The Official Hog Blog
Friday, December 16, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
We Get Letters
Here at Hog Headquarters we like to throw most our correspondence away. We don't get much more then a few offers for cheaper indian food, some bills that should have already gone out, and one or two letters which I respond to promptly. Even before the bills.
Recently, this one fell into my lap.
Dear Hog Blog,
I've been known to party pretty hard, but lately I've been drinking too much beer and puking all over myself and onto my friends!
what should I do?
Sincerely,
Gee Gee
Dear Gee Gee,
first of all, stop puking all over the place and go get a White Russian.
That should set you straight.
Also, make sure you only get that drunk around strangers.
yours truly,
Hog
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Couple'a weeks ago, the group did a gig at some bar near the Castro called Cafe D__ N____. It was a wedding and the couple knew the owner so he had the whole place all decked out with flowers and the food and drinks were free.
The bride's son, from her first marriage was in the School of Rock Band, where kids learn to play guitars and drums and bass and keyboards. Eventually they're taught to play an entire record, like Pink Floyd's "The Wall," or The Who's "Tommy."
This kid reminded me of Angus Young.
Friday, December 02, 2005
“Are you gonna take the job, or what,” asked Marty, “My wife’s in Vancouver for the next two weeks, so that gives you plenty of time to case the joint…”
“Wait, wait, case the joint? Do I look like Sam Spade?”
“Sam Spade was the detective and you’re going to rob my wife, not solve a mystery,” Marty continued on without missing a beat, “MaryAnn is in Vancouver for one more week. I can leave the basement doors unlocked. After you’ve clipped electricity to the building, sneak in and get that hat box in the closet where she keeps them diamonds.”
“What’s my cut?” asked Dennis, clueless to Marty Nine’s true intentions.
“We’ll split the whole lot of ‘em. Fifty/fifty. You just get me that box, unopened.” Marty said, “I’ll open it and we’ll split them diamonds fifty/fifty. Remember, one week. She gets back on Friday; do the job on Thursday.”
Marty knew that in that box, along with all of her jewelry, MaryAnn kept all the change she’d saved up since she was a teenager, dipping into it for bus fare or laundry day, but she never touched the pennies, and in that stash of pennies was a wheat penny worth three times as much as any jewelry. Four, maybe five times as much as any necklace or earring.
With the electricity out, Marty’s plan was to leave for his mother-in-law’s place a few blocks away, giving Dennis a clean path to nick the box, making sure to leave a messy exit, so the cops could see the house had been robbed. When they ask about his whereabouts, he'd have an alibi with his mother-in-law, and becuase Dennis was only the paperboy no one would suspect him in the least.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
teevee buzzes in the back room, and smoke gets in yer eyes is on the radio in the kitchen. cards on the table remind me of a 3rd grade kick in the groin that i got in gym class. it was the most pain i'd ever felt, and prolly the most i've felt since. steal the bacon was in full effect and i ran fast to center court, where the bacon resides.
my screeching squeaking sneakers stopped me quick at the base of the pin, this bacon to be stolen. a bowling pin, and nothing like bacon at all nor anything piglike for that matter, sat at center ourt of the school gymnasium, and at either side of said hall were two lines of students. Each student was given a number. when a number was called, "number nine!" well, number nine from either end of the hall would race to the bacon and attempt to grab it and race it back into the endzone being protected from whence you had just arrived from.
Big, Bonnie Brown, the meanest and most mature of fifth graders was to be my nemesis, or she who would take bacon in my stead, thus a loss to me which I was not prepared to concede.... no.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
I stubbed my toe, and hell I think I may have broken it. I did more then stubbed it again. No. I sat down and while I sat down I stubbed my toe on the coffee table trying to get my left leg over my right and sit in that relaxing posture-ific position that allows me to lean into the couch and smoke that pipe the way a intellectual does it. I wanted to enjoy the smoke, lean back and enjoy that shit, like I was inhaling God's own breath. I wanted to feel that smoke as if it were that last one. The final smoke, the only smoke that mattered as much as the first one. I was hoping to choke back this navy cut Player cigarette I found in the bottom desk drawer while looking for a new box of cheques, when in my frantic search for a lighter I walked into the end table and stubbed m'damn toe. I might'as well had broken the whole foot as I yelled into the air as loud as a grown man can yell: "AAAAH, I think I broke m'damn feet! Who put this hyear?!!"
next thing I do, is stub it again just as I found the lighter and lean back into the couch trying to get all comfortable.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
"She's all fuzzy in the cuffs," says N__, with a tongue-tied freakish lisp that is all bent outta shape from too much whiskey.
