The Official Hog Blog
Saturday, August 31, 2002
Jazz Legend, and creator of one of my favorite songs of all times with possibly the best title for any song.... EVER,
Happiness,
has passed on and into that swingin big band in the sky. Dizzy, Miles, Trane, Bags, and the like are all in that heavenly chorus, dawg.
I'm a miss that Hampton, Lionel.
Thursday, August 29, 2002
I've longed for these foggy, summer days. The days when the fog laps at my face like a big ole friendly dog. I awake to foggy mornings gratefully and slow, stretching myself under a number of covers so that my feet make creaking noises, hanging over the end of the bed. I didnt have to fretfully tear any of my warm pajamas off' a me in the middle of the night, and that is nice. The sun doesn't blind me. So, peering out into the world doesnt shock my senses. Cold mornings and I can wear a new cap on my head, hiding my intentions of not showering today. Hot coffee and a scarf in the middle of August. I wonder how difficult it must be to enjoy a hot coffee in New Orleans at this time of the morning. I can wear this oversized sweater that I've had in my closet since I was in my teens. Its holes in it allow me to choose which to poke my head or arms through. Its brown and stained from wine and silly spray. I've never taken it to a dry cleaner, and it smells like a campfire or the upstairs attic. Like all good things, I stole it from a friend of mine. He knows it that I have it. If he saw me wearing it today, he'd walk right up to me and say,"Nice sweater you got there, hog." I would return it to him someday except that I secretly think he don't even want it anymore.
Music is muffled in the fog, like environmentally sound. Muted trumpets gleam in the fog. I can hear tunes off in the distance as I stumble half awake, the fog inviting me to dazily live a half dream during awakened hours, through the city. The notes fade in and out of neighborhoods, giving each their own personality, and when the fog breaks in the Mission, its not rocket science that mexican polkas blare from low-riders, "viva la raza" etched into the windows.
The folks on the N Judah dont smile when the fog takes over Cole Valley, cold as unwanted ice-cream. They sit and read their papers. They'll readjust themselves making room for each other, but sometimes they harumph.
I feel so good today, I dont even mind that what I write matters so very little.
Saturday, August 24, 2002
Alright. here is the second set to the previously mentioned mix tape. I am naming this MixTape_August 24. nice right?
Side Two
Faye Dunaway – Erik Olsen
Waitin for a Superman – The Flaming Lips
Life on a chain – Pete Yorn
Its Only Life – The Feelies
KingPin – Wilco
No Expectations – The Rolling Stones
Northern Sky – Nick Drake
Children Don’t get Weary – Booker T and the MG’s
I’m Still Here – Tom Waits
High and Dry – Radiohead
Simone – Stone Roses
Sometimes – My Bloody Valentine
Do you Realize? – The Flaming Lips
[incidentally, the tape features songs from Erik Olsen and John O'brien. Both of which were swiped off'a my roomie and bandmate, Marwan, who has pre-master demos of each of these artist's new albums. And they sound super sweet.]
Today, I started a mix tape. Kate Sullivan , famous blogger and rock writer, inspired me to do so. She mentioned, in her blog, a mix tape about California. You should read her blog sometime. She's a funny and sincere person who has a great sense of style when it comes to music. So, here I am in the foggy, overcast Berkeley, California trying to put together a masterpiece. An ode to the foggy day. One of those tapes I can put on and listen to when it rains and I wish I had a fireplace.
Here is the list of songs and order for side one:
Sugarman – Sixto Rodriguez
Are you A Hypnotist? – Flaming Lips
Doc Martin Blues – John O’Brien
A Girl Like You – Pete Yorn
By Your Side – Beachwood Sparks
Summer Breeze – Seals and Croft
What if we give it Away? – REM
Never want to see you cry – The Verve
Jealous Guy – John Lennon
How to disappear completely – Radiohead
Something by Calexico
Julie and Candy – Boards of Canada
If you want, I can make you a copy of it! Just ask. I'd love to, Punchy. Really I would.
