Weds Nite No Reason at All Post

One or two or more of the people at large and in the roster of occasional blog visitees know that I am one of the larger Mike Nesmith fans, and not just by volume or carat weight. Here's a YT thang I am especially taken with because during the part where Mike is trying to remember what key it's in, I shouted "G!" and then right on cue he said "No, it's definitely not G."

Anyway, sweet song.


Mike Nesmith - Wax Minute

But it ain't my favorite Nez song. This one is. This is the song I fell for after checking out the "Live at the Palais" LP from the Gurnee public library sometime in the early 1980s. And this version contains a story -- the story of the song, even.



Mike Nesmith - Grand Ennui

Actually, though, this is my favorite Mike Nesmith tune. He did it with the Monkees. It's also my favorite Monkees song. I could listen to this one over and over, and sometimes I do.



The Monkees - You Just May Be The One

Words lack the power ...

I'm going to lift the following (short) news item from ChicagoTribune.com wholesale because it contains so much ... so ... much that mere reference is insufficient. Just a few of the CBRATian elements (would-be tags if I had the energy to set up a whole tagging scheme): Cubs, Sox, Gurnee, drunken suburban violence, unspellable names, and inaccessibility by phone.

For some reason this story reminds me of a bit of spam I received last week, which had the best spam email subject heading I think I've ever gotten. It said:

Nazi toddlers ruined my birthday

It was all I could do not to open it. Anyway, I guess this is more like "Nazis ruin toddler's birthday," but that's pretty damn close. Close enough to spur a little "thematic connection" synapse in my brain.

Maybe I'll expound more on this tomorrow, with more prose and whatnot, but for now here it is, the most Stronger Than Dirt Pete Mossiest news item of 2008, so far:

Cubs fans accused of beating White Sox fan

The Associated Press
8:31 PM CDT, July 28, 2008

HUNTLEY, Ill. - McHenry County authorities say three Chicago Cubs fans face felony battery charges after allegedly beating a Chicago White Sox fan so badly he lost his right eye.

The men are accused of beating 32-year-old Robert Steele of Gurnee during a 2-year-old girl's Sesame Street-themed birthday party.

Police said Monday the men were drinking alcohol at the July 19th party and taunting Steele.

They say Steele was kicked in the head and his nose was broken. He stayed several days at an Elgin hospital.

Thirty-one-year-old Jaroslaw Czapla, 37-year-old Boguslaw Czapla and 33-year-old Maciej Trojnar face mob action and aggravated battery charges.

Jaroslaw Czapla's number is unlisted. There were no listings for Boguslaw Czapla or Trojnar.

Ich bin ein Old Man

Oy. Apparently I cannot rrrock like I vaguely recall being able to do. Caught a show at the Empty Bottle last nite, and boy are my everythings tired. I only had two beers, but my body is no longer equipped to stand upright for that many hours in a row. Anyway, another fine performance by Scott Hiram Biram, supported by the outlandish Bob Log III and Fort Wayniacs Left Lane Cruiser. If you weren't there, sorry to have missed you.

This blog is undergoing serious summertime neglect, for which I apologize to my dozen or so readers. With any luck, and some rest, I'll get back to it pretty soon, maybe tonight. For now, here's a YouTubed-up sampling of the stuff that's making me drag ass like McCain's older brother today.



Left Lane Cruiser - Wash It



Bob Log III - I Want Your Shit on My Leg



Scott H. Biram - Fixing to Die

Krazy Kitten Korner: Piper and Mingus Glad to Be Back in Chi, Wrecking Stuff

City baby cats say, "Oi, oi! What shall we destroy next?"



Charged GBH - City Baby Attacked By Rats/City Baby's Revenge

Sat Nite YT Vid Post: I Wonder What the Hell Ever Happened to My Goddamn Ween Tape Edition

Sometime in 1992 I lost a goddamn Ween tape, specifically the cassette version of their 1991 album "The Pod," and I never found the mutherfucker. I was in law school at the time, living in a somewhat crappy apartment in Urbana, Illinois, in between Green Street and Main Street, on Elm. Just in case you want to get in a time machine and past-stalk me. I have no idea what happened to that fucking Ween tape. It's bugged me ever since. Where did you go, Ween tape? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Woo woo woo.