"Give me some good Squirt, Johnson!" says R_____, who is being pushed by N__ in a shopping cart we found between Toons and The Music Box. Where in the hell is the Music Box anyways? It seems like we've been trudging through this blizzard for hours, and the bars have to be closing soon.
"JOHNSON!" R______ screams at me, "I needs me some good Squirt!"
I jump at the sound of her shouting, and pull out the bottle she refers to: a warm and flat bottle of Vernor's ginger ale.
"your gonna have to stand up to get a sip of this here. I'm not gonna bend down nor slouch. I just won't do it." I says to her."I'm gonna stand up straight and if you got the gravy to make me slouch, I'd say your a better man than me, girl. A better man.... girl, but do you have a gravy commitment?"
"Let's just lay around in a big heap and watch some Matlock," says N__, trying to calm us all down. But we aint going nowhere until in the middle of the night and in the middle of the shit-caked street we find some plastic lawn chairs that will, needless to say....
go down.
We will not turn the teevee on until the chairs go down.
The muffuggin chairs are going down tonight, man.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
A Worm Hole in the Kitchen at the Start of a Very Rough Month
After work, I sit at the couch, sift through bills, glance at the evening news then stumble into the kitchen for a heated up plate of chili rellenos. Cable bill: due by next thursday. Credit cards after the first of the month and the telephone company threatening to turn us off if I don't hurry up with two months of past due notices. Oh,and the taxes are due.
"d'you say 'rabbit, rabbit' this month?" W_____ looks at me with her stoned, blue-grey eyes.
It's a superstition of mines to not say a word, not even a sneeze or a god bless you, until I say the phrase 'rabbit, rabbit' each and every first morning of the month. So, September 1st, I say 'rabbit rabbit' as I pull myself outta bed and into my robe, March 1st I whisper 'rabbit, rabbit' as I'm sneakin' into the can to piss at 4 in the A.M. and every new years' day I try to get my hung over head to say it, too. It's harder to remember when I'm hungover, but more often than not, I say 'em. I forgot to say these words, tho. It's gonna be a rough month.
W_____ shakes her head, laughs and sips my beer. I look long at her and smile when she turns with my beverage and leaves for the living room with it. I reach into the fridge for another and get to cleaning these coffee cups and breakfast bowls I left in the sink. I do the dishes when I gotta think, and with all these bills and a week's worth of cash to live on, I can clean me some dirty dishes without a blink. I open a window and turn on the baseball game. Giants against the Dodgers and Schmidt's on the mound. Best way to do the dishes is with a beer, a smoke and the baseball game on the radio.
I pick up a glass as the game plays backdrop to the clinking of the dishes. "...now the one-one, a swung-on and a miss by ..." Rinse it and leave it to dry. "... breaking ball bounced foul..." Scrub through the bowls. "... fast ball on the inside, I think Schmitty got away with that one, it could 'a been ugly..." Spoons we used over cream of wheat this morning, "...down and away.." and almost all the way done with the dishes, I spot a big pitcher on the table that needs attention. "...comin' in hard and he's diving for the low liner, CATCHES IT AND He's gone...." Big and blue , this pitcher holds the iced tea all year long. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever cleaned it, even.
"Top of the order for the Giants..."
Grabbing the pitcher and soaping up the sponge good, I scrub it's exterior making sure to get every ice tea stain I see. If this hadn't been washed in as long as I remember owning it, I'm gonna make it shine. The lip is browned from years of ignoring it. Handle's got a chip. I've dropped it once or twice, maybe three. I say it gives it character. I work my suds into the chip getting all the grime until its white porcelain underneath is peeking through the blue. Reaching into it, I scrub the sides all the way to the bottom, sliding along the edge until my arm is reaching in beyond my elbow. I pull my arm out quick and examine the insides of the pitcher. There's no way I could have had my entire arm in that pitcher. Physically impossible. poking my head into the mouth I squint my eyes enough to get a good look at what the fuck is going on. It's mouth is small and the angle of the lip is such that when I peer into it, the shadows from my head darken the inside and I can't make out where the bottom is. I can't see the bottom, but can't find anything out of the ordinary, so I turn the pitcher over to check the bottom from the outside. It's there, no doubt about it. There is clearly a bottom to this pitcher but when I put my hand in..... what the fuck was that?
