The Official Hog Blog
Monday, July 29, 2002
Last March, my great friend, Neo, came into San Francisco, with high hopes on beating us all at a game of Shuffleboard. Y'see, there's a bit of a rivalry amongst a few shuffleboard players,Neo included. He's always told tall tales of cheap tricks and dirty mistakes. He sometimes even spits out a chunk of garbage for no reason but to startle and confuse anyone within spittin distance. He writes good shit, to those of you who aint hep, and I submit to you, our readers, his triumphant foreshadowing of events when Ned's games of shuffleboard, or shufflefuck, as it were... when Ned's game of Shufflefuck turned Doc's Clock into the grand prix of Shufflefuck.
"Tonight there is talk of Shufflefuck and I wait impatiently to match up
with
SF Shufflefuck contingent, to show those mothers that all this
California
foolishness won't fool an old Chicago salt who plays his shufflefuck
dirty
and rough like a bull in a ring and if you really want to see a
bullfight,
take a cape and sword away from the matador and that's the kind of
fight I
like--straight up, no hitches, no bullshit, no games--I take my own
hits and
I dish them out quick and plentiful, toss a puck down the lane and I
will
take the greatest of pleasure knocking that bitch down into the pit of
the
damned, my puck glides sure and confident, strong and steadfast. Down
they
go, clustering up like a band of rock-headed brutes full of animosity
and
xenophobic rage, knowing no kindness nor guilt, filled with bad
breeding and
bad breath, pucks that come on like stiff pricks, they arrive like a SF
fog,
quick and heavy, and I thought I'd make those intentions, indications
and
reports known to all interested persons who might endeavor to tangle
with,
challenge or otherwise impede the rise and ultimate conquering of the
coveted
SF Shufflefuck Cup and I shall, after the eventual and inevitable
usurpation
of said cup, I shall return to the city of Wind bolstered on high by
the
powerful gusts in a throne of gold, holding the cup in hand, filled
with the
sweetest of wind and attended by rosy faced children naked in their
innocence, winged and laughing, ringlets of their hair bouncing in the
wind,
their chubby fingers reaching for the cup and dipping in the wind, the
clouds
rolling in, turning gray, and as I gulp the Adam's apple working up and
down
as I drain the cup and as one of the little creatures reaches again to
fill
the cup and somewhere behind over Lake Michigan a peal of lightening,
rolling
thunder and Neo on high, sipping and laughing now with mischievous
rambunction, spilling wine with wasteful carelessness, the elevated
throne
rising higher and higher, empty wine bottles tossed away into the sky
and
raining down toward the streets, laughter all around with thunder and
crashes
of waves and the laughter begins to take on the tones of Laughing Sal,
erratic, insidious, no longer jovial, no longer light or naive, seeming
to
suggest a hint of evil, a hint of horror, and suddenly a round of
coughing,
Neo doubled up, wine streaming from the corner of his mouth, the child
cherubim dispersing and abandoning him in fear, the throne veering off
over
the great lake where below the waters have grown dark and moiled, rain
begins
to fall and the chalice drops from his hand as he slumps back, his arm
over
the rest and his hand limp and stained with wine, and now the throne
divested
of it's angelic motivations beginning to plummet toward the waters
where a
frothy maelstrom begins swirling in its rage opening up like a whale's
mouth
and the throne caught in the whirlwind, twisting downward and is
swallowed up
by the upward reaching outward edges of the storm which engulfs Neo,
throne,
the velvet capes and scepter with it's golden embellishments and
intricate
carvings, in one vicious chomp and then retreating back into the water
and
the seas begin to calm, the sky's crimson rage fading to tranquil blue
and
life returns again to its silent idiocy as the cup rolls on the waves
and
arrives on the shores among dead alewives and cigarette filters,
seaweed and
driftwood."