Saturday, August 17, 2002
Still in Michigan. Its hot. Lots of family time and upstairs from where I sit, my nephew and his mamma (Tricia Fojtik) are playing with trains. Maxwell is 2 and a half, and he is crazy for trains. Its so hard to turn him down when he says,"Unc'a Jon, play trains!" I'm usually the caboose or the coal car cuz Max is always the engine. No bones about it, this redheaded spitfire is in charge over here. His little sister, just a few months old sits idley by in her baby seat that rocks up and down like a bouncing La-Z-Boy when she kicks her left foot up. Her name is Lily and she has the darkest blue-grey eyes. I like to call her my little punk rock cuz she has a mohawk by God's own design. She loves to laugh and smile and gurgle at me. When Max, who loves her dearly yet can't seem to learn how play gently just yet, gets close to her to snuggle up, she makes faces. Faces like the kind of face you make when you know something bad just might happen and all you can do is anticipate it. She kind of cringes I guess. She's getting used to being his little sister.
The Fojtik family is preparing for tomorrow's reunion, when a hundred and more czechs gather round tables of chicken and dumplings and sauerkraut and pastries. We'll drink plenty of beer ("They got a keg this year!" exclaimed Jim Fojtik, my pops) and we'll pull out a few button boxes... or accordions to the uninitiated... to sing old world waltzes and polkas. Yesterday, as I helped my mamma with cooking up some dumplings and prepared the sweet sauerkraut, she pulled her own accordion out to show me how well she could still play. Damn. That was real cool, too. She played that K.D. Lang song, "Constant Craving." I jumped in to sing the words I've always made up for that tune..... "Instaaant Graaaaavy!" We laughed.
Have you ever prepared Sauerkraut for shishke? Did you know its to be washed before cooking? I sure didnt. But wash it I did. Mamma even taught me how to wash it! Think about it. How would you clean a vat of sauerkraut?
Wednesday, August 07, 2002
I lit out on a southbound train yesterday. From Emeryville to LA, and into the arms of Greg & Molli McIlvaine. Molli is expecting a baby, so most of our conversations have revolved around the preparation and anticipation of the baby's arrival. Greg is an artist who has an upcoming show to prepare for, as well as preparing for the arrival of a new McIlvaine in the family. To say the least, these two have the world by a string, like a yo-yo... and they can do tricks. Around the world, walking the dog, the cradle... all of it. I always try to visit when I am travelling. And they have always (knock on wood) invited me into their home. I havent offended them yet.
Molli brought me to the LA Amoeba records store. Now, I'm used to digging through the stacks in Berkeley. I was impressed with their stocked vinyl. Lots of it! I even picked a few out to be sent back North while I'm away from home. I know, I'm a fiend, and my record collection takes up more space then anything else... But hey, I like the music. Today, I bought The Terrible Frankie Nieves, a latin record with a great rendition of Ten Quidado. I also picked up The Ebullient Dizzy Gillespie for its renditions of Swing Down Sweet Cadillac, and Ungawa. Finally, I picked up a latin Boogaloo album that I'm only getting used to.. That is to say that none of it punches me in the gut the way music should if it really turns me on... There is a great versiojn of Caravan on it, so I hope to find it more engaging eventually, but we'll see. The Gillespie album is one of those rare and beuatiful records that should be in every jazz lover's collection. The recording is warm, and the players are in the zone. Chano Pozo's percussion vacillates from the subtle tapping during solos to full-on afro-cuban Orisha style. Other players on the record are: Junior Mance on piano, Leslie Spann on flute and guitar (sounding every bit like Kenny Burrell, somehow), Sam Jones on Bass, and Lex Humphries on drums. Great session indeed.
Tonight, my gracious hosts will drop me off at Union Station and I'm off to Chicago. Three days and two nights on the California Zephyr through the hotness of the summertime. Whoo Whee, I'm gonna smell bad by the time I reach my destination.
Tuesday, August 06, 2002
I wrote this little ditty when the infestation of tyrranesaurus teenagers dangled their spindly arms over second and mission, a hole underneath 'em where the street urchins slept. You remember the giganti-waifs? The Gap ads that hovered over every creature downtown a few years back? Their jeans slung low enough to see an enormous, cavernous belly button, that tempted us onto the Khaki craze and asked us to sing along with a peter frampton song. Ole Ginsburg died during the writing of this one here, kiddo, and I wasnt none too happy about it so's it a bitter pill to swallow... I think you can handle it, tho.. punchy, you got what it takes...