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
"P_____ remembers"
No one befriends him. No one that wants to be seen with anyone else that is, and when he walks by, people don't say hello, they just keep on walking and pretend he wasn't standing right there. He'll ask the time, or quote the book. He hasn't got many friends, at least. I see him with some folks every now and again, but mainly he skulks around corners and peers out at me like I was supposed to know him and kindly offer him a cigarette or even some of my slurpee.
We used to be friends, me and him, but I stopped calling him on his telephone and he forgot my name after a while. It's all good, I think he's lost his mind. Someday he'll eventually realize I was always the one who said the nice things to him, not like the his new friends. not like the man with the stuffed rabbit, or the junky he's associated with. Maybe he's got a new job, cuz I've seen him with a man who carries a suitcase around town and a tie around his neck. Ther's also been a woman with a circus face and a big belly. she aint pregnant with his baby is she? Aw, what do I care anyways?
Could he be part of the Association's henchmen? It seems like he's following some of my acquaintances around town, just watching and writing things in his little book. I even saw him with a guitar on the corner of 16th and Jurado near the Russian bakery that sells them sweet little powdered cookies that can be dipped in day old coffee even when the powder gets all up in my face and makes me sneeze like I was drinking Vernor's. I saw him with his guitar singing and I watched. he stayed put when I yelled at him to play some skynyrd.
Monday, July 11, 2005
have you listened to Def Leppard lately?
it's quite nice.
it makes me wanna rock rock til you drop.
Friday, July 01, 2005
"where have you been?" I asked.
"I've seen things I shouldn't have, Hog." SHe always called me my nickname, "I was messing about in the mailroom, sniffing for anything fishy, you know because everything has changed since the big one hit the towers, and I started seeing these packages come in with loads of stamps and very cryptic handwriting with only a few words on them. Things like: 'tonight?' and 'i'm itchy will you scratch?' It got me curious and even though that's never been good for felines, I thought to look into it. So, I started checking in the files next to the filtration rooms in the back offices, where they keep all the scab workers and nobody noticed a thing
until i read some of the new codes. Nothing stood out, but sometimes these new codes were for some big things. BIG operations, hog, like the FM Pressure Drop, the Hotel Del Taco, Project RollerTronix, or The Flying Elephant experiments! These projects included replacing human beings with another life form, maybe aliens, maybe robots, maybe even a cyborganic hybrid that has yet been determined."
"Did any of these files have photos?" her rants began to make a little sense. P____ was working on the Uplink/Manifest project at the Center for Information Control at City Hall. She made sure that files, phone calls, and packages were sniffed by bomb dogs and radiation detectors before moving to officials everywhere. "P___, did you see any pictures of these projects?"
She started to twitch, and the cigarette shook as she took a deep drag. Looking over my shoulder, I could see the man with the Bunny pull out his stuffed animal, stroke it, and leer in our direction as I prodded her for any more information, but she had shut up. She saw him and clammed up right quick.
"Hog," she got real serious for a second, "our blood is like oil to the aliens."
And with that she shut down, drew make believe in the air once again.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
She was leaning down, peering into a tiny pile of ashes she'd created on the ground in front of the old firehouse on Tarentel Hill. Her face was craggy and lines had burrowed their way into her forehead as she flipped her hair about and curled her lips around a deftly held cigarette. She muttered to herself, and moved the ashes around with her free hand. Her hands were filthy. Her face was filthy, and her clothes smelled of rotten food. The ash pile was the culmination of entire packs of cigarettes.
Passersby dropped coins in front of her, but she wasn't a panhandler. She didn't even pay attention to the nickles that accumulated in front of her, only the pile of ashes that she'd built up.
Three or four unlit cigarettes laid next to her. As she muttered, she'd pick up the unlit ones and draw make-believe in the air with them, like they were imaginary sharpies and she was signing autographs, or that she was at a black board and needed to explain a theorem.
"There she is," whispered my bunny boy into my ear as we sneaked through the bushes behind her, "didn't I tell you? I think she's lost her mind, man. The government, or the scientists, or maybe the aliens did this to her.
"She was fine until I ran into you," I said
Thursday, June 23, 2005
I still love the pistons.
especially Rasheed Wallace
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
From a bathroom stall:
"My ass tastes like steak"
and
"Grand Rapids never had a 'scene'"
Friday, May 27, 2005
Remember the days when video games were just a series of green slashes that had to be moved from one side of the screen to the next?
Were we retarded for thinking this was fun? or maybe our imaginations were so great, each of these little green slashes were HUGE green slashes with real names like Joe Green, and The Fridge?