Thursday, July 25, 2002
When fojimoto played the Hotel Utah last, Peter Zarling, was in the audience and like many of the crowds to see live music do... left before the end of a set. I can't expect everyone to want to rock and roll all night and party every day, as is the want of such persons as myself. Instead, I chill. I try to take shit like this in stride and let everyone go about they own pace. I gotsta lets em take it how it comes, you dig? You gotta git when its time to get. thats all they is to it. So, I waved to my man from behind the drum kits and reckon I'll see him another time.
The next day, he sent me an email:
"That was a great show last night, man....I'm sorry I didn't get to
stick around and chit chat after, but I had an early meeting and had to get
some sleep...
What a show, though! Some of my favorite moments:
1) The little bit of Beasties....Always a good thing, but very
unexpected.
2) Marwan's alternate guitar riffs....It's always nice to hear
something different in a song...If I just wanted the straight performance, I'd
listen to the CD....Nice to hear it mixed up a little.
3) Having people come onto the stage to sing the last song...I wanted
to come up and sing myself, but since I can't sing shit, I thought it
best to leave it to the experts....
4) The improvisation while Marwan re-tuned his guitar....All 3 of you
have good chemistry.
Keep on, keepin' on, man. I ain't
just sayin' it...I think it's some quality music.
Cheers,
--Peter
Monday, July 22, 2002
Hole
On turning sixty-one, Edmond decided to dig a deep hole in the back yard. Maybe it was the beginning of something for him, but he wasnt so sure. You've got to start somewhere getting some things done. By digging the hole, the act of filling it with something would soon follow. It was his birthday and the neighbors exclaimed at how hard he worked at it at his age. He paid little mind to it and went about his task as if it were any other day. It's not easy digging a hole in the middle of the yard in the middle of the heat of the middle of summer. No way. But dig, he did. He dug all of the afternoon, and kept on with it until after the sun set in the evening, stopping for a short rest to watch it go down along the I-75 highway, turning the hazey horizon a pink color as headlights began turning on. At night, he remarked to himself at how much easier it was to dig when the sweltering heat had dropped. The moonlight was enough for him to see where the shovel was going, even if he had to squint. He had the right momentum and swung that shovel without even thinking after a bit. He could practically do it without looking.
Edmond continued digging through the night and into the next day, taking short breaks for food, which his wife dutifully and abley brought to him. She was perturbed... rather, confused... but she loved him so and didnt stop to question him. Instead, she brought him smoked ham sandwiches and a pilsner. The ham, on dry rye bread, with a slice of swiss cheese would be gobbled up in three or four quick bites.
"Aaah," Edmond said after taking a pull of of the bottle of beer," Those Czechs really know how to make beer."
Shaking his head in amazement, he finished it off with a couple of gulps and a couple of more exclamations about how the czechs knew how to brew beers, then it was back to that hole in the ground.
After a couple of days and nights, with naps every ten hours or so... That hole was dug as deep as a cavern and big enough for Edmond to lie flat on his back without his head nor his feet touching the walls. He walked around the hole in circles and counted his paces, 2... 4...6... 8...10...12...13. Thirteen paces made it close to twenty feet wide. It was as big as his office! Getting out of the hole was a task, so Edmond flung a rope down into it from above, making a rope ladder to enter or exit when he needed some tools from the shed or if he needed to use the bathroom. The more Edmond stayed underground, though, the less he came above ground. He began to prefer being underground, in fact. It was comfortable down there, in all of its muted glory.
"You can't hear the highway from down here!" he yelled at his wife with sandwiches and beer, "and there are worms down here, too! Worms with a million legs like they had nothing better to do but walk and crawl!"
"oh, honey, won't you please come to bed," she'd call back at him,"it getting late."
No, no," he said, " I must finish this hole."
Edmond only left that hole to use the bathroom. He planned on digging a side room where he could have a basin for him to wash in and a bucket for waste. The smell would be horrendous, but who would smell it? Just Edmond, and he could live with it.