Roughly around that same time (as in, roughly around some set of dates within the confines of the three year period I lived in that apartment) there was a homeless dude squatting in the utility closet in the hallway. Not literally squatting -- actually, he would sort of lie in there on his back with his rancid legs sticking out the makeshift wood-panel door (sans padlock). And, naturally, he would cough, snort, hack, spit, and rant and rave all night long, snarling curses at Jesus H. Christ and whatever other motherfucking cocksucking shit shit shit fuck demons that were getting his Irish up. That utility closet was separated from my living room by a metal grating that I didn't feel incredibly confident about, vis a vis its physical integrity, so after about four days I got the landlord to put a lock on the closet door. But ... maybe during those four days, that dude used telekinetic powers to unscrew the screws to that metal grate, crawled into my living room, and TOOK MY GODDAMN WEEN TAPE. Then he crawled back into the closet, re-telekinetically-screwed the screws back into place, and left the entire scene as he found it, with no apparent evidence of tampering. OTHER THAN THE ABSENCE OF MY WEEN TAPE.

Or else maybe something else happened to it. Beats me. Anyway, I used to like this "Pork Roll Egg and Cheese" tune from that tape a lot, and now of course there's YouTube (until Sumner Redstone and his evil fucking minions of fuck ruin it), so I don't even need that futhermucking goddamn missing shit tape shit shit shit Jesus fuck your mother fuck your brother bleaaaggghhhh grmble gbah ghrahrr blegghghhhh! Hack! Ptui! Wheeze!

Dream of the Sam Adams and Drambuie Fiend (don't ask)

Last night I dreamed that I was making out with Jenna Fischer, and then we were interrupted by Stephen Colbert, who wanted me to look over a little John McCain skit he'd written for his show, you know, to see what I thought about it. It was pretty funny and surreal, something about a plane crash that McCain averted with his superhero-like physical strength. Then Jenna Fischer and I started making out again, while Colbert and his entire crew watched. Then I woke up. God damn it. Where's a persistent vegetative state when you need one?

Politics and History Corner: Profiles in Scrotal Courage: Like Riding a Wire Fence: The LBJ's Slacks Years

People often, in my imagination, ask me, "Hey Colicky, hey Mr. Obama's Not Good Enough, has there ever been a President you've liked? Do you have a favorite?"

Well, pretend questioner person, that one's easy. Yes! My favorite President of the USA is the one who was (purely coincidentally) occupying the White House when I was born -- and that would be Mr. Lyndon Baines Johnson, of Texas.

Yeah, I know. Nobody but history profs looking for something contrary to say in a bid to get attention defend LBJ's presidency. LBJ escalated the Vietnam War, was a lifelong racist, and probably ordered the hit on JFK, but he made some really excellent tapes of his own private phone conversations. Much better than the Nixon tapes, even.

Everyone knows all about the wacky LBJ tapes already -- at least they do if they've listened to about five seconds of NPR in the last 10 or 11 years. But that fact doesn't diminish their total brilliancy and sublime geniosity.

Below is embedded a YouTube rendering of my favorite LBJ tape. Nope, it's not the "goat glands" tape, although that one kicks zany ass, too. And it's not the really creepy one where he hits on Jackie Kennedy. My favorite LBJ tape -- I've summoned recollection of bits of it often for more than 10 years now; as such, it's been an invaluable source of inspiration and wisdom: you might say it's my bright shining beacon in a dark and stormy world -- is the tape of the phone call he made to the Haggar people, ordering six pairs of lightweight pants for casual summer wear.

Among the things we learn from this recording is that LBJ carried his own money -- and a pocket knife. Imagine that -- I don't think John McCain has even set eyes on cash money in at least 25 years, let alone toted his own supply. The Secret Service would probably never allow any President or candidate to carry around a knife. The current Preznit might have allegedly prodigious brush-clearing skills, but I suspect that if he'd ever been permitted the possession of his very own keen Victorinox Swiss Army model, he wouldn't have choked on a pretzel a few years ago -- he would have gouged out his hard palate with the sewing awl. If LBJ were still alive, he'd probably be brandishing a Leatherman Juice Xe6 multi-tool -- or two -- Secret Service be damned.

We also learn at right around two minutes into the excerpt that when LBJ gained a little weight, he suffered from ... a specific variety of physical discomfort. As a guy who's made the mistake of over-hasty and over-thrifty trouser selections, I gotta admit, I can sympathize. If I could get Haggar on the horn and make them throw in an inch here and two inches there, I would.