Monday, May 09, 2005
The man with the bunny approached me on the underground. I was minding my own business, staring off into the buzzing nothingness of the train's rocking forward motion and he came at me out of nowhere and to be honest it caught me off-guard.
"You don't know a thing," he said to me, jabbing his finger at me and waving his bunny around as if to shoo flies away, "You are monpolizing everything! These people, everyone is having conversations, and you just sit there assuming things."
"what am I assuming?"
"Exactly! what is it that you assume? Don't you expect no one to talk back to you if you can't accept that you are assuming things about me and about these people..."
He danced about between the seats pointing to the people on the train who wished as much as I did that he'd leave them alone. "You assume!"
"Have you seen my friend?" I wanted to get to the bottom of this. He'd mentioned P_____ the last time I ran into him, but his incoherent jabbering never makes much sense. With each run-in, I tried to gather more info.
"You assume! Stop assuming and maybe I can let you know about the government officials who have her tied up in their secret society. Tied up for the secret society. They have her... right now... oh my I would hate to be in her shoes...."
Friday, May 06, 2005
this is hip hop livin' loved ones.
weed. naywatcher.
Monday, May 02, 2005
That’s when I saw her. She was walking in through the out door. The saxophone man played the blues to her walking. It was the I got lost walking blues or something. Ooh, when I saw her the earth kinna sat still like when the elevator don’t work, and it aint broke, cuz it’s just a set of stairs all a sudden. I held my breath until it hurt and I had ta breathe but in gasps. There was a time when she could run miles around the teenagers in town, but after years of raisin’ hell and takin names her body had shut down. Come a time in all our lives when the body gon’ give up on us. Don’t matter who we is but the same ole dirt, and sooner or later our bodies start disintegrating back into that dirt, that beginnin’ makeup. Our bodies give up on us, and start thinking about the dust to dust scenario more than the love and lust scenarios that our younger bodies be inclined to bend towards.
Well, hers done gave up on her. The bones, say the specialists, are crumbling into each other, decomposing almost. So, every move she makes is painful. It’s like a bad case of arthritis. She can’t walk real fast and she uses a cane now. She’s got such a youthful spirit, I want to take her to bars and clubs, but she moves so slow it takes a half an hour to walk around the corner. On the plus side, she can bang homeless panhandlers with her cane to get them out of the way during this slow forward progression.
At ten in the morn, she pops a few pills the doctors prescribed her. I’m not sure what kinna meds doctor quinn slips her but the El train sounds groovy (her words) only after ten in the morning. Before that, that train makes her ornery.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Advice for youngsters:
Never bring a huge burrito into your junior high school.
Also, don't put your cell phone into your pocket.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
As I was on my way to the bus stop at the corner of Irving and ninth, I saw him again. This time without his bunny, and he had a few of his friends with him. He was with the junky kid, Billy, who sits in front of the Fireside cafe on Tuesday nights selling his beatnik book collection for dope money. He was with a fat man who always carries an attache case. I call him the councillour. The Councillour's girlfriend was in tow, a woman with tattoos on her face. She has these tribal markings on her face that look as if she did them herself, and whenever she smiles its like the graffitti you see on the underground. She's none too pretty, either, with most of her teeth missing and a laugh that sounds like a car wreck. Everytime she goes at it, you got to look, and when you do... you wish you hadn't and then you just keep on staring cuz its so doggone fantastic.
The three of them and my bunny boy were stumbling out of a coffee shop, acting like fools. Coffee can do that to the insane. I bet they hadn't eaten. Add coffee to the mix, along with whatever else they pump into their systems, and they can howl all night.
Bunny boy saw me and cocked his head like a puppy after a weird sound.
"You've lost your cell phone havent you?" he asked me. "You've lost your cell phone and one of your best friends has gone missing, isn't that right? She was the last person you talked to on that phone, too."
He was right. I'd had my bag stolen a week ago and in it were some personal items I could live without, a book about screenwriting, a Japanese movie on dvd called "Tetsuo: The Iron Man" and my cell phone.
"What do you know about it?" I said
He giggles and says "aaw, you miss her? well, I may know where she went..."
Monday, April 18, 2005
I was seen, and he quickly turned around to look me in the eye.
"You've been following me haven't you?" he asked me with a not so secretive desire in his voice. He'd wanted me to follow him, and was as fascinated with me as I of him. "I've been watching you follow me now for years and I can hear your thoughts too. You think I am the chosen one, dont you? That is what I'm reading in your mind right now. You think that I am filled with all of the answers to all of the questions and even have some questions you've not thought of that I have the answers to before you even ask the questions to hear those answers. You see? I am the chosen one. ME!"
