| Good heavens, Margaret! |
[Jul. 3rd, 2006|01:32 pm] |
It has been, essentially, since the meteoric rise of My---ce (in which I have been involved more heavily than I'd like to admit of late) and also since the advent of my local music blog for work ...
where was I going?...
anyway, those two things, plus other factors (alcoholism, separation) have contributed to my not taking on the Trayfnyak mantle since the leaves were yellow and a' fallin' from the trees.
So, visit me at those two places to which I have directed you if you want more frequent peeks into my ongoing depravity. But because nobody I work with or whom I have met in Kansas City knows about this blog but you my old friends, I'll definitely be tempted to post here more often. |
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| harvest in the dark |
[Nov. 14th, 2005|04:10 am] |
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It's four in the morning. I've spent all evening, all night, all morning so far writing an article on the Tragically Hip. I'm down to the very, very end -- just need that final cap on it -- and outside, I can hear Canada geese honking as they fly south for winter. If you don't get the power of that coincidence, then you need to go out immediately and buy THIS. |
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| I did not enjoy writing this. |
[Nov. 5th, 2005|04:27 pm] |
I didn't.
Old Bern rolled out to the bar at around 11 after a nap, which was
preceded by getting drunk after work with Ted and Nash at the Pirates'
Cove bar, a south seas-themed joint that was pretty much an annex to
the theme park they all worked at -- it was added after about a
million bored fathers wrote in complaining there was nowhere to get
loaded while their kids and wives were riding the Conquistador (upon
which a third grader named Stewie vomited in the lap of a local TV
newscaster in 1989) and posing for pictures with Captain Bly.
So Bern arrived at the Tap Hut around 11, fully intending just to sit
at the bar, drink Tom Collinses and look ornery. But when he walked
inside and was embraced by the stale, smoky air and the sound of
"Delilah" by Tom Jones playing over the jukebox, he saw Shelly. Shelly
was his mistress, long, long ago. They had protested together, back in
the 70s, back when all the real protests were over and most of the
people involved in the leftist movement were just out to score drugs
or pussy -- that applied to both men and women at the time.
Shelly and Bern had made signs together, they'd taken a bus to
Washington, and they'd had sex five nights in a row in November of
1973. All the while, Bern had told his wife, Charlotte, that it was
simply his calling -- the protesting, that is, not the affair with
Shelly, though that was probably his calling, too. Charlotte had grown
up among Jehovah's Witnesses and when Bern offered to liberate her on
the third night of their acquaintanceship at Mott's Diner, where
Charlotte wore pink and poured coffee, Charlotte gladly acquiesced.
They were married downtown, at the Justice of the Peace's office,
outside of which blacks and drunks milled about, trying to beg out of
water bills and whatnot. The best man, Ralph, was present, and
thoroughly blitzed, having scored a couple ounces of coke the night
before at a party and quitting his job the next day because it wasn't
as thrilling as getting fucked up at 11 in the morning and spending
the rest of the day in and out of self-awareness.
"Goddamn! You two are getting married!" Ralph kept shouting while the
JOP was trying to fill out the necessary paperwork. It was annoying to
Bern but not to Charlotte, who was thrilled about the whole deal.
When Charlotte found out about Shelly -- through a high school friend
of Bern's who was introduced to Shelly as Bern's wife at a cafe on the
Washington trip -- she threw her white pumps at Bern. One missed his
head, the heel punctured the wall, and it hung there like a sconce.
The second connected with Bern's nose and made it bleed profusely.
When he saw her reaching for the one-pound crystal ashtray, Bern ran
outside and down the street, leaving all his things behind, heaving,
bleeding and sobbing in regret, running all the way to the bus
station, where he bought a ticket for the most remote destination he
could find, which happened to be Miami. He never called or went back
for his things. Charlotte married a veteranarian named Charlie who
doesn't know she's still marrried to Bern, legally. But does it really
matter?
Bern eased into a barstool and was greeted by his usual bloody mary,
placed on a square napkin by the bartender (who, coincidentally was
named Charlotte but was from Alaska, nowhere near where the first
Charlotte was from, which was West Virginia). He felt like he'd been
set up, like he was an actor in a movie against his will, the director
telling the other actors what to do to fuck his life up but never
revealing the camera, the boom mike, the little canvas chairs and
catered food. It was a movie called The Decline and Fall of Bern, and
the lead actor had not been provided with a copy of the script.
...to be continued |
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| REALIZATION AND DEFENSE |
[Aug. 3rd, 2005|12:28 am] |
Anyone who loves music is a music lover.
Anyone who can spontaneously lecture on music for more than 25 seconds is a fecking geek.
Start a music blog? BASTID.
Write a book on producer Jack Nitzsche that's mostly about yourself? A-HOLE |
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| the latest craze which I invented |
[Jul. 17th, 2005|09:43 pm] |
I Flickrd myself today, to see what other J---H---'s were up to.
There was only one, and this is what he was doing.
Looks pretty intense.