He does seem very pleased with himself when the gentleman at Haggar asks where he wants them sent, and LBJ replies, "White House," but wouldn't you? Sure, we're all humble and lovable shoe-shine boys and girls in our humdrum lives here, but I defy any one of you to become leader of the Western world without revealing a little pride when you give your address to catalog retailers. Although I like to believe I'd temper it a little bit -- "Yeah, send them to the White House -- basement apartment." Besides, I wouldn't really need to impress anyone -- I'd just be happy that my balls finally felt really good.

So, please enjoy. There's also a Real Media version and a real nice transcript hyah.

Ess Ayy Tee YouTube Arr Dee Ayy Why Nite Video Post: You Can't Spell "Gurnee" Without "Gun" Edition

I hope everybody had a nice Jesus Christ's Favorite Country's Birthday yesterday. I'm still up hyah in the wilds of northeastern Lake County, on the edge of nothing, at the tangential point between zero and the square root of negative one. Near the skeevy crotch formed by the Lake Mitchikan coast and the shockingly non-fortifried border with Winksconskin.

I last lived full-time in this region (in this house, even) in that decade I like to call "The Eighties." During the last half of that decade, I was pretty heavily into hardcore punk -- especially Midwest-style (you know, that Naked Raygun-type "Whoa oh" variety) -- an example of which being frontman Tesco Vee's Michigan/D.C. combo, The Meatmen.

Here's a fine Meatmen number that, for me, at the time, in the place, under the conditions prevailing, summed up the local Zeitgeist fairly close to 100 percent accurately. With references to Harleys, snowmobiling, monster trucks, Pabst, Montgomery Ward, and bowling, you've got just about every ingredient of this still-rural, brackish zone between IL and WI in the Reagan '80s. Not to mention the misogyny and general violent fuckheadery. I'm not sure if this Upper Midwest brand of redneck cretinism still dominates hereabouts, or if things have ch-ch-ch-changed, but I have a feeling you don't have to search with a fine-toothed comb to find plenty of dudes like the character in this tune.

Not that I have much latitude to mock. For a while in high school my own uniform involved a mullet and a flannel shirt, and my best friend drove an El Camino. And just yesterday I grilled up some brats, ja hey, and smoked some beers, so ... yeah, I guess I might be an Upper Midwest Redneck, too.

Who's for another beer? Hell, ja! You fuckin' betcha!



The Meatmen - True Grit

My wife laments -- I drink! I’m crass!
Plug her little sister in the ass
Please do not of house chores, dearest, speak
Cuz the truck pull derby is this week

I’m a scumbag -- I know what I like
Plodding loony on my Harley D. bike
Bowling league and a dozen beer runs
Snowmobiling over bunnies is fun

My four-wheeler is 60 feet high
Jack and Cokes in the morning, spouse cries
Poaching wildlife for personal gain
Gunaholic commie-hatin’ insane!

When I get all hostile, in a snit
I’m true blue dirtbag -- I am true grit!
When I shine my piece it gets real stiff
I’m a nasty, ass-kickin' prick when I get miffed!

Shooting pool at "White Trash Magnet Lanes"
Flirt with boozy, sleazy, bleachy dames
I was weaned on my dad’s sphincter ring
Ten years old before I said a thing

I’m a redneck -- I know what I like
Death for fudge-packin’ homos and dykes
Equal rights for the wenches? No way!
Mother, guts, God and Ronnie’s OK

Got a case of Pabst soaked in me gourd
Got my "Action Slacks" from Montgomery Wards
Poaching wildlife for personal gain
Gunaholic commie-hatin’ insane!

When I get all hostile, in a snit
I’m true blue dirtbag -- I am true grit!
When I shine my piece it gets real stiff
I’m a nasty, ass-kickin' prick when I get miffed!

Summertime, and the blogger is lazy

Some people say there are two kinds of Republican voter: millionaires and suckers. OK. I'll buy that. But there's only one kind of Democratic voter: suckers. (There are millionaires who vote Democratic, to be sure, but they're subsumed within the "sucker" category.)