He clutched onto a stuffed rabbit while he raved on about his being the almighty, or the messiah or at least his own personal saviour. The rabbit was his blanket, his pillow and his toilet paper from the look of it, and when he talked he waved it about like it was his exclamation point. I stared at the rabbit, but I was merely fascinated by his insanity. The way I see it, most the world will go crazy someday. We all go crazy everyday, but someday we lose it. We just totally lose it so much so that none of the physical world makes any sense and the mind just makes its own reality out of the scraps that have fallen around it. I expect to do the same and hopefully not too soon, cuz I'm still under fourty.
He saw me staring at the rabbit.
"Mister? Do you want to eat my rabbit? Mister will you please not eat my bunny? Mister will PLEASE NOT EAT MY BUNNY?" he said quite emphatically. I couldn't have gotten close to his bunny let alone eat that thing as tightly as he held onto it.
He sang a song about keeping the bunny safe from harm. Safe from me.
"mister will you please not eat my bunny?
I'm certain that it's fleece is gold.
there are plenty of coldcuts in the fridge right there
even if some of the cheese I own has mold.
mister will you please not eat my bunny?
i've been hanging onto him since I was four.
there are plenty of vegetables in the garden,
and if we're out you take yourself to the corner store."
he was stark raving mad, but I loved him anyways, and followed him around until I could take no more of his insanity and went home to nap, where my dreams were much more real than even his ramblings.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
I'm losing my patience
I followed him around one night, and couldn't believe my luck when he began shouting at The Transamerica Pyramid. I think he must have thought it was an antennae to the aliens, cuz he talked of conspiracies, hovercrafts, and the brown noise.
"when will you return to me and take me away? i want to see the big city lights again!"
Friday, April 08, 2005
Random Puppy
thanks Puppy break!
Thursday, April 07, 2005
I think I'm going to have to change this blog or something.
I'm not that geeky about blogs.
That is, I don't get all HTML-ey about it and try to out-font
the other blogs.
Nope, I started this as a vanity thang.
I wanted somewhere I could write fiction, and showcase some of my tastes
in music, and to try out different writing styles.
Well, I settled on the official Hog Blog as my byline, because
Hog is my nickname (among many other nicknames, but this one is something I
can stay loyal to) and I feel like it's a good ghostwriter's name.
you know, written by The Hog, after a poem.
Yesterday I did a search on Google for The Hog Blog, and a couple different
bloggers are using this very same moniker. There is a hog blog, that is somehow connected to IT work. (shrugs)
There is a Log Hog Blog that is
some band's blog. I havent heard anything about 'em, I'm just using Ask Jeeves to suss things out, you know.
THere is a Hogg's Blog, but nothing is going on up in chyar, sir.
and there is David Hogg's Blog.
maybe I should call my blog something that is more suitable to what I write about like:
Drunk and Disorderly, a blog of train wrecks.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Today, at dinner, that first gulp of wine was glorious.
There are days when a man gets so beat down, so very
beat down, that he could need a means to wash that day away.
Wine, or whatever libation you should choose,
goes down easier, feels a little better, even looks
more alluring on days like this one I had today.
Oh, I know all ya'll gots worser days than the ole hog could ever had.
Today, tho, was the day I got me a root canal.
It took two separate doctor's offices to get this job done.
You see my toof' was f*ed up with a deep-ass cavity.
One dentist had to dig a hole in my right-bottom molar.
Another doctor had to take the nerve out of that toof' and
fill it with rubber, until its time to cap that muffugah with a
GOLD CROWN.
[I will finally get my bling, sucka]
I'll get this thing capped off with a gold crown, and
I can begin my new life. My new life with a less than painful eating experience.
Until that time, tho, I'll be chewing on the left side of the mouth,
and eating a lot of soup. Cuz, today I feel like someone socked me
in the face a couple of times.
It's days like today, that a man should be able to carry a
bottle of wine around the town with him, drinkin' in public and
causing a ruckus about it. When each gulp that warms the belly
helps him to numb the pain (in my case, the pain of a toof, goddammit)
or to help him to forget the money it cost to be in such pain...
That's when he should be able to do it with no remorse,
to say fuck-all to the world and get stinkin' pissed.
On a side note:
I'm not nearly in as much pain as the
LOSING KANSAS CITY ROYALS!
HA! TIGERS WON OPENING DAY 11 -2 against KC.
nah nah nah nah Boo Boo.
Friday, April 01, 2005
I'll be watching the May 4th episode of The O.C.