The hole was more home to him than his 4-car garage. It had importance the he revered higher than his marriage. He felt as if he'd accomplished more by digging this hole than in winning any competitions he'd been in, and certainly this hole meant more to him than any of the foolhardy escapades he'd gone on. This hole was the sum of all his dreams to be, and all his goals to that point. It was the deepest he'd ever dug, and he continued to dig. He was committed to finish it. But when does a hole stop needing to be dug?
Eventually, he slowed his digging to near a halt. Edmond spent his days and nights underground listening to the muted world above him. It was never perfectly quiet. Even at night. Most the noises from insects to planes to trains and anything that hoots in the middle of the night became his orchestra, while he laid at the bottom of the hole and watched the pin-prick of a glimmering ceiling. He stared up and the busy world moved back and forth. The world was driving from the malls to the supermarkets to the drive-throughs to the movie theatres to the schools to the coffee shops to the bookstores to the supermarkets to the home to the drive-throughs and Edmond would hear it all as if he were in outer-space looking at it from a home made telescope.
He was far away from it all, and felt like that world was suffocating him all this time. His car, his wife, his home, his job, taxes and the Dow, all of it was stifling. The hole muffled the world and in the hole, he was able to breathe deeper than before. It was a silent place to be, and Edmond began smiling at himself. Laying there, he looked as if he were setting himself down to die, but he had never felt as alive. FUCK! He could hear his own heart beating, and his temples felt like gongs going off in his head to the rhythymhewanted to screambutsuppresseditto sustain the solitude. the silence .
If he screamed would anyone hear him?
Certainly not, but if something were to happen to him that he needed help, could he call out for help? Was he alone? Was he alive? The questions came to him in a flurry of panic, but soon subsided. The crickets chirped away and Edmond scratched his beard. Had he been down here long enough to grow his beard out?
Sunday, July 21, 2002
Shorty McSouthpaw
must knowfashionable clothing overused phrases i knowingly promise unto it my standing ground your doing a flashpaper promise fake act no promise no lightning no rainclose up: a decayed face lightnin' no rain frame a body hanging skeletal outlines frame work soundbite:hyenas screaming in the distance scent: eucalyptus fallen & dried maple leaves a tornado is on the way
this is ok i took the penicillin. my full body rash has gone a way what luck? its better than a wet one between busts thats f'sho. i never fleshed out that fishwrap, chippy. we'll have krispy kritters lunchtime, but f'now we'se on holidays, son. holidays. ghetto tricknology or technopoly or discographies. ninja star. ninja star. come in ninja star. move in slowly, ninja star. slowly, ever so slowly you shall turn. step by step, bit by bit, slowly you shall turn ninja star. until you stop, and there is the revolution.
in music today guitar great shorty mcsouthpaw shot go-juice straight to his cock. critics say he was a mind blowing pioneer. he is currently accepting applications for being your leader, and they endorse it. he shoved the syringe straight into his shaft. shorty mumbled intimately about the demise of post modern grunge and decided he needed the ole shot in the arm gag, taking one for the gipper, chippy, one for the gipper. kid missed his arm, but shaw nuff hit the mainline. our experts have agree to only shoot the stuff into they cocks hence forward with out no hesitatin' even "its stupendous!" cried the councillour, a shorter stocky balding PhD without credentials as his arm turned blue, crawling away from him, him after it syringe in hand more go-juice mainline it crawls
"Fantastic!"
"I recommend its enemal counterpart! enema go juice makes the sun shinier!" people chanted the year long, and many years there after for his findings.
Saturday, July 20, 2002
I play drums and sing in three bands at the moment. All three are progressing in leaps and bounds musically and creating great music that people actually enjoy! Pictured above is the mainstay of Splintered Tree. Dan Lippincott, AKA Deejay Drunken Monkey, is in the center of the photo and serves as main songwriter for the band. Ryan and Marwan on the outsides also play in Fojimoto. Nice photo innit? Splintered Tree has been around for quite some time. Lippincott is a native of St. Louis and writes music inspired by blues artists like Son House and Blind Willie Johnson, but adds a sense of surreal humour and modernity that borders on punk or folk music from today. He does a song I'm quite fond of that tells the story of how he likes to meet friends in the worst part of the town, cuz it guarantees him they'll be happy to see him. The place? 16th and Mission. The song is called Dark Town, and I get to scream "crack rock!" in the choruses. heh heh.
