Ah, the pranks of age. On Thursday, I reached down for my fitness center pass, of all things, only to jam something in my back. The sensation of doing something really wrong was right there: bam! After suffering through some stationary bike riding and and my last regularly-scheduled class of term, I locked up on the walk to the parking garage. As in becoming completely, stock-still frozen and unable to move. Unbelievable. After a trip to the doc and a subsequent ER visit, I’m now enjoying a steady diet of diazepam and hydrochodone and am readying myself for an afternoon of coaching soccer. Which will be done from a chair.
Missed this weekend, already: hanging out with a friend on Thursday; an acupuncture session, a radio show, a DJ gig and a documentary shoot, all on Friday; and a door shift on Saturday. Tricked my way through a house party spin on Saturday night (much fun, with Cherokee Street’s bustle as a background), but have been otherwise too busy trying to stand up to attempt much of anything else, even as money’s flying out of my pocket.
I’ll punch up some “May’s 13” notes as soon as I have a slight bit less anger toward the world. ‘Til then, don’t take your good health for granted, seriously.
Book I, “Free: The Future of a Radical Price“: Chris Anderson, the author of the truly-engaging mass comm/business book “The Long Tail” is back this summer, with a title that’s going to appeal to anyone figuring out how to make a dime in modern day media; you can probably glean the book’s topic from the title, alone. The blips written about the work, to date, make this sound like a must-read. So much so that I plan to buy the book. For money. Day it comes out. Cash money.
Book II, “Masters of Reality“: There’s no series that I find more variable that the 33 1/3 collection of titles on individual records. Pick up one and it’s an in-studio look at the recording process. Pick up a second and it’s a review of the genre spawned by said album. Pick up a third and it’s a novella loosely-based on the work. That’s kinda the approach of this one, which is penned by Mountain Goats member John Darnielle. It tells the story of a youth, coerced into an institution, who reacts poorly when his cassette copy of the titular Black Sabbath release is confiscated. Readable, yeah, and about 50-times more enjoyable than the dreadful mess that paid tribue to PJ Harvey’s “Rid of Me,” but I’m still not sure I can throw down $10.99 for every, slim, 100-page, interesting idea that comes along from the press. (Times are tough; don’t know if you’ve heard.) Nonetheless, glad to see this series clicking along, with books that you can devour in the smaller part of an afternoon, if so moved.
Pimping, Silver Tray: Speaking of cash, I think this is the point in the proceeding when I’m supposed to solicit friends, acquaintances, random passersby and all others to chip into the KDHX till, with a timely (and generous) pledge to the spring membership drive. Me? I’m coming in with a robust $35 this Friday, so match my cheap ass, at least.
Band, Rare Bird: Fact of the matter is this: if punk and progressive rock were lined up right now, vying for my attention, I’m gonna my back out on punk for a little more fling-time with prog. Sorry, just the way it is right now. And I’m somewhat miffed that no one, ever, told me about the most amazing Rare Bird. What a completely delightful bit of overwrought ’60s/’70s musical fare! Cannot stop thinking about buying their whole collection, an expensive proposition, considering that virtually nothing’s available on iTunes and their LPs are generally in the $20 range, for original vinyl. In time, they will all be mine. Don’t take my word, though. Watch and listen.
Snack cracker: ak-mak 100% whole what stone ground sesame cracker: I dig the all-lower case naming. And the remarkably flavorless taste! Delicious, in a completely benign way.
Guilty plesaure, Octomom: At some point, you just give in and realize that you’re no longer following a news story “for class conversation purposes.” You’re simply hooked. So much so, that your secret shame eventually Googles you over to a Fox News culture blog named (no lie) “Pop Tarts” and that said blog used the word “sordid” in a headline in relation to Octomom. Man. Can’t make it up. Glad that cable subscription’s still off, or there’d be real trouble.
Phrase, “getting you (blank) on”: Here’s another entry inspired by classes. Students laugh when middle-aged white people say things in the classroom like, “let’s get our study on” or the slightly-varied “let’s get our discussion on”; or when reaching for a sip, “let me get my green tea on.” The variations are endless and there’s never a time during which the uncomfortable chuckles won’t be there. Go ahead, be someone’s embarrassing uncle. The half-hearted titters will warm your ears and tickle your heart, trust me. Can’t wait for next semester’s post-ironic, intentionally “dropped” catch phrase of the moment.
Field trip, Michael Reese Hospital, Chicago: Got UE on the brain and this hot-spot in the Windy City’s got me all a’twitter. Dig the pics and you’ll understand why.
Sought I, eBay dealer: I thought, in this economy, that every 10th person was on the web, selling other people’s crap. Not so, it seems. My hookup seems uninterested in my current load of unwanteds, so… readers, please recommend me somebody in the game. In the meantime, I just scored two Nov. 9th CDs, so make a bid directly to me, on those; if you know what they are, you know how nice a find they are.
Sought II, photos of burnouts: I’m working on documentary about St. Louis AOR bands from the golden age of KSHE and we need some photos of, quite honestly, white STL kids with mullets, drinking beer from tin cans of Busch Bavarian, while leaning against their Camaros. Well, that’d be the super-all-star shot, but if you know of someone with any stash of righteous Sweetmeat-styled kids from our town’s run of the 1970s, please let me know.
Sought III, lottery info: You can’t win it, if you’r not in it. So, help a brother out: what lottery games are the ones to play for big payoffs? I don’t wan to play my $1-a-week for a potential $50-100 payoff. I want millions. And, yet, I really haven’t a clue as to how any of this stuff works. Something anecdotal would help. And something that I can play and win between now and April 15 would be best. Thanks, in advance; best info gets a cut.
Uh-oh-should-be-good-but-oooh-it’s-been-awhile-new, Coumadin down/alcohol okayed: Been cleared to imbibe. Let’s get our drink on!
Inside joke/YouTube video, Beatnik Herman: Well worth 90-seconds of your life:
When Bloc Party’s promoter moved last Saturday’s show to the Aragon Ballroom, opening up hundreds of tickets, I quickly snagged one, Ticketmaster surcharges and a five-hour drive be damned. Lucky me, as the group’s canceled a St. Louis show for this week, owing to what vocalist Kele Okereke was complaining about up in Chicago: a lingering throat issue.
It was a great gig and I won’t go into details here, other than to share one anecdote that’ll stay with me for awhile. I owe the impact of it, in large part, to not having had a drink since 11/11 of last year. The resultant (popularly-termed “sober”) mental state, allows one to view situations in new and unique ways. For example…
Despite the bad pipes, