. I haven't been by 400 N. State in a while -- which is where the new location has been promised to be ... located -- but I have heard nothing about it being anywhere near completion. So these arrogant and misguided Noo Yawkas might be abandoning a "brand" -- or, more accurately, a generic or at least highly descriptive designation that is surely a weak and pretty worthless mark -- but if they have a physical plant, maybe you should knock off the wisecracks and get back to raising some money to hand over to the Illinois construction mafia. Just a suggestion.

In closing: Lorna Luft. That's just to get a reference to Judy Garland or progeny in all of the first three items. Whew. Wasn't sure I could pull that off. Or why.

•The "Nice to Get Some Company" Item. Finally I'm not the only one in town boostering them some women's softball. This item from one of the finest websites ever to have aitched a tee-em-ell, The Beachwood Reporter, tells it like it is:

[N]ext to rugby and Australian rules football, women's softball is largely an undiscovered gem that helps make ESPN2's programming far more interesting on the whole than ESPN's. Screw the Cubs and the White Sox, folks; these women play ball like there's no tomorrow - and somehow without the grinding boredom that makes Major League Baseball famous. Christ, if unpaid college chicks can go nine innings without making it feel like you're watching slugs cross the road, why can't grown dudes making more money than God for a living do the same?

D-I-S-R-E-S-P-E-C-T: Find out what it means

Hell yeah, I want a chocolate chicken pot pie! Respect mah authoritigh!!! Beefcake! Beefcake!!!

There were so many things wrong with the Cubs' series against the Braves over the weekend that I don't know where to begin. Luckily, I don't really have to, because every other bliggitty blang blog has covered every detail and every idiotic well-reasoned point of view out there in sports-intertubes-land. If you care at all, you already know all about it.

I just want to bring up one thing that seems to have been forgotten -- a little detail about the fine chunk of manflesh pictured in the photograph above -- senile senior umpire and Eric Cartman be-alike, Bruce Froemming.

Just in case you missed it, during Saturday's game, Cubs manager Lou "Hey Abbott!" Piniella made good on his promise from the previous day to argue the hell out of a call -- any call -- and proceeded to not-so-sincerely stomp around like a dinner-theatre caricature of the tantrummy eight-year-old we somehow expect grown baseball-playing men to emulate ... and apparently the crowd enjoyed it quite a bit, demonstrating their approval by littering the outfield with ... litter. (I also think Ronnie "Woo Woo" Wickers threw his false teeth out there, too, but that could very well have been an unfortunate accident.)

After the game, crew chief Bruce "Captain Renault" Froemming was so shocked, shocked that one of the most thrown-out managers in baseball hystery had gotten himself tossed from a game that he temporarily put down the slab of brontosaurus ribs he was snacking on long enough to recommend to MLB that Piniella be suspended for his "terrible display of disrespect."

Which was only appropriate, considering that Froemming is quite an expert on disrespect. He's such an expert, in fact, that he himself was suspended for 10 days in 2003 for calling an MLB administrator a "stupid Jew bitch."

But, hey, at least he didn't kick his hat! That would have been way over the line.

Skafish, Cleaning Ladys, and Another Skafish: Chicago Media Tie-Ins Aplenty Post

Obertray Ederfay reports today:

Bobby Skafish, the 30-year veteran of Chicago rock radio, has been hired as weekend/fill-in host at WDRV-FM (97.1), the Bonneville International classic hits station known as the Drive.

And speaking of Skafish, which I guess we were, here's a "new" video from a 1994 in-store appearance by Chicago rock fabulosos The Cleaning Ladys, featuring a cameo by the other semi-famous Skafish, Skafish:



Note to Jim Skafish and The Cleaning Ladys: More videos! Please! Especially "When the Cubs Win the World Series."

While we're waiting for them to oblige, here's this classic:



The Cleaning Ladys - She Won't French Kiss

To the Bic Banana in the Sky

Just found out that Charles Nelson Reilly died a few days ago. Star of Broadway, TV game shows, Lidsville, commercials, X Files and Millennium, garish ascots, and crazy toupees, as well as survivor of the Hartford Circus Fire. Not necessarily in that order.

This text lifted blatantly and wholesale from "The Life of Reilly" website message board (because it's too good not to):

Today, I just got a call from Ray Arnett who had just heard from Rip Taylor and I was told about the passing of Charles Nelson Reilly yesterday. I wanted to share some of my memories with all of you.

Charles and I had met at Studio One, and again briefly when I was the Disc-Jockey at the Marlin Beach Hotel in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. I moved to Los Angeles to pursue my acting career, and looked Charles up.

I was staying with friends on Wetherly Drive just off Beverly Drive in West Hollywood. Charles told me that he would pick me up one day to go to CBS Television City, and I was so excited. When I asked what kind of car he would be driving, he exclaimed, "A Mercedes of course! What else would I be driving silly?" He told me, " I will pick you up on the corner of Wetherly and Beverly and when I see you I will toot like crazy!"

Charles later loaned me the money in the 70's to rent my first apartment in Los Angeles. When I paid Charles back, he wrote me the nicest note which I framed and keep in my home until this day.

Charles also helped me study acting with Debbie Reynolds, and gave me advice along the way. I was always an entrepreneur and had a t-shirt business and made t-shirts for Charles to wear on "The Match Game". Charles used to take me there and I would sit back stage or join the director in the booth and I had a marvelous time.

One night he took me out on his boat, "Artichoke Hearts" and chased me all around the boat after having a few drinks. His toupee started to fall off, and I told him his hair was falling off - and he yelled - "how do you like that! you take a boy out on your yacht and he tells you his hair is slipping!" When he took us back into Marina Del Rey, he crashed the boat into the dock and yelled to his neighors who lived in their sailboat next to his slip, "Another Perfect Landing!!!!!" I made him a t-shirt that said on the front, "Another Perfect Landing" and on the back it read, "Charles Nelson Reilly Expert Marine Captain".

I used to paint on canvas and I painted a painting for Charles. I painted "Charlie" written in the style of the perfume logo "Charlie". He put hinges on it and hung it over his televison in his bedroom. The painting hid the TV in the wall. One night on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, he told Johnny about his robbery. It was the funniest story! He said he came home and the place was a mess, and that this didn't seem out of place because he was messy. Then he went into the toilet and noticed one of his toupee's in the toilet. "I don't care how drunk I get, I never store my hair in the toilet, Johnny!" The crowd roared, then he went on to say his stereo was stolen and some other items, "but you bastards didn't get the TV!!! My friend Don painted me a painting that hid the TV!" The crowd was in hysterics and I felt so honored.

He took me to meet Julie Harris in Santa Barbara to see the play he was directing, "The Belle of Amherst". I had a thrilling evening. We ended up going to a bar in town and we met an older gentleman with a much younger boy. The boy tells me that his sugar daddy owns a private jet, and wondered if Charles and I wanted to go flying with them. The boy proudly told me that one of his favorite things was to have the pilot turn the plane upside down and then everyone tries to catch the liquid that flew out of their drinks!!!! I was frightened to death over that prospect, and Charles at first accepted, but then asked that they not turn the plane over at seeing my horrified look of panic! He said, "Please don't turn the plane upside down, my hair will fall off!!!"

I last saw Charles in his one man show in North Hollywood. We talked a little bit, his last words to me were, "You still have your hair! and... I still have your 8x10 from when you were an actor...."

These were just some of my many memories that I wanted to share with all of your friends on the site. I will miss you Charles, and many many thanks for everything you did for me. I am glad I got to thank you in person!

Love,

Don Blanton

Life of Reilly Teaser Trailer

[ADDENDUM - A note on CNR's MySpace page indicates the following about this movie:

For those of you who are asking to see the film, or for copies of the DVD for the film, we are releasing "Life of Reilly" in the fall. We had been waiting, hoping that Charles would recover so he could be part of the process of the release. This isn't going to happen, now. So we will put the film out later this year.

This answers a question I asked here back in March, and I'm glad the film is coming out (no pun intended), but it would have been cool if CNR could have been around and kicking to promote it. I would have loved to see him turn up on The Daily Show.]

Here's a CNR clip-fest for your enjoyment:


Bic Banana Ink Crayons Commercial


Another "Big Banana" Spot


Lidsville Theme


Call Her Mom


CNR as "Jose Chung"

Of course, most of us knew CNR from "Match Game." There are plenty of "Match Game" clips up, but embedding has been disabled for most of them, so it's up to you to go watch em if you're so inclined. Here is a search string to make that easy.

In re: "Match Game," this Metafilter commenter nails it (emphasis added, for emphasis):

By the way, as a kid I used to think something was wrong with me because I planned my entire day around watching Match Game after school. It was my secret, I didn't want anyone to know because I just knew they wouldn't understand. When I later read that the entire cast of the show was totally drunk for most of the tapings, it made sense. It always felt like I was watching a fun grown up party that I wasn't supposed to be awake for.

Just yesterday I was telling Friend of the Blog Patrick J. about how I would ride my bike home from the beach every day in the summer in the afternoon in time to catch "Match Game." Later on, when I was meeting the people in college who remain my friends today, it was always a sure sign of affinity when you made reference to that show and saw the light of recognition in their eyes. "Do I want another frozen gin lemonade? You bet your BLANK!"

To finish, here is a somewhat tangential clip, from "The Ghost & Mrs. Muir," with CNR kind of in the background, in character as Claymore Gregg (on the couch, sans toup') ... and featuring a nice performance by Harry Nilsson, so it's kind of a "favorites of CBRAT" mashup.


Harry Nilsson on The Ghost & Mrs. Muir - March 29, 1969


So long, Charles. Rest in "blank."

News of the Snyde

The muchly-quoted-by-CBRAT (although he never writes to thank us) Robert Feder reports:

Chicago radio veteran Wendy Snyder has signed on as a full-time traffic reporter with Metro Networks/Shadow Broadcast Services.

Which gives me an excuse to post this item finally available on that site that rhymes with Goo Lube:



Descendents - Wendy

Today's Get Out the O. Ball Vote Plea Today: WFMU's Sixty Second Song Remix Contest

Voting is underway for the "Sixty Second Song Remix Contest" on WFMU's Beware of the Blog, and good friend of CBRAT, Otis Ball, has risen to the challenge.

The premise of the contest is as follows:

[C]ompress a "known" song to 60 seconds or less.

One O. Ball's entry, More Than Half-Off-Bird (Lynyrd Skynyrd), is an early contender for a prize -- but we (I say "we" because, after all, I am Otis Ball's fake manager) need your help.

So please vote. Vote here. Vote for Otis. You'll be glad you did. Not just because his remix deserves it, but because ... it is the right thing to do.

Voting ends Wednesday, May 23rd at 10pm, EDT.

Voting URL again: http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2007/05/sixty_second_so.html

Thank you. I am Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss and I approve this message.

The Old Man and the Cockaroaches

It's a good thing I don't have any upstairs neighbor right now. The upstairs apartment is the only one in the building that directly adjoins mine on any plane, and the Bird Lady got booted, so I haven't had an upstairs neighbor for a few weeks.

I do have some unwanted co-tenants, though. Bugs. Cockroaches. Not a huge infestation, but, frankly, even one is too many. And there are more than one. Godot the Pest Control Man is supposed to come soon, but in the meantime, I'm getting a little roach crazy. On edge, to say the least. And the on-edge vocalizations from here in the Basement Unit lately are probably not things a neighbor wants to hear.

For example. Just now had to go get another beer (cuz my prior beer ran dry), and entering the kitchen, I grabbed my Swiffer dustmop, flipped on the lights, and slammed the Swiffer on the floor, yelling "Something's gonna die!!!"

No bugs. Got my beer.

This time.

Today in Gravity City Today:Crane Attractions, Crane Reactions

Chicago's enhanced gravitational field continues to work its eeeevil:

A crane accident at a downtown construction site today led to the evacuation of several buildings and forced the Chicago Transit Authority to reroute trains and buses.

The incident happened when a section of the street under the yellow crane collapsed, causing the massive piece of equipment to lean against the side of a nearby building.

Not only that, but the crane is anthropomorphic, to boot:

Authorities evacuated buildings near the scene as a precaution because it was unclear how the crane would react when workers try to upright it, officials said.

I'm guessing first it will feel surprised, then confused, then scared, then flattered, and maybe even a little bit intrigued, but will politely decline. Wait ... that's how it would react if another crane of its same gender approached it at a singles bar with an amorous advance.

"Hey, what's my motivation here? I mean, what makes this crane tick?"

And that is how the crane would consider its reaction if the crane were played by Mr. James Woods.

More jokes to be added later, if I can think of any more Simpsons jokes to steal.

BASEBALL POSTSCRIPT: Too disgusted to add further Cubs-Sox commentary at the moment. Boone Logan disgusts me. With a disgust that disgusts. I say put the yellow crane in tomorrow in relief of Massengill, or whoever is pitching for the Sox. Some rookie douche. Maybe the yellow crane can react to the presence of Derrek Lee as a pinch hitter in some other way than lobbing a cookie for a grand salami.

North Battles South for "Who's Crappier" Bragging Rights

It's "Crosstown Classic" weekend again ... which means, instead of two crappy ballgames to follow each day, just one. They should call it the "Bad Baseball Efficiency Series." This weekend could mark the very first time in over 130 years of baseball history that a team wins by a score of negative-3 to negative-6.