For on that day, the great modern day songwriter, Sam Beam will be performing.
He is Iron and Wine.
I am not worthy.
I hate The O.C.
Do these white kids with beutiful eyes and lithe bodies realize that
the indie world is not made up of Gucci couture? [sp?]
who am I kidding, tho?
Indie rock is dead.
if you want to see seom good music, go to your local watering hole and
listen to the old guys in the corner who aint never gonna get a recording contract.
the real shit is at the Rite SPot, or down at the Makeout Room.
I wonder who is playing out on May 4th?
Thursday, March 31, 2005
the following is a poem I've been working on that incorporates anthropomorphism.
Death is the singer in what would be a song,
and it's written as a love note/reminder to those in the living realm.
That is, we don't live forever. An age old Carpe diem type of poem, I guess.....
It's not named. If you'd like to name it, hollah at a playa.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[sad refrain]
When the buildings ablaze, will you run back inside?
Gather up your memories and risk your life?
(x 2)
You'll be picking up skulls while I'm dancing a jig...
I'll laugh and I'll laugh at the graves that you dig.
Where the grasses grow greener and the village is fine.
Where the whiskey is poured like a river of wine.
We'll go frollicking to and fro we will go...
not the winds nor the rains nor the sun nor the snow
can hinder your route from the cradle to the grave
filled with medals and with honours that you've managed to save.
So, let's waltz on together there's no time for tears
the world lasts forever but we've only got years.
I'll strike painless if your lucky,
in your ignorance, I'll strike quick,
you won't feel the blows
no, you won't feel a lick
[sad refrain]
When the buildings ablaze, will you run back inside?
Gather up your memories and risk your life?
(x 2)
May the sun shine upon you with the wind at your back
may you always get freely the things you may lack,
may you stave off the trials and the troubles to be dealt,
'til you've grown just enough for your strength to be felt.
Ev'ry morning you'll shout with a heart filled with glee,
but remember your endings are all owed to me.
So, drink heartily, laugh much, and love with no end.
Make very few enemies and cherish your friends.
(fade out.....)
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Tom Waits has made sure to let everyone who reads the Guardian know about Czech polkas and waltzes. "Whats that?" you say. Yes, Bohemian and Moravian (Czech, that is) polkas from Texas have made his top twenty albums of all time. It came in at number twelve, and had my dad seen that, he'd have fumed around the house for a few days on how it should have made number one. I am in agreement.
Here is Tom's assessment:
Bohemian-Moravian Bands by Texas-Czech (Folk Lyric) 1993
"I love these Czech-Bavarian bands that landed in Texas of all places. The seminal river for mariachi came from that migration to that part of the United States, bringing the accordion over, just like the drum and fife music of post slavery, they picked up the revolutionary war instruments and played blues on them. This music is both sour and bitter, and picante, and floating above itself like steam over the kettle. There's a piece called the 'Circling Pigeons Waltz', it's the most beautiful thing - kind of sour, like a wheel about to go off the road all the time. It's the most lilting little waltz. It's accordion, soprano sax, clarinet, bass, banjo and percussion."
I found this record on used vinyl at Amoeba in San Francisco a while back and have been keen on it for some time. The day I saw it, it stared up at me from the bins like a mirror of my youth. I grew up in the American Czech tradition. Which is, drinking and dancing the polka. It took me back to the day when I was a child staring at my old uncles as they sat me on their knees and sung along to whatever song was being played. I'd bounce along in time and revel in their off-key warbling. Whiskey breath and dark red noses, my family would pull out their accordions and trumpets and microphones and tubas (a rare thing to see these days, tho) to get a full on drunken hootenanny going. My favorite is the Wanderer Waltz.
Gramma taught me to dance before I knew anything else. And Grampa taught me to swear in Czech. I've forgotten by now. Great Gramma, who lived with my Grandparents never spoke in English. Every Sunday, Great Gramma would cook up a batch of the sweetest and most delicate crepes ever made. THe men would wake up late, hungover and bitter about having to go to church, but when the radio came on and Czech polkas were played, that hangover became a beautiful memory and the smiles came back.
Not many polkas are heard today, and it's nice to know that Tom Waits is lauding their existence. Even moreso that the good people at Folk Lyric records are archiving some of the finest music around, and if you listen closely... you may hear some Fojtik favorites.
buy the album here
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
If you need me,
I'll be in my chambers.