Why I Drink: Stinking in the Suburbs Edition

Yeah, so, I'm up in Lake friggin County (land of not quite enough flooding, unfortunately), house and cat sitting for my parents while they're back east on their annual visit to see my dad's side of the family. The kittens are pestering their old cat, eating his food, playing with his toys. He's not too happy about it. I'd prefer to be elsewhere, myself. This is my least favorite part of the summer. I can't stand the suburbs. I did some grocery shopping at a "Super Wal-Mart" in Waukegan this afternoon and I wanted to break into one of the shotgun cases and Hemingway (Cobain?) myself. Hellish. Nothing's within walking distance, all the cars are gigantic, and everyone drives 900 miles an hour -- badly. The people are all super-sized, too, as if someone injected them with a huge syringe full of brine, like a cheap ham. Not just fat -- big. Necks bigger around than my waist -- and I have a pretty fat waist. Calves like beer barrels. Goddamn military crewcuts on their leathery, huge heads. And the men are even worse!

Feline Engineering Disasters

Episode 1: Fresca Box Tunnel breached by pesky sister.

Argh: In which a rant about FISA devolves into a strange sports metaphor and then ends ... simply ends

Two things I can't sit through without the word "bullshit" playing in my mind over and over for the duration are: a church service (any church service) and a House floor debate on C-SPAN.

After watching Nancy Pelosi this morning, I may be unable to eat for the rest of the day. My appetite has seceded from the Union. My entire digestive system is now calling itself The Free Alimentary Canal Zone of Occupied North America.

I wonder how my old crim law prof, Wayne LaFave, feels these days. LaFave is the country's leading expert on Fourth Amendment law, and his treatise on search & seizure is recognized as the leading work on the subject. I don't want to ascribe any particular political leanings to him -- because I, frankly, don't know for sure what his political opinions are -- but I have to imagine that it must be weird for him that the entire span of meaningful Fourth Amendment protection has fit within his entire professional career.

LaFave's writing was, it can be argued, instrumental in the development of search & seizure law as we knew it. One thing they don't teach the heck out of in high school civics and history classes is that the Bill of Rights didn't have a lot of practical value for ordinary citizens until relatively recently. Depending on which right you're talking about, none of the "rights" in the Constitution really existed until some point in the 20th Century. The Fourth Amendment was not applied to state governments until 1961 -- before that, it had no effect on most criminal prosecutions. The "reasonable expectation of privacy" test for search and seizure -- which has become at least somewhat familiar to most reasonably well-educated Americans -- didn't exist until 1967. Even the exclusionary rule -- without which, the right to be free from unreasonable searches and seizures was essentially meaningless -- wasn't established until 1914.

After the Warren Court expanded search and seizure protections into something approaching practical reality, the Burger and Rehnquist Courts began taking a whittling knife to the Fourth Amendment. Exception after exception was adopted throughout the Reagan-Bush-Clinton years. The Bush Two administration has made tool upgrades to an axe, a chain saw, and an Acme®-brand Wile E. Coyote-style TNT demolition device. The Roberts Court seems likely to accelerate the process.

The NSA approached telecoms with its plan for comprehensive citizen surveillance six months prior to that Big Boom-Boom Day that's used to justify all subsequent legal erosions to our civil liberties. Everything from FISA to Daley's lust for CCTV cameras convinces me that "privacy rights" existed only as long as it was too technologically unfeasible or expensive to spy on everyone. Now that the technology is capable and cheap, all bets are off. Total exposure to government monitoring now seems inevitable. Why? Because they can.

For a brief time -- well shorter than the average span of a human life -- the Constitution rose slightly above mere "piece of paper" status. It is now, to borrow a phrase from the baseball stat nerds, "reverting to the mean." The Constitution is like a pitcher who had several lousy seasons in his early career, then broke out and won 20 games for a couple of seasons and a Cy Young Award, and then blew his arm out.

Yeah, that's right, I just implied that the Constitution is like Steve Stone. Which indicates to me that this rant has run its course. In closing, as Lenny Bruce would say, "Emmis."

ON A LIGHTER NOTE: But, hey, it's Crosstown Classic weekend! I predict the Sox will take two out of three at Wrigley, and sweep next weekend at The Cell. This could be good news for Friend of CBRAT, Mr. "Pat" Jacobson, who vowed a few weeks ago that he would give up his left nut in exchange for a Sox sweep of the whole kaboodle.

So, if you find yourself walking around in the Uptown/Andersonville Terrace area this weekend, and you hear a voice coming from a window somewhere -- yelling "Pat's left nut! Pat's left nut!" -- don't be alarmed. That will just be me.