Other predictions:

•Lou Piniella's freakishly gigantic jaw explodes in a burst of pent-up rage, and Ozzie Guillen finally admits that even he has no idea what the hell he is saying when he attempts English.

•Michael Barrett receives a standing ovation when he punches Ryan Dempster in the face for no particular reason. Just kidding -- there are plenty of reasons.

•Paul Konerko hits into four quadruple-plays in a single at-bat, taking care of innings 2 through 6 and 1/3 of 7. Riots break out in the bleachers when the beer vendors declare "Last Call" at 1:37.

•Drunken louts from Sports Corner Bar and Murphy's Bleachers meet by chance on Sheffield Avenue, fall in love, mate, and produce a super-obnoxious hybrid strain of Uber-Lunkhead, who are dispatched to Iraq by the Bush administration, immediately causing the Sunni insurgents to pack up and move to Edison Park to get the hell away from the puking, screaming, urinating, backwards-baseball-hat-wearing, Dave-Matthews-listening infidel scourge. Sure, there's nothing to do in Edison Park, but, by Allah's beard ... these Cubs fans are worser than a bad case of sand fleas, even.

This thread to be continued ...

Gratification from the Land of SiteMeter Stats

Just when I was losing hope that I could retain interest in maintaining this narcissistic and futile blog, I see in the SiteMeter stats a hit that informs me that I have made the top Google results page for the search terms:

bucket of water to kill a gopher

... which brings one to this blogapaganza from a time when I was still trying to actually write:

http://colicky.blogspot.com/2006/07/never-let-go-of-your-hose-today-in.html

Although it does rouse a slight disquiet, in re: ... is somebody really trying to research how to kill a gopher with a bucket of water? Animal cruelty concerns aside (albeit duly registered), what kind of techniques could be researchable to that end?

"Step 1. Place bucket of water in freezer. Step 2. Wait until water is frozen solid. Step 3. Bop gopher on the noggin. Step 4. Get your gopher pelt guy on the cell. Step 5. Reap profits."?

Look, pally. Leave the humble gopher alone. Carl Spackler learned it, I learned it, you're gonna learn it, too -- the hard way. The gopher is all right. Nobody worry bout he. Why you gotta give him a fight? Can't you just let him be?

Do what you like, doing it nat'rally. But if it's too easy, they're gonna disagree (they're gonna disagree). It's your life. And isn't it a mystery? If it's nobody's bus'ness ... It's everybody's game.

Gotta catch you later ... No, no, cannonball it right away ... Some Cinderella kid ...... Get it up and get you a job--

Dip dip dip dip dip dip dip dip.

In short, we all hate meeces to pieces, and the gophers, they can really wreck them some turfgrass, but please, please, let's think of the wider ramifications. Diplomacy is the answer. And if diplomacy don't work, try some bentgrass mixed with Kentucky blue and a touch of Southern California sinsemilla. It's a bit harsh, but it's got a hell of a kick.

Bo Diddley, Bo Diddley

Bo Diddley had a stroke recently, but there is good news. AP reports:

Four days after suffering a stroke, Bo Diddley walked around the intensive-care unit at Creighton University Medical Center, and doctors were encouraged that the singer-songwriter-guitarist would be able to perform again, his manager said.

In the spirit of wishing him a full recovery, let's all enjoy this YouTube burgoo, which, clocking in at under 2 minutes, is almost a punk number. It's one of my favorite Bo Diddley songs.



Bo Diddley - You Can't Judge A Book By Its Cover (1965)

I saw Bo Diddley play in Grant Park at the Chicago Blues Fest in 1986, and it was one of the most exciting performances I've ever witnessed. Chuck Berry and Keith Richards headlined that night, but Bo killed em. Killed. Definitely the best large-venue set I've ever spaz-bopped thru. Courtesy of Mayor Harold Washington, yes. The late and great.

More Diddley, becuz it don't cost nothin':



Bo Diddley (Checker 45) - Road Runner


Bo Diddley - Hey, Bo Diddley and Bo Diddley

And, for a chaser, here's some early Moody Blues, in maximum non-"Ride My See Saw" mode:


The Moody Blues - Bo Diddley

And here they are, just for fun, in maximum "Ride My See Saw" mode:


The Moody Blues - Ride My See Saw

And ... for a total swerve, here's a Bongwater tune from the same EP on which they covered "Ride My See Saw" ...



Bongwater - U.S.O.

Blogpatross Around My Neck

Getting quiet around here. And it's my fault. Posting to resume someday, even if readership doesn't.

In the meantime ... what's happening? Frazzled as usual at CBRAT central. Trying to take care of a little bug problem in the kitchen, which I'd been blessedly spared of for the previous nine years. Uh, lessee ... the j_b is stressing me out lately, leaving me wrung like a damp rag at EOB. And not to mention, stuck with dumb office acronyms in my head ... like FYI, ETA, and BMHA (that last one is my own contribution to the genre -- bite my hairy ass). Uhh ... Tony Soprano killed Christopher the other day (oops! spoiler! sorry ...), and unlike the rest of the blogosphere, apparently, I won't miss him. And Falwell died ... and like much of the rest of the (left-wing -- the only wing worth knowing) blogosphere, I won't miss him, either.

And on that note of weak parallelism, I'm gonna move to the couch and watch "House."

Colicky Thought of the Day

People have been telling me since childhood that I complain too much, but I think I complain just right. I am the Baby Bear's porridge of complaining, dammit. And I really hate it that there are so many people who don't recognize that!

Baseball Status Report, In Case You Were Wondering

Welp, the stupid Cubs and stupid Sox both won tonight, so I guess I am granted with a double right to feel "good" tonight, or something. Or not.*

I don't really know the terms of my revisionist baseball fascination, to be honest. I say revisionist, because there were a lot of years in the 80s and 90s that I didn't pay much attention to baseball at all, or had at most a middling interest, and sometimes an outright disdaiiiiiiiiin, Mayor Harold Washingtone.

But increasingly for the last I dunno how many years, I have gotten a lot of enjoyment out of it and diversionary interest in the meaningless details, which I think is a sort of semi-harmless self-medication, in a way. I mean, I've got a surplus of undifferentiated energy to sink into something .... And they, the Cubs and Sox, play this certain dumb game 162 times a year, each, so that is 162 games times two ... plus whatever out of town teams I get interested in ... which is a sort of bonus.

This year I have some hopes for the Milwaukee Brewers, who, last time I checked, had the best record in MLB so far. Growing up exactly midway between Chicago and Milwaukee, I ended up with a fair amount of identification with that city, and I probably went to more Brewers games as a kid than Cubs or Sox games put together.

The Brewers had a really good year in 1982, and I went to some of their games that season. They made the World Series, even, although they lost it to the Cardinals, in seven games.