There's a man in my neighborhood who walks around talking to himself. He must have some thing going on in his head cuz its rare that he doesn't sound angry, or that he's cursing. It's always something that you wouldnt want to hear out loud. He sounds like he's nuts and he's never with anyone. He sounds like he hasn't seen a sane day in a long time. He sounds like he's talking to someone that isnt there. He always lookes at the ground as he walks briskly from one corner to the next, and I have only seen him standing still once. He was yelling at passing cars that day, on the corner of Lincoln and 4th ave.
I passed him a couple of days ago, and he was angry with his imaginary friends. He's prolly 55 years old, but I'm a bad judge of that. His hair is messy and white, and his face is always screwed up like he'd eaten lemons. His hands fly around his head, like swatting away bugs, but its clear that this is how he talks to himself; shouting, berating his imaginary companions, and waving hands frantically.
I wanted to follow him, with a notebook and write what he says down to tell you, for he has some interesting things to say now and again. Not that I want to befriend him, no. More that I think his rambling might be just nonsensical enough to create a new story. Sure that is a little like leeching, but who cares, right? It wouldn't hurt.
Friday, March 18, 2005
It started raining. We'd had a week and a half of respite, but it came back slowly for the weekend. Sitting down with Nick Drake , I came up with a list of some of the best rainy day music. Who doesnt like to make lists? I'd like to sit down and discuss why not.
1. Nick Drake - Five Leaves Left
2. Boards of Canada - Geogaddi
3. Hank Williams - Wait for the Light To Shine...
4. Kenny Burrell - Out of This World
5. Iron and Wine - The Creek Drank the Cradle
6. Explosions in the Sky - The Earth is not a Cold Dead Place
7. Uncle Tupelo - March 16-20, 1992
8. John Coltrane - Ole
9. Tortoise - Millions Now Living Will Never Die
10. Big Bill Broonzy - Feelin' Down Low
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
My hand on the glass, I watched Dave Gleason's Wasted Days shuffle through some slowed up diversions. I drank Scotch and Water, but only one glass, which is a rare occurrence. Only one, I thought, as I shifted in my seat to see if I knew anyone in the cavernous Makeout Room. Prolly ten or fifteen people came to see these guys play, making it a bittersweet affair. I was happy few people were in the room for my sake. I hate crowds when I go see music, making it hard to find a seat or if it's really crowded even to see the stage.
But, I was disappointed that so few people came out to see the Bay Area's guitar hero. Watching Gleason play his guitar is like watching a blues man pull magic solos out of thin air. He weaves through the chord progressions like a drunk man crossing a busy street unscathed. He knows the guitar like a good friend and plays and sings in that old country style that I like, so I was happy all'n all. 'Specially cuz the band played "Life of the Party."
The scotch was good, too. Oban.
I left before it got too late. I have to work during the day, and I like to get a few hours of good sleep in to seem proper at the warehouse. On my way to the bus stop, I noticed one of my old haunts was crowded with well dressed, well coiffed yuppies from who knows where. Maybe from the mission, as the mission is more high falutin' these days. I cursed their new BMW's and lauded the bartender for making great money on a Tuesday night. I laughed at the new VW Bug that had grafitti on it. I shoook my head at the sight of Valencia Street with new store openings in spots that once held a used bookstore/record shop. I once could get a 5 dollar used record right there, but today I can only get an expensive set of shelves, some trendy shoes, or even have my house Feng Shui'ed for a nominal fee.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
are you looking for some kitten time?
do you want a kitten break?
how about some bacon?
Thursday, March 03, 2005
I began searching for a new wig. One that would make my eyes look bluer.
I stopped into a store near the north side of the city and found a bright red one that made me look fat, so I said "Please can I get one that just makes me feel like I'm invisible?" and the store keep said, "Nope, wigs generally make you stand out."
I tried on a beatles cut wig, but I look too much like Ringo and no one wants to be the drummer of the Beatles even if it is Ringo.
I tried on the muted multi colored wig and that one seemed to work until I started to itch and found ants crawling up inside of it and into my own hairdo, and that was just yucky.
I tried on the punk rock mohawk, but with half of the wig not there, I just looked funny looking. But bad funny looking.
I chose the old grey wig to make me look older. In fact, it made me look like I was an older man who looked quite young for my age, which is all untrue, but I like that anyways.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Hunter S Thompson is dead.
He shot himself, and I havent heard any evidence that says he wasn't shot by someone else, so I'll believe the suicide. despite the lack of a suicide note. You'd think that a man as willing to tell the world to fuck off would give it one last go before he pulled the trigger, hmm?
Who would want the man dead?