This, dear friend, Punchy... is submitted to you without preview. Editing may not ensue for days as I have a train to catch. I might not be here tomorrow, kiddo, so dont say I never gived ya nothing when I'm gone.
The Gap
The gap beneath your blue stare, eclipsed sigh and outstretched arm,
reaching and pulling in tug-o-war.
Beneath your roaring twenties hair flop, wisps tickling my stomach and
trickling beads of sweat down.
Beneath a tumultuous underground descent into ghetto womb, paradoxic
re-birth hyperbole, beneath grime stained rainbow-walls, language from
another world feeding hungry-homeless visions of ice cream& keeping it
as simple as a drumstick.
Beneath perfect lolling hills with white satin snow. Uncover
splendourous caverns, my longing & relish litost.
Beneath sunny accents stretching tastes nothing like a flower.
Beneath illusions of hands shaking in historic reconciliation, each
grip a tightening noose around us like papier mache.
Beneath angelic, monotonous cherubs bored with fags, jazz and drugs,
your virgin breast rises and sighs in the wind/wound in the land of
great fire. Colorful feathered fans bid farewell to never-ending innocence.
Beneath a vast ceiling, acoustics enshrouding drapery, a glass of
sherry – a lush life tear – soaked pillow.
Beneath the underdog, his outstretched arm, lips dry with peristalsis;
rotten teeth & brown tongue through “thpare tchange?”
Beneath pursed lips & silhouetted shins, glimpses of a lace paradise &
chiffon bondage.
Ya fooled me old teenager! By summoning bohaemian daemons with
fossilized wanderlust visions like gargoyles…
Ya fooled me old teenager! With rambunctious maniacal rantings that
screamed finger fuck, stink fist, and day’s old sex-scent!
Ya fooled me old teenager! Ya coolly leaned into a lamp post, burned a
fag,
hit on city-girls, groped at them passionate-like in alleys… coerced
into sexual debates.
Sex? Money?
Fuck? No? fucky, fucky?
Ya fooled me old teenager! Bronzed denim, worn through at the knee…
Could ya step over me?
Could ya step over me? Hemlines rising as my beard thickens into
patchy moss, over chin.
Could ya step over me? Gnawing at my fingertips, I ain’t got no
cigarettes.
Could ya’s step over me? Weighed down by a mailbag, parcels drooping
like a palm tree. Could ya step over me? Old teenager?
Ya fooled me old teenager, each dark flower pulled from brown star,
each leghorn pulled from gastronomic alleys like Albert Ayler, his
intestinal posterity pushing jake-walk, 50/50 blues.
Ya fooled me ole Teenager, each gnarled hair pulled me toward the edge
like an obtuse monkey, craning for a glimpse of sweet oblivious peril.
Ya fooled me ole teenager, each upended milk crate and demolished
drum-beat pulled blood from the skin once white, now black, brown and beige.
Ya fooled me ole teenager, muscles stressing against the bars,
Old teenager, with succulent power, ole teenager who tied me to my
executioners table, tied me with ions, to plastiscene orgasm!
Ya fooled me ole teenager! Ya taught me depth and horrible sexual
positions. Ya taught me pain, longing & careless addictions/ ya gave me
fastidious looks & used big words. Ya found me on the south side of
Chicago, a Malcolm X baseball whizzing by, ya found me as old teenager looking
for revolting cocks,
Ya found ME, ole teenager, beneath a buoyant breath of loving lungs,
beneath propel butterflies ‘neath my heart fluttering in space… open
imaginable drum roll! Paradiddles – flamacues – ratamacues & ruffs. YES!
RUFFS! Say it with me one time:
RUFFFFS!
Beneath waltz-ama-jigs, rhumba-trots, and foxy- polkathons.
Beneath pharaohs & herons & trains & presidents & & dukes & birds &
Miles & monks & Traps & Kings & Queens & Tones. Deep, Deep Tones.
The Deep Jones.
Monday, August 05, 2002
Hey! Lookit at the fojimoto blog!