That was the first local-ish team in my life to get that far, so I was pretty into them. I remember after one of the games I went to, at the end, after the Brewers had won, we were heading for the exit, and some old man nearby proclaimed, to no one in particular, in a sort of staccato rhythm, "This is the god-damned team to beat!" That really cracked me up at the time, in a sense of it being a frickin funny exclamation point on that whole "you are now authorized to feel happy" thing with sporting events, when "your team" wins.

I was at that game with my best friend from that era, Jeff _____, and we lobbed that phrase back and forth for a long time as a sort of trope thing, like a "Wup wo, we gotta problem" or other example of that sort of bloo. "This is the god-damned team to beat!" in an old man voice.

The Brewers have been really horrible since that year. They've been a huge joke in MLB for quite a while, so I would be very happy to glom onto a successful year for that team.

Anyway, that's kind of tipping my cards away from my vest as far as baseball desires this year, although you of all people (and along with all people, really) don't care, so what the hell? At this point in the season, I stick with my pre-season prediction that the White Sox will finish in 4th place behind the Indians, Tigers, and Twins, in that order, and ahead of the Royals (which happens to be the current order in the standings today).

I also think the Cubs will end up in 4th place, although I forget where they are now. They might be in 2nd. They have an outside chance of finishing in 2nd, behind the Brewers, although no chance of getting the wildcard berth in the playoffs.

I don't think the Cubs are building up a team right now that has a chance of getting to the championships in the near future. Or the far future. I think the White Sox will contend in 2010, but no sooner.

But I'll probably watch most of the games anyway. Even when they're lousy, when they win that day, you get that temporary happiness cookie, just for caring.

Hah!


* of course, this ambiguity is only because I am not a "true" Sox fan or Cubs fan. I have picked up and dropped loyalties for either at will for my whole life. Which means I am one of those true lepers of Chicago baseball-dom, the non-either nothing. This blog is Sox-fixated, to an extent, because I've always considered them cooler than the Cubs. And, come on, who could consider the Cubs cooler than anything? The Cubs were always your, "well, slow and steady wins the race, you know, and loyalty and true-heartedness wins out, and the Frog Prince, and the gnipgnop-au-go-go-au-rama shaboom." But the Sox were always the "Nah Nah, Hey Hey" beer and a shot, wooden-legged owner, exploding scoreboard, crazed random Vietnam vet giving you drunken incoherent life lectures between innings in the upper deck at Comiskey type of experience. The Sox weren't just bad in the late 70s, they were bad. I know I spent more time paying attention to the goddamn cuddly Cubbies, but the White Sox were sexy ... they were wicked. All the cool older brothers were into the Sox. Nowadays, I just love them both, and if that's wrong, baby, I don't wanna be right.

Those Wacky Tribune.com Headlines:Inaugural Edition

> Pilot's chest pains land plane

Wow! Those are some talented chest pains! Don't need none of that stewardess calling out for volunteers to fly this bird home shit ... Never mind, the dang chest pains will handle it! That's right, baby, those chest pains shot down seven bogies over The Nam, before they lost their nerve and became the inspiration for the Robert Hays character in "Airplane!"

And this here enlarged prostate's gonna taxi this fucker straight to the gate! On-time arrival, beeyotch! Cuz it's gotta pee!!

Oh, snap! The medical conditions are doing it for themselves now!

Saturday OCD Cont'd:Two Songs Fulla Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeahyeahyeahyeah Yeahyeah Yeah Yeah

Devo - Uncontrollable Urge



The B-52's - Dance This Mess Around

Saturday YouTube Blogging:New Wave Dystopia Edition

Tubeway Army - Are Friends Electric



Alice Cooper - Clones (We're All)



New Wave Schmenge

Some material I should sell to Spike O'Dell*

Hey, it's been 15 years now since the L.A. riots. Do you think any of the home electronics that were stolen by looters are still in use? How long does a stereo last these days? Boy, I sure miss my old transistor radio. It was red and had a big dial on it. AM only. Hey, you could get stations from all over the country. Remember Dick Biondi? He sure was edgy. Or so we thought then. Innocent times, hey.

Now here's some idiot with the traffic report, and, hey, after that, we've got Lou Piniella on the phone to discuss the Cubs' outfield woes. Hey, stay tuned, and get those dialing fingers warmed up, because when you hear Lou say "the phrase that conveys (a free good or service to a randomly chosen person who has not supplied consideration for the benefit, thereby making this giveaway a legal prize promotion rather than illegal gambling)," the 720th caller gets to play center in today's game against the Astros. Hey, why not? Everybody else has.

Hey.

(*this material also made available to Bob Sirott, except replace "some idiot with the traffic report" with "Max Armstrong with the daily agribiz rigamarole")

Happy Lee Elia Day

April 29, 1983

"Fuck those fuckin' fans who come out here and say they're Cub fans that are supposed to be behind you rippin' every fuckin' thing you do. I'll tell you one fuckin' thing, I hope we get fuckin' hotter than shit, just to stuff it up them 3,000 fuckin' people that show up every fuckin' day, because if they're the real Chicago fuckin' fans, they can kiss my fuckin' ass right downtown and PRINT IT.

"They're really, really behind you around here... my fuckin' ass. What the fuck am I supposed to do, go out there and let my fuckin' players get destroyed every day and be quiet about it? For the fuckin' nickel-dime people who turn up? The motherfuckers don't even work. That's why they're out at the fuckin' game. They oughta go out and get a fuckin' job and find out what it's like to go out and earn a fuckin' living. Eighty-five percent of the fuckin' world is working. The other fifteen percent come out here. A fuckin' playground for the cocksuckers. Rip them motherfuckers. Rip them fuckin' cocksuckers like the fuckin' players. We got guys bustin' their fuckin' ass, and them fuckin' people boo. And that's the Cubs? They talk about the great fuckin'
support the players get around here. I haven't seen it this fuckin' year. Everybody associated with this organization have been winners their whole fuckin' life. Everybody. And the credit is not given in that respect.

"Alright, they don't show because we're 5 and 14... and unfortunately, that's the criteria of them dumb 15 motherfuckin' percent that come out to day baseball. The other 85 percent are earning a living. I tell you, it'll take more than a 5 and 12 or 5 and 14 to destroy the makeup of this club. I guarantee you that. There's some fuckin' pros out there that wanna win. But you're stuck in a fuckin' stigma of the fuckin' Dodgers and the Phillies and the Cardinals and all that cheap shit. It's unbelievable. It really is. It's a disheartening fuckin' situation that we're in right now. Anybody who was associated with the Cub organization four or five years ago that came back and sees the multitude of progress that's been made will understand that if they're baseball people, that 5 and 14 doesn't negate all that work. We got 143 fuckin' games left.