Fojimoto is going through a growth spurt right now. Upcoming gigs include July 27th (my birthday, so bring presents or drugs) at the Hotel Utah with Priscilla Ederle and John O'Brien. We are also playing a gig on August 26th at the Makeout Room in San Francisco's sunny Mission district, which I am super stoked for.... We'll be playing with a couple of bands we've never played onstage with before, and they are quite good.: The Red Thread and The Papercuts.
Oh, one bit of knowledge to drop on ya:
Dont let the bastards bring you down
Friday, July 12, 2002
Aw heck, here ya go. A taste of fiction without any meaning behind it.
Last Chance for Punchy
Wade, the white trash kid from around the corner brought his pet gerbil, that had a tumour growing out of its eye. Wade loved that little vermin like he loved to skateboard. He would bring Punchy, that was its name you see, in to the cafeteria at lunch time. He told us he'd kept it in his locker during the day. I saw Wade and the gerbil sometimes in the hallway. Punchy crawling around, and Wade making an obstacle course with his paper sacked text books. It wasn't long before we all got to like this gerbil. That is, until an extry piece of flesh began to form off of its eye, ("eww, gross.") Dr. Isley said it was a tumour and that we'd best expect to flush Punchy down the toilet in a couple of weeks... Wade flipped out. We'd heard about this kid who could sing people healthy. I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself.
His singing voice sounded as if he had never grown out of that youthful frailty just before his voice changed. Just like Jimmy Scott. It still housed that slight affectation towards diminuity. Like he had just found out that world was big enough to hurt sometimes. Its a stronger voice than you'd expect once he got to singing, and it turned a pretty girl's head in his younger days. Mostly, folks'd come by to see the little boy, Whitman,who had an angel's voice. As he got older that golden trill of his was like the gospel on sunday. Him and his voice was like a healer in that he'd sing people right out of their troubles. Folks drove from all over to hear the kid sing 'em outta woes. He'd sing 'em into a glorious, heavenly bliss. He would save them from troubles and cure what ails them.
Shirley, down the block and I tell you what... She had her a farmer's wart at the base of her big toe. She would lay in the sunshine and soak that foot in icy cold salt water. That didn't work. She rubbed a special pomous tincture into it, but that didn't work. It wasn't until she heard that heavenly song that the wart had mysteriously disappeared.
And Eddie's Chevy had some muffler problems that went away when he happened upon that boy on his way to school, and obligingly gave him a lift. The boy hardly spoke a word, but allegedly said enough for the engine to purr again. It was an all-out good year as far as the crops were concerned and farmers from ten counties said that it was because of that boy's singing "Peach Pickin' Time" at the county fair.
"We got ourselves a little gold mine!" said his poppa.
"You should consider becoming an entertainer," said his mamma.
"Give him the key to the city," said his neighbors
I figured this kid would be the only chance we had for our poor little buddy, so we brought the gerbil in a cotton ball lined shoe box and layed it at the feet of the kid and asked him to sing a bit for us. Anything, we told him. Sing anything.
"Please give me the box," said the kid, "and I'll do whatever I can."
He took the box and placed it at the base of the dogwood tree in the front yard of Scott Polley's house. The tree was second base during kick ball season. That tree was also one-half of a goal during soccer season. It was also a good turn around for races around the block. But on that day, the tree seemed to be Punchy's last hour. We stood back a bit, Me, Wade and Scott Polley, while Whitman peered closely into the box, singing a light melody that hummed and shined and kind of whisked across the street and into Ole Man Peacock's front yard as he watered his roses catching his attention. Peacock stopped and smiled. He remembered the day his daughter was born, the moment he fell in love with his wife, the night he won at poker while visitingthe cottage his grandfather owned on Lake Michigan.