But more fun than mowing the entire lawn with an electric weedwhacker, I'd posit. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 12th, 2005|12:30 am] |
This program is both dedicated to the faithful and presented to the falsehearted to encourage their renewal of temperance and virtue.
What is it? Cheaters, bitch!
But, seriously, we can't all be Joey Greco. For some of us, when it's time to move, it's time to move. Call it some immature sense of perpetual displacement, but when that lease is up, I gotta go. Especially when the past year has been a constant drain on our resources, when gas prices in winter soared to nearly five bucks a day just to keep the house at a sweater-wearing comfort level.
My friends, don't be like this man:
Don't be taken in by the temptation to rent a house.
No, live in an apartment, as cheap a flat as possible, with a landlord who pays your every bill and with nieghbors who take shits on top of the dumpster and shoot up in their living rooms and crawl across the ledge outside to your window yelling at you to let them in or they'll blow you to hell with the flame that's in their gut. Indeed, it is a far better investment than a rental house.
But, like Joey Greco, we have no regrets. For we make decisions based not on how we'll feel a year from the time of the decision, not on the regret we'll experience, for how can we know? No, instead, we do what seemed like the right idea at the time.
And gosh darnit, if God woulda been the type of guy to tell us what to do and when to do it, then we wouldn't eash have these year-loads of regret to contend with. But, instead, it's Satan who guides our thoughts and whims on this mortal coil.
So don't be fooled, don't go out on a date with that girl, but if you do, don't regret it for a minute. After all, without people like us, people like Joey Greco wouldn't be able to buy that Miata they've had their eye on from that dealer in El Segundo. And that, my friends, is ALL THAT MATTERS!
(This entry was not proofed by any LIVING CREATURE.) |
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| The num-num sharks |
[Jul. 5th, 2005|11:15 pm] |
I really don't mean to transform this into a music blog, because I simply don't have the energy to pay attention to all the changes in Britney's gut sizes and Coldplay's efforts to make the anarchists fall in love with life at the Live 8 whateveritisoverthereinScotland, but I must insist that we take a moment to celebrate the songwriting skills of Swedish musician Jens Lekman, whose When I Said I Wanted to be Your Dog is the best thing to come along since the idea of wearing a three-piece-suit with no pants to a society garden party.
Bravo, Jens! (Be sure to check out the video at that link.)
Some of the best lines, all of them delivered in a deadpan Lee Hazelwood kinda lilty way. You gotta hear it, dude.
"Tram #7 to Heaven"
Did you take your tram number seven to heaven?
Did you eat your banana from 7-11?
"Happy Birthday, Dear Friend Lisa"
Drinking cheap wine to bossanova,
You're a supernova in the sky.
The Jehovas in their pull-overs
are no casanovas like you and I.
"Do You Remember the Riots?"
"And I saw my face on the screen,
they filmed us from a helicopter.
The most frightened face I've seen,
red in the face like a lobster.
"You Are the Light By Which I Travel Into this and That"
Yeah, I got busted, so I used my one phone call
to dedicate a song to you on the radio.
"The Cold Swedish Winter"
We went back to her place and cooked up some chili.
It warmed us from the inside 'cause outside it was chilly.
We had to be quiet to not wake up her family,
but I made a high-pitched sound when her cold fingers touched me.
"Psycho Girl"
And if I'll be your psychologist, who would be the psychologist's psychologist?
"A Higher Power"
She said let's put a plastic bag over our heads
and kiss and stuff until we get dizzy and fall on the bed.
We were in heaven for about five or six minutes and then passed out
...
In church on Sunday making out in front of the preacher,
you had a black shirt on with a big picture of Nietzsche.
Fantastic stuff. |
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| yes yes y'all |
[Jun. 7th, 2005|09:05 am] |
If any of you are in the market for hip-hop, or rather, for the ONE hip-hop album you can buy that will carry you a great distance, for months on end, like a team of sled dogs that require neither sup nor rest and have the buttocks of rap video dancers bobbing and sweating as they propel you across the tundra of l.c.d. rap, then I HIGHLY recommend the album "Biscuits & Gravy" by Kansas City duo SoundsGood. This is really one of the best hip-hop albums I've ever heard. The production is miles above (appropriate wording since the guy who makes the music is named Miles) most local hip-hop you'll hear just about anywhere, and Joe Good's rapping is nimble, fun and reasonably clever. Hell, it's a slicker, funkier listen than even most critically acclaimed groups: Kanye, Black-Eyed Peas, Roots. And it's neither gangsta nor "conscious," just spry and funky.
Buy it now at cdbaby.com: http://cdbaby.com/cd/soundsgood3 (of course, you can listen to it here, too). I think you'll be impressed, homey-gs. It's some dope shit.
I'm extremely picky about my hip-hop, so I never buy any because I get bored with it so quickly or because only two or three songs are any good. This album kicks out the jams back to front (except the awkward old-school tounge-in-cheek attempts of "Fresh").
I'd burn it for you, but these guys are poor and need support. That's not why I'm posting this though. It's so I can get yo' white asses bouncin'.
Rock your body, y'all! |
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