"What I'm tryin' to say is don't rip them fuckin' guys out there. Rip me. If you wanna rip somebody, rip my fuckin' ass. But don't rip them fuckin' guys 'cause they're givin' everything they can give. And right now they're tryin' to do more than God gave 'em, and that's why we make the simple mistakes. That's exactly why."

Thanks to this site for the preceding transscipt, but the really complete version is featured in the following YouTube construction. The part at the very end where he trails off saying "It's a tough National League East. It's a tough National League, period" is almost heartbreaking. Or it would be, if I could stop laughing.



And God bless you, Les Grobstein, for taping this.

So what exactly do people cook in those things?

I was just over at Amazon.com looking at the product page for an enameled cast-iron dutch oven (a Le Creuset® knockoff), and the folks up by there helpfully provided this information for me:

Customers viewing this page may be interested in these Sponsored Links

Mulit-Panel Drug Test
www.DiagnosticWholesale.com In home drug test - Cocaine, Meth, THC, Amphetamines - low prices

OK, bad spelling aside, I can well imagine that in-home drug enthusiasts might also be "mulit" enthusiasts ... but really, what the hell is wrong with this country?

That question is rhetorical.

Jim Bouton Announces 2007 Vintage Base Ball World Series

Vintage Base Ball Federation press release:

JIM BOUTON ANNOUNCES
MASS MUTUAL VINTAGE BASE BALL WORLD SERIES

19TH CENTURY REPLICA BALLPARK PLANNED

Westfield, MA, April 25, 2007 - Former Yankee pitcher and Ball Four author Jim Bouton, and MassMutual Financial Group, will stage the 1st annual Vintage Base Ball World Series, at Bullens Field in Westfield. The four-team double elimination tournament (August 16 through 19, 2007) will include clubs from the Northeast, Michigan, and California. The World Series will follow the Vintage Base Ball Northeast Regional Playoffs (July 20, 21 & 22 and July 27, 28 & 29), an eight- team single elimination tournament, also to be played in Westfield, and produced by Bouton’s Vintage Base Ball Federation, LLC, with help from the Babe Ruth League, Boys & Girls Club, and WOW.

Vintage base ball (originally two words) is a fast growing sport (250 clubs in 32 states) in which amateur players adhere to the rules, uniforms, and equipment of the game’s 19th century roots. Young men in baggy uniforms wield fat handle bats at “lemon peel” stitched balls that are caught with gloves no bigger than a man’s hand. And it’s a “gentleman’s game,” in which the umpire (there is only one) is always addressed as “Sir.”

The Vintage Playoffs and World Series will have a 19th century atmosphere, with period music, costumed actors, barbershop quartet, and hand-painted 1880s style billboards. Children wearing newsboy caps and suspenders will sell programs, and prizes will be awarded to fans judged best examples of 19th century manners and dress.

Media Consolidation Kills

Today's "The [Thursday] Papers" column by Steve Rhodes on the always-excellent Beachwood Reporter page is a must-read. Go to it.

It wasn't news to those of us who have been paying attention, but Bill Moyers' Buying the War on PBS last night was still enough to make me want to ring up Tony Peraica and lead a drunken midnight march on the Tribune, Sun-Times, and the local television stations for their role in leading this country to a historically tragic war. They have blood on their hands.

And they still haven't owned up.

Language Peeve Cor(o)ner

When did "yeah" and "no" start to mean the same thing? As in, "Yeah, no, I agree," and "No, yeah, that's right." They're just rhythmic space fillers used in spastic and pointless small-talk .... Why don't people just grunt to fill space, instead of using words? E.g., "Ugh, phththphhh, I got your back, homey," or "Moop, twonk, my brain is a vacuum."

I think the "yeah no" phenomenon might be a symptom of some serious brain damage caused by trying to keep up with 16 layers of irony in every goddamn "Gen X"-and-recenter conversation. As in, "Yes I agree ... and maybe you thought I disagreed, but, no, in fact I agree, so, I say yes ... and maybe you think I'm kidding -- but no ... I really mean yes with the earnestness of a hundred yellow suns ... well, no, maybe not THAT much ... but yes anyway, to the ultimate topic of conversation -- and, no, I don't remember what that topic was" etc., except sped up to a frickin millisecond.

Chicago Myths Busted #1 -- Wrinkly Fold

I've noticed that a large number of people around the country have bought into many myths about the city of Chicago -- for example, that it's especially windy. It's not definitively known what inspired the whole "Windy City" nickname bullshit ("bullshit" being my stock term for anything I have been tired of for multiple decades), but it isn't anywhere near the windiest city in the United States. If you want to know which one is ... well, if you're using Firefox, there's a little search box in the upper right corner of the browser.

But I digress. Let's move on to the first (and, the way things with this blog usually go, probably the last) installment of a new blog feature: "Chicago Myths Busted."

Today's myth: Busted: Wrigley Field Is Not a Shithole.

OK, maybe I should phrase that more delicately. How about, Busted: Wrigley Field Is a Shrine to Baseball.

You hear it all the time -- it's a beautiful setting for baseball; it's full of history; it's a shriiiiiiiine. Nope. All wrong.

OK, it is a shrine. Wrigley Field -- or, as I like to call it, Wrinkly Fold -- is a shrine to piss. Pee, urine, micturition, whatever you wanna call it. It's the piss capital of America. Piss that smells like stale beer, and stale beer that smells like piss. Visitors to Wrinkly Fold learn quickly -- don't try to walk too fast on the ramps, because piss-drenched concrete is slippery. And having an ass soaked with the collective piss of many strangers might make you fit right in at Wrinkly, but it ain't very comfortable.

It's a beautiful setting for baseball? There are so many sub-myths tied up in that sentence that I don't know where to begin. First of all, I can agree with the statement, if "beautiful" is taken to mean "crumbling, rusting, cramped, and dank." Ever sit far back in the grandstand, in the deepest, darkest coal mine of a dungeon in all of United States-based franchised played-for-money baseball? Behind a column? Yeah, nothing says "beautiful setting for baseball" like sitting in one of Wrinkly's many, many, many, many, many "obstructed view" seats.

And history? Good grief. Sure, it's been open for a long time, so I guess there's history to the place. History of abject failure. Yeah, you can bring your kids there and say, "That's right, kids -- this is the place where Steve Ontiveros and Mick Kelleher played. Badly." I'm sure they'll pause from their PSP game for about 0.000000001 second to drink that in.

I won't even get into how miserable an experience it is to get to the place if you're an out-of-towner (no parking, way off the major highways, etc.) because I don't like to encourage out-of-towners to come here. Stay where you are, subhumanurbanites!