The song floated through the trees and into Mrs. Hollibek's back yard where she lazily rocked back and forth every day, watching over the neighborhood kids. She was always hollering at us to stay out of her back yard when we only were looking to take a short cut to Pinky's. Mr's Hollibek stopped rocking when her ears caught Whitman singing at our box. She smiled and was brought back to the times she would hike in the Tennesee hills with her dog, Comet. She could smell the fresh mountain air and hear the family from across the way a-laughin like they were right there. The whole street seemed to be paying attention as Whitman kneeled at the base of the tree. The sun shone through the clouds for a minute, and we were transfixed. Everything on Cherry Street stopped. Even the alley cats, stood still, waiting for the miracle.
It was brief. It lasted probably less then a minute. Afterward, we brought the box back to Wade's house, making sure to keep the lid on the box after Whitman closed it up fearing that we might jinx the magic if we looked inside. In the Worrick family kitchen we opened it up and saw a new Punchy. A Punchy without a tumour. It had vanished! We were so excited that we didn't notice how quickly Whitman had left the scene. We were also too excited to notice that punchy had a few new spots on his back. I guess we never looked real close at it.
Monday, July 08, 2002
Oh my hell. look at this movie clip made by the good people at LEGO.
wow. In the words of the great Cheech and Chong, "if the world is comin' to an end, I don't even care. As long as I can have a limo and my orange hair.... And it dont bother me, that people think I'm funny. cuz I'm'a big'a Rock Star and I make a lotta money!" Of course, I don't make a lotta money, and I'm not a big'a rock star. (I'm only half-assed big after all.) But something specifically monumental happened today and I feel like shoutin' it out loud in true KISS fashion. Besides the fact that my own boss asked me to take the day off after the office was closed for the last four days already. And I can't take into the fact that I saw a cool movie on my day off. I spoke with my mother in the sunshine on Vicente and West Portal even. She and I rapped a bit while I watched pretty girls go by in windswept skirts that accented their thighs on a rare clear and hot day without seasonal fogs hanging low to turn this 'hood into fog central. All of these seemed especially important of their own merits, but today, a former editor of Rolling Stone magazine and was featured in Almost Famous yet whom will remain nameless as to protect his identity actually liked, no wait... he loved Fojimoto's record. wow.
Of course, he didnt write anything about it in any Rolling Stone, Nor did he pass it along to anyone at major record labels to get signed to a big's contract... but he did say he was going to put it into his car stereo. Which is always a good sign.
This brings me to a little known phenomenon that my great friend Greg pointed out to me. That drivers the world over can be subdivided into three groups of persons which in turn translates into every day existence. You know how they say you can always tell a personality by the way that someone drives? Same sort of concept. An angry driver may lash out at people when not in the car. A reluctant turn from a slow driver may signify a shyer person, and so on. Greg says that there are three types of drivers: Idiot, Assholes, and Buddies. Each personality can be defined through their interactions with other drivers.
Dig, if you will.
Scenario #1:
You are waiting patiently at a stop light for it to turn green. Just before your light goes green, a jaguar speeds up to cruise through its yellowturningred light. That driver is termed an Idiot. He is an idiot because he could have caused a great big accident and someone could have been hurt. Luckily, no one was and You looked to your left as you saw him coming and muttered to your wife next to you, "Oh, shit, lookit this idiot."
Scenario #2:
You are entering the I-80 from University in Berkeley. Near the race track, you understand. And the College, so there is a lot of traffic, and its always important to be especially safe on the highways near a college. Lots of drinking and driving, you see. Anyhow, as you attempt to nudge your way onto the freeway with careful scooching into the backed up weekender traffic, an SUV of epic proportions makes itself unpassable so much so that you have to back up a little to just not be crushed by its awesome awesomeness. That driver can be seen as a great example of an asshole. Even so, you can shout out the window when this happens, "you asshole."