There are conspiracy therorists that believe he was targeted by the CIA. [conpiracyplanet, rumor mills]
"Did you see Bush on TV, trying to debate? Jesus, he talked like a donkey with no brains at all," Thompson wrote for a Rolling Stone article about Bush's race for the white house way back in October, "It was pitiful. . . . I almost felt sorry for him, until I heard someone call him "Mister President," and then I felt ashamed.
As it reads on, the article becomes way more jagged and biased against the president.
Makes me wonder.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Paris Hilton was hacked and here are some of her phone pictures
what a ditz.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
It never ceases to amaze me. The incredible technology we have access to in the modern age astounds me. Really, I know that it sounds trite and who cares anyways? Dig, tho.
I awoke, drank coffee, and begin my daily routine of reading news at Reuters, Sfgate, and Drudgereport. I check blogs from folks like TonyPierce, Ken Layne, EyeControl and The Bossman Cometh. Somehow I stumble onto Salon, a good website for "less mainstream" news. There is a section on Salon for free downloads selected by their music guy, ("Audiofile" is the section's name) and I start downloading some tunes to my computer. FREE! I got me some Mississippi John Hurt, and the Iron & Wine song done by the Postal Service.
The reviewer writes why he likes this song verses another, or explains why you need to listen to a certain song from Dios on a snowy day.
I like his descriptive snippets, so I send him an e-mail asking if he'd accept a music submission should I send it.
I'll write to music reviewers every now and again, some respond, some don't. Mainly, its a way to get something, hell ANYTHING, nice to be said about my band. Usually, reviwers throw the comped cd's out, or maybe they sell them at Amoeba. Rarely do they respond, unless they write something somewhere....
but this guy wrote me back in less than 2 minutes.
weird, right?
I thought so.
should I be suspicious?
Nonetheless, it wouldn't have gone down, had we not these powerful computers today.
trippy? or did I smoke too much grass this morning and am stunned by such mediocrity?
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Every morning around this time, I have a cup of coffee and listen to the NPR news. I don't really listen to the news. It is on like the television's channel three in the eighties: white noise. News bytes hit me lightly and bounce off so I don't worry too much about it. I read a few blogs and look up music online. mostly, I'm trying to get my eyes to open.
My neighbor has a different routine. I'm not sure what is going on for him, but it sounds like someone has wrangled a wolverine and is choking it.
"CHLAUCHK-COugh-KLACCKCHTKEW"
what the frank is going on out there? I wonder.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
I'll tell you what...
I'm waiting for the rapture to come on and we are lifted up to the heavens on a big shiny craft. I'll bring the cheesy poofs and my wet suit for emergencies. you know...
in case I shit m'self.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Punxsatawney Phil has seen his shadow and we are in for an extension of this already brutal wintry weather.
Luckily, in San Francisco, it is a beautiful sunny morning with a cool breeze coming in off the bay.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
yo, this will be me when I get down on the weekend:
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
yo, this was me on New Years Eve:
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
My wife decided to leave me. Whats worse is that she was to take her jewelry with her and split sometime the next week. She’d grown tired of having to wait for me nearly every night while I gambled away most of our savings. She’d lock up the diamonds in a safebox, pack up a few other things into the truck and head south to live with her mother in Huntington. At least that's what I overheard her whispering to her friend Mikaela last Saturday.
Got a guy who makes a living spying on people to help me out. Got him to trail her. If I was to get to the jewels before she up and split, I had to take drastic measures “You gotta place some trust in me, Mac,” he tole me, “ I can bug the phones, but you get me a little more cheddar and I’ll follow ‘er around the town for a few days.”
Have the phone bugged? Who’s ta say I was gonna get her to spill the beans yappin’ on the phone? And this mug makes it like I’m hedging my bets.
“Man, I don’t want to have to do nothing I’m gonna regret,” I told him, “a man can only lose one wife to fishing accidents per lifetime. It’s like a rule or something, and if I break that rule, things is gonna look wrong and jail is not an option for me at my age”
“Riley, she may have the gumption to up and spirit these rocks away before she’d been planning on it,” he said, “we got to strike while the iron is hot.”
I liked the way he said "spirit," so I gave him some more cheese and told him she didn’t have no job but that he could find her at the yoga studio on Cherry Street or the coffee shop next door where she pretended to read Nietzche. He counted the money while a fruit fly buzzed around his head. I wanted to smack that fly, but I prolly would’a landed a wallop on his fat head. I didn’t wanna affend this guy before he’d stolen my wife’s diamonds.