There are so many bad things to say about Wrinkly Fold that I'm running out of energy before I've extinguished even a fraction of them. Such as, the clubhouse conditions being so compact, antiquated, and generally crappy that I'm convinced the Cubs players forced to headquarter there will always be just plain too depressed to win many games. That would be evened out by the fact that the visitors' clubhouse is reported to be even worse (and is reputed to be, by far, the worst visitors' clubhouse anywhere, including Fallujah), but the Cubs have to spend 81 games a year there, which has gotta wear you down pretty bad.

Throw the limited number of night games (due to the yuppie schmucks dominating the vastly overrated, hellish, grotesquely Brueghelian surrounding neighborhood) into the mix, and you are well along the way to answering the question of why the Cubs will never, ever, ever, ever × infinity get to (let alone win) the World Series.

That answer -- they play in Wrinkly Fold.

(Related Myth: Cubs Fans Are the Greatest Fans in Baseball, or Are Even Remotely Tolerable. Busted! So totally, totally busted. More busted than Jayne Mansfield and Candy Samples combined. I don't have the time or energy today to fully debunk this one, but it's pretty self-evident. The most obvious proof of the mythitude of this myth being -- dey loves dem some Wrigley Field more than they love the Cubs. Because anyone who cares about that miserable, wretched, pathetic team at all would demand that whoever buys them next year build a real stadium, and turn Wrinkly into condos, a dog park, a bank, a housewares store, a federal penitentiary ... anything. Anything but the shittiest, pissiest, pukiest excuse for a ballpark in the known universe.)

POSTSCRIPT: Maybe this is old news (see Rick Morrissey's recent Tribune column on this very subject) and anybody who gives a shit has cried themselves out already. Or ... maybe I'm going to get some hostile commentary on this post. Which I guess I have asked for. Please! Hostile commentary! Want some!

Maybe in advance of that, I should clarify a couple things (which won't affect the hostility, I hope). First, I used to be a Cubs fan ... until the cumulative effect of 1984, 1989, and 2003 finished me off for good. Second, I used to enjoy going to Wrigley Field, until ... well, I still enjoy it. But then I have a high tolerance for rust, rubble, piss, discomfort, ignorance, and extremely horrific baseball. That may look like a smartass remark, but I really do. Doesn't make the rust, rubble, piss, discomfort, ignorance -- and especially the extremely horrific baseball -- go away.

All in all, it's my (two-part) position, and I'm sticking with it (both parts of it), that (1) Wrigley is very overrated (the dump wasn't exalted in the 1970s, I can tell you -- it was a cruel joke) and that (2) the Cubs are (gonna continue to be) going nowhere fast until they move.

Anyway, flame away. Chances are that if you even attempt to make a reasonable point, I'll agree with you. (Because I'm a semi-fictional character and don't really have any integrity to defend.) Hell, maybe I'll even reverse positions entirely. Myth Un-busted! Wrigley Field a hell of an enjoyable place to spend an afternoon! I mean, if I score any free or discount tix this season (god knows I can't afford to pay face value), I'll probably take that viewpoint ... temporarily. If I get enough Old Style in me, at least.

Late Late Friday Mingus Blogging

Charles Mingus - Flowers For A Lady (1974)


If you feel any good at all right now, play this, and you'll feel even better. It is really good.

Friday Food Bloggingggg

Baked tilapia fillet on a bed of fresh polenta (pureed sweet corn + butter) and topped with tomato & zucchini salsa. Steamed broccoli surrounding, duh. Kind of a mess of color, eh? Tasty, though.

There's still time to fit in a last-second flashback

Today is Bicycle Day -- anniversary of the first intentional LSD trip, taken by Albert Hofmann in 1943.

Yup.

No guff.

If I'm lyin', I'm buyin'. Hell, I'll buy anyway. Just point me in the direction of the nearest parking lot of a Grateful Dead show. Or whatever unreasonable facsimile thereof that is available.

I'm not dropping any acid ... those days of my misspent youth are long, long past. But I would enjoy watching YOUR little mind melt. Heh heh.

Remember, grasshopper, the secret of a happy LSD experience is "set and setting."

Here's how that goes. You dropped acid, and then you set, and now you're setting. When you wake up tomorrow with sore joints and a tight jaw, and probably suffering from mild to moderate depression resulting from Vitamin B deficiency (I made that side effect up, but it sounds plausible, doesn't it?), you will have set. If you take two tabs, we might find room for the present pluperfect tense, subjunctive mood.

OK. I was considering writing about some of my own personal experiences with Dr. Hofmann's problem child, but today was a print deadline day at my actual job, and ... you know how that excuse goes.

Maybe later tonight, I'll catch a second wind. I have a pretty good story about why sex and LSD don't go together as well as one might hope. There's a teaser for youse.

Possible Public Service Announcement

OK ... to the occasional certain Google queriers out there ... and you know who you are ... now, I am not a doctor, nor a nutritionist, but I'm going to go out on a limb and advise that you are probably better off NOT feeding edamame to your baby. At the very least, your baby can cultivate a taste for raw, young soybeans later in life, and will certainly feel no less privileged for the waiting. And maybe, in the meantime, not choke to death, or grow grotesque premature tits, or whatever other horrible I can make up off the top of my head.

Edamame + baby = No, is my position on the matter.

The Colickiest of Colicky Babies has spoke.

Day One of the Post-Parrot Era

Cause for celebration here at CBRAT Central. The upstairs neighbor with the T. Rex-sized screaming macaw (and a crazy greek chorus of other unknown birds) was asked to leave by building management for having pets not allowed by the lease, and she moved out yesterday, taking the creatures with her. So I can scratch one irritant off the mile-long list.

Further proof that I've got too much time on my hands

I have just spent a few anxious minutes taking inventory of the contents of my freezer, mostly to check for things that have been in there for bordering on too long, because my life is so minimalistically empty that I have to manufacture problems like when to eat up the leftover beef stew and split pea soup from mid-to-late January (and -- way up at Difficulty Level "Very High" -- the couple of single-serving-size Ziploc® containers of chicken noodle soup I made and put away in case of colds I never got this winter -- my "Emergency Preparedness" chicken soup, in other words), all of which have about two decent weeks of freezer life in them before irreversible deterioration will have passed the threshold of unreasonableness.

That is, unless you go by my parents' definition of freezer life, which is forever. But I try not to let things go much beyond three months. I think mom and dad just throw stuff away when it converts into a solid block of undifferentiated ice crystal, like some kind of food fossil. Or not. They probably never throw anything out, like Debbie Reynolds in the Albert Brooks movie, "Mother."

Don't underestimate the challenge, though. Because it will get warmer, someday -- and probably it'll shoot up all of a sudden into the upper 80s. And split pea soup does not go well at all with hot weather. Then what? Huh? Then what? That stuff ain't gonna keep till autumn!

Like I said, I've got too much time on my hands. In the words of Mr. Tommy Shaw from Styx.