Scenario #3:
Take above scenario, but the same SUV allows you easy passage onto the freeway, or maybe pays your toll at the bridge (which is said to happen often, although I've never had it happen to me, nor would I pay someone else's toll) instead of barricading you from entering a freeway or any number of places you needed to get to with your car. That driver is yer buddy. Often times, buddies can sense one another and signal with hand gestures, or light honk-honks on their horns in a kind of morse code for the highways and byways of life, "hey, it's me, I'm yer buddy!"
Idiots, Assholes, and Buddies. Learn it. Live it.
We all fit into these categories, so get used to it. We're ALL either Idiots or Assholes or Buddies. Some times we are all three.
Sunday, July 07, 2002
Jazz is Forever. Ray Brown is dead.
Marshall Lamm is the publicist for Yoshi's jazz club in Oakland, and as we sat in the back of the Hush Hush Room last week he dropped a few names. Marshall likes to golf, and mentioned that he and jazz bassist, Ray Brown were hitting the links just days before Brown passed on to the stage in the sky. I was shocked to say the least. My mouth dropped open and I felt weak, tired, and sad.
I've been collecting records for years now, and most recently re-ignited a taste for Ray Brown's fusion of loungey cocktail jazz with hard bop, his amalgamation of funky soul and improvisation. His affable character and plain good natured vibe is a blessing to entertainment today. Hell, his take on jazz was greatly appreciated by deejays and fans alike, and will be greatly missed. He was scheduled to perform at Yoshi's next week. Lamm divulged that John Clayton will be subbing for Brown. Brown "is the primary contributor to bebop from a bassist's standpoint," Clayton said. "We had Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk and there to contribute from the bass chair is Ray Brown. He was extremely important in jazz education, leading a lot of young bass players to learn the instrument."
In his memoir, "To Be Or Not to Bop," Gillespie wrote that "Ray Brown, on bass, played the strongest, most fluid and imaginative bass lines in modern jazz at the time, with the exception of Oscar Pettiford."
He was finishing up a stint at the Jazz Kitchen in Indianapolis and Ray Brown died in his sleep, possibly dreaming of new ways to play his stand up bass. More likely he was dreaming of a hole in one.
Friday, July 05, 2002
For the record, I am a deejay who is into playing the AfroLatin Cubano music that swept the nation recently. Here, in the Bay area, I am known as Jonny Deeper, deejay extraordinaire. Tonite, my cohorts, Vinnie Esparza and Asti Spumanti and I will be throwing down a righteous party filled with Tasty funk Treats and marinated musics for the act of gettin down. For the few who can't make it, I feel for you. You need to stop bein a bitch and come on! But, I understand you may not even be in San Francisco tonite, so I will dose you with a nibble. Without revealing too much, I can disclose a few of the records in my record bag for this evening. I found this great compilation with sounds from the eighties that signify the end of the disco era and the beginning of House music. Its called Classics from the Loft . Great tunes on it, too. Anyone remember Steve Miller's Macho City? Or howzabout the Nervous Track, by Nuyorican Soul? I also will be bringing a re-issued copy of the Oliviera Orquestra record "A Swinging Combination." On the hip hop side of the rails, I packed some Run-DMC, LL COOL J, House of Pain, and A Tribe Called Quest. I especially can't wait for the time to drop Digital Underground's Freaks of the Industry. Aww, yeah, makin' asses shake.
Ah, yes. Tonite, is the Return of Hella Tight, a monthly party at Nickie's BBQ in the Lower Haight district. Its been loveley weather here, and I expect to see a lot of people at the place. Mostly, I can't wait to get on the dance floor myself with all the fly hotties in the joint. Ah, Yes.
Tuesday, July 02, 2002
Hella Tight rocks. Go to Nickie's on Friday, Punchy.