UPDATE: PAT'S LEFT NUT LIVES: Well, we can put away the Burdizzo. Cubs win, 4-3. The Sox will not be sweeping the Crosstown Classic in 2008.

This update was brought to you by "Pat's Left Nuts on Clark," serving the Wrigleyville Community for nearly 30 snacktastic years.

Wednesday Night Blog Meeting: Cats Named, Sox Good Again

After much deliberation and trial and error, I laid names on my crazy new furry buddies. I'm calling the boy Mingus, after Charles, my favorite jazz genius. Mingus the cat has some of Mingus the man's audacity. And Charles Mingus was tuned in enough with felines that he was able to teach his cat Nightlife to use the toilet.

I'm calling the girl Piper, not so much after notable girl Pipers Piper Laurie, Piper Perabo, or even Buzz Kilman's daughter Piper, as Rowdy Roddy. My favorite pro grappler. I know Roddy is a dude, but if you saw Piper the kitten wrestle, you'd get where I'm coming from. Piper is here to do two things: kill toy mice, and kick your ass. And all the toy mice are lost under the couch.

In other good news, the Sox pummeled the Pittsburgh Butt Pirates again tonight. I call them the Butt Pirates because they are butt pirates. Actually, I still have some nostalgia for the Pirates, because I attended game four of the 1979 World Series, at Three Rivers Stadium ... which they lost, but they came back to win the series. Steve Stone pitched in relief for the Orioles at that game, and now he's doing excellent radio work with Ed Farmer on AM 670, so it all comes back to the White Sox in the final analysis. I'm believing in them again. Don't let me down, you (pale) hosers.

And now for some YouTubes, cuz at least a few people seem to enjoy them. First up is a short biography of Charles Mingus, followed by a little "Hot Rod" Piper.

Personnel Announcement

I'm pleased to announce that today we added two new staffers to the CBRAT®-brand blogging family. Please join me in welcoming ... uh ... they don't have names yet.

On the left: unnamed girl kitten. On the right: unnamed boy kitten. Their interests include attacking my sneakers, falling asleep on my sneakers, and attacking my sneakers some more.

Don't you know / The Lord above / Created you / Just for me to love

At the risk of overloading this here CBRAT with Gugug (impossible!), I'm embedding up this YouTube video just 16 hours old, offered in tribute to Bo Diddley. This is a number I first heard on a collection I bought on cassette shortly after being blown all the way to the end of creation and back by Bo's set at the Chicago Blues Fest in June 1986. I still haven't stopped yammering about that performance. Changed my damn life.

Peter Meehan Is a Blithering Idiot

The NY Times "Travel" section today has an interactive map of ballparks, allegedly describing the best and worst food choices available at them.

What does dimwitted, water-headed, shit-for-a-palate "food writer" Peter "Wouldn't Know My Ass From a Hole in the Ground Except That My Ass Is What I Pull My Prose Out Of" Meehan have to say about U.S. Cellular Field?



I have a feeling that Meehan has never actually visited Sox Park. As long as I've been going to baseball games in Chicago -- which is over 30 years -- Sox Park has had far superior food to the ivy-covered urinal on the North Side. (At Wrigley, he recommended the Italian sausage and advised skipping the hot dogs, with which I can't argue. Except that I'd advise skipping the Italian sausage and the entire trip, as well. Nothing is good at Wrigley, unless you enjoy comparing your tackle with other mens' while pissing in a trough.)

Paper of record? To quote Lee Elia, "My ass."

POSTSCRIPT: For a more sensible review of U.S. Cellular Field's food, see this Sports Illustrated fan survey, in which Sox Park ranked 2nd best for eats, with 58.8% rating it as "excellent." (Wrigley Field -- 22nd best, with 14% excellence.)

So long, Bo

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

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

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

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



Gugug (feat. Duglas) - Georgy Girl

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



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

From the fine programme, Later with Jools Holland:



Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Smells Like Teen Spirit

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



Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Teenage Kicks

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



Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Life on Mars

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



Warren Zevon - Hula Hula Boys

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



Keonepax - Pu'u Anahulu

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

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

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

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

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



Gil Scott-Heron - Whitey on the Moon



Gil Scott-Heron - Black History



Gil Scott-Heron - No Knock



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

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

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

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

"Unbelievable play," Swisher said.

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

I will edit Swishy's statement for him.

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