Maybe in the next post I'll tackle the pitfalls and heartbreaks of the crisper drawer.

Goodbye Blue Monday

Squirt Preparation H® here

I don't really have anything substantive to add to the massive amount of obituary material on Kurt Vonnegut burgeoning webally today, but I wanted to post something. So, in lieu of a bunch of words gushing about how much I dug him and how big an influence he had on my dark sense of humor and secular humanist viewpoint and all that, here's something graphical from the first book of his that I read, a long time ago -- Breakfast of Champions -- still one of my favorites. Yup, that's right. It's a drawing of an asshole. I don't know if it's appropriate to the occasion or not, but I have never stopped cracking up when I think about this drawing, and I thank him for that gift. Which doesn't really parse ... thanking a dead humanist. But what the heck?

Three by Redbone

Hm, the corner street light is out at the moment. That's good, because I'm not dodging the shafts of glare bursting thru the blinds while I pointless up some blog. Although I suppose it's not so good for security. Oh well.

But I digress. The point of this post is to impose a few veddeos by the first rock band I remember being aware of -- Redbone. Not Leon ... the Native Merkin R&B group.

Why Redbone? Well, my mother, Ma Moss, is kind of ... I dunno how to put it ... an Indian freak. I guess you could call her an amateur Native American Studies scholar, of sorts ... but I think the truth is that she's besmitten by some kind of fetish. But let's not go there.

Anyway, from an early age ... I think you could call it "birth" ... I was indoctrinated into some twisted sort of suburban wannabe American Indian Movement ethos. And, to tie it up quickly, Redbone was part of that. Cuz Ma Moss had all their rekkids, and the likes of the following made sure that a young Stronger Than Dirt was pissed off about Wounded Knee before he even knew what it was:



Redbone - Wounded Knee

Redbone also had a strong Cajun identity. They had a pretty solid hit (charting higher in the UK but getting some attention over here) with this original number, which brought a little New Orleans swamp sound to the potlatch (although this was not on their album named "Potlatch," but now I'm tripping over my own metaphors):

>

Redbone - Witch Queen of New Orleans

The Redbone song I remember best is one of the first pop songs I can recall hearing on the radio and having around the house on LP when it was a hit. This one has been covered by a couple of artists in more recent years, and Cyndi Lauper quoted its chorus in a 1994 remake of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." It's probably their least "Indian" tune. And it was all over WLS and WCFL all the time for a while. From 1974:



Redbone - Come and Get Your Love

This Just In: Baseball Players Are Wussies

As you may have noticed, I like baseball. It reminds me of summer vacations and all that nice childhoody kinda crap. But the early weeks of the season always suck, because spring doesn't start in Chicago until ... never. And most Aprils I somehow find myself attending a game or two at Wrigley Field (er, "SMonkey Field" ... see below) -- which is, science tells us, the coldest place on earth. I have frozen my hiney off at a lot of ballgames, including a World Series game in Pittsburgh in 1979 at the second coldest place on earth, the now-non-extant Three Rivers Stadium. It's painful to endure winter weather for an outdoor summer sport.

But this is just ridiculous:

Friday's scheduled game between the White Sox and the Minnesota Twins has been postponed due to the extremely cold temperatures and winds in the weather forecast.

Aww ... widdle miwwionaiwes might get chiwwy and fweeze dem's widdle pee-pees.

OK, maybe management just figures nobody will show up and they'll lose a ton of money on lost beer sales and parking fees. Or maybe they just realized that the Sox have no pitching this season. It stands to reason -- although they'll never admit it. It wouldn't do to say, "Tonight's game postponed due to the high probability of severe sucking by the home team." This kind of candor could only lead to the inevitable late-September announcement, "Game canceled due to lack of interest."

Not that the Sox don't have any strengths in '07. Hell, they might win 8 or 10 games just from A.J. Pierzynski pretending to get hit by pitches.

"Stronger Than Dirt"

Jay and the Techniques

Hey Hey, Holy Mackerel ... The Investment Oppatoonity of a Lifetime!

Now it can be told. One O Ball and myself, Stronger Than Dirt Pete Moss, have just won ownership of the Chicago Cubs in an eBay auction. Now we only have to come up with the money. I can toss in 400 bucks, and Otis has a collection of Dogfish Head bottlecaps and a DVD-R boot of the "Bill Zebub Collection" (Link NSFW). So ... who wants to invest? We're going to rename the ballpark "SMonkey® Field" and hire some strippers. Hell, whether or not we manage to buy the Cubs, we'll probably do that.

Leave a comment with an email address and I'll send instructions on how to "invest" through our SMonkeyPal® account.

Two down ... 160 to go

Apparently the White Sox have overmisinterpreted the MLB rule that sez pitchers can blow into their hands on cold days, and have just decided to blow generally.

Bah ... I'm just disappointed that I almost had a real good "Gravity City" item today, but it didn't ... quite ... happen:

A "wind wall" dangled atop U.S. Cellular Field this morning after a weld broke loose in high winds, prompting police to close three blocks of West 35th Street to traffic near the ballpark.

But the damage wasn't expected to interfere with this afternoon's scheduled game between the White Sox and Cleveland Indians.

Yeah, good thing that game wasn't interfered with.

This blog needs more bloggers

Cuz I got nothing at the moment. No energy, no inspiration, and especially no energy. Lately, after spending all day staring at a flickering screen and pecking away at a keyboard for a living, the idea of doing so some more for "fun" with any rigor or enthusiasm is feeling a little beyond me. Last year, I tried to give The Dez a password and license to blog, but he wisely declined. Or mercifully declined, depending on one's point of view. Or both. (I vote for both. I always vote for both, because I'm a "yes, whipped cream AND ice cream on my apple pie AND punkin pie, please" kind of guy. In other words, I'm fat.) Maybe I'll have to create a fake blogger profile in his name and start fictionalizing some Dez posts ... that'll show him.

This is why I can't have nice things ...

... Because my friends make them buttfuck each other when I'm out of the room.



"Why, Mister Punk Cyclops Troll! You're ... you're beautiful ... from behind! Ook! Ook!"

I Wanna See You Kiss Him

It's getting warmer, and this is, after all, White Sox Nation over by here, so I've been hearing and loving and singing along with this song on the radio a lot this week -- good ole "Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye)," by Steam.

Holy cow ... this will be the 30th season since the White Sox started playing that song, and I remember that summer well, 1977. That was the year I attended my first Sox game, at the late, lamented old Comiskey Park.

This song still rocks, and still makes me ready for summer, but this video ... is just hilarious. I somehow never pictured Steam as comprising a bunch of fat white dudes who all look like Mike "Meathead" Stivic.

Show Some Respect for the Humble Index

I've been indexing for the last two days, and boy are my brains tired. Remaining vague as always about my gig, I'll just reveal that the task has fallen on me to whip up an index for a new book I've been editing for the last few months. I've indexed many books over the last several years (including one on a freelance basis for an acquaintance who I won't name drop, except to hint that he used to, until recently, blog a very, very wordy "dangeral" blog of some notoriety), and it's a task I find relatively interesting and satisfying ... but if you've never done it, lemme tell you, it's harder than it sounds. In fact, I'm too mentally tired to blab at length about how challenging indexing can be, so maybe you'll be kind enough to suspend disbelief at the assertion that putting terms, names, and concepts in alphabetical order so that people can find things they need to find is, despite the simplicity of the concept, not a cake walk.

It can be fun, though (if you're a nerd). Not only is it a little like putting together a big word puzzle, it also provides the chance to make one's own creative mark on the book. An index is, in a way, a retelling of the narrative. Years ago, it even occurred to me that it might be a cool idea to write fiction in the form of an index. Then I read Pale Fire ... and I discovered, to some chagrin of my own, that Nabokov had already done it, and, of course, vastly more skillfully and entertainingly than I could ever hope to do. The index to Pale Fire, in fact, is one of my very favorite pieces of fiction. But then I guess I'm biased. Biased in favor of indexes, man.

Nowadays, with so much information in electronic form, and the internets and search engines and everything, old-fashioned thumb indexes don't get a lot of regard. But they're still useful -- particularly when you don't know exactly what you're looking for, and what sub-topics might be of interest. You can find things via an index that you didn't even know you were looking for. I love doing research on-line, but I still stand behind the index, dammit. The index remains sound.

So, yeah, the humble index. Next time you're thumbing through one, please show a little respect for it and the poor underpaid drone who made it. It didn't get there on its own.

Meier Hired

This just in ... Garry Meier has signed on for the 8 to 11 a.m. shift on WCKG. The mighty mighty Opie & Anthony will be on from 5 to 8. No further details on the whereabouts of Wendy Snyder are known by this blog.

By the way, I have to wonder about all you people who visit here asking the googical question "Why was Wendy fired?" -- Did you listen to the Dahl show at all over the last couple of years? It's not like things were going well for her there. I like Wendy, and I've listened to Dahl for about [mumble mumble] years, even though I often wonder why ... but the better question would be, why did she last so long? She wasn't allowed to contribute much and didn't have much of a role other than tolerating Dahl's insults and pretending his jokes were funny. Although she is apparently missed -- and one friend of the blog recently opined that Dahl's show is "kind of a sausage fest" without her.

Anyway, it's radio. People are fired all the time.

OK, I'm tired of milking this topic. But Wendy Snyder fans are welcome to continue visiting.

I'm looking forward to checking out Meier's show, I guess, although I usually want to listen to music when I'm fighting traffic on the way to work in the morning. It will be interesting to see if he can finally shake the "second banana" rep. And by interesting, I mean most likely dull and lame. Like I said, it's radio. People are dull and lame all the time. People helping people. Traffic and weather together on the downbeat.

UPDATE: OK, here's why I listen to Dahl's show -- frequent call-ins by White Sox radio dude, Ed Farmer. The following account is stolen blatantly from Dahl's website's "show log," but doesn't do the story justice. Farmio rulez.

5:24 Ed had a run in with some guy in the security line. The guy told him he was in the wrong line. There were two lines so Ed went into the shorter one, crazy him. Then he hears some guy saying "hey you, the line starts back here"

5:25 There were two lines and Ed pointed that out to him. Then the guy came up to make sure Ed heard him.

5:26 Ed told the guy he was under the misconception that he was afraid of him. The guy grabbed Ed's right arm so he turned it down towards his thumb and told him he was going to be wearing his butt on his head on the way home.

5:27 The security guys weren't even watching so they didn't notice what was happening. Then the guy said something over his shoulder and Ed told he didn't want to hear any more and that he fights dirty.

Today in Great Chicago Sports Names Today: Autumn Champion

As you know, the start of professional major league men's baseball season is just around the corner. And just around that corner is the start of professional fast-pitch women's softball. On May 29th, the NPF's Chicago Bandits face the Rockford Thunder on opening night. We ... uh, I ... here at CBRAT are am, as we I tend to get about such stuff, quite excited.

Returning to the Bandits this season is ace flamethrowing pitcher Jennie Finch -- you know her, you love her, you just don't want to find yourself in the batter's box facing her. For their part, the Rockford Thunder have added Olympic gold-medalist and all-around superstar Cat Osterman to their roster, so things should be interesting.

New to the Bandits team this season is the early front-runner for "Best Chicago Sports Team Member Name" for 2007 -- sorry, Rocky Cherry, you bane bumped down to 2nd place (although you still should get an ice cream flavor named after you).

Yeah, I'm referring to outfielder Autumn Champion. Her name sounds kind of like a character in a Thomas Pynchon novel, but, nope, she's a softball player:

The Bandits have acquired 2006 All NPF Team selection, Autumn Champion from the folded Arizona Heat. This two year veteran brings both consistancy and speed to the lineup. She led the Heat in batting average with a redhot .403 and stolen bases with 18. In 72 at bats, Champion had 11 runs, 29 hits, nine RBI, one double, one triple and four walks.

Champion played her college ball for the University of Arizona Wildcats. She was a two time NFCA first team All-American selection. She also earned Pac-10 All-Academic honors and was named to the ESPN the Magazine Academic All-District VIII team.

I can't find information on the Bandits' website about the broadcast schedule for this season, but I watched several Bandits games on Comcast Sports Net last summer, and I am definitely a fan. If you haven't yet followed this sport, give it a chance. And tell them Stronger Than Dirt sent you.

A Plea

Hey, my plea for information about Duane Dow last summer was actually quite successful, in terms of getting some information from "out there," so why not try another pop-cultural plea?

Anyway, what I'm wondering is, when is the movie "The Life of Reilly" going to be available on DVD? Or get shown (again?) in Chicago? Because I have wanted to see this movie for several months. The trailer is OK, but the clips on the promotional website are really worth watching.

And, thanks to the magic of that crazy thing YouTube, here's the first 10 (ish) minutes of the picture -- Charles Nelson Reilly's monologue of his life. It's like Spalding Gray meets ... Charles Nelson Fucking Reilly. This is a must see motion picture.

Today's Where Wendy Is Bulletin Today

Robert Feder reports:

Wendy Snyder is filling in this week as traffic reporter for Don Wade and Roma's morning show on WLS. She most recently held the same job for Steve Dahl's afternoon show on WCKG.

Oh yeah, by the way, the same Feder column says that Garry Meier may be picked up soon by WCKG for a late-morning talk show slot ... so the rumor attempted to be started by this blog several weeks ago wasn't so far off base after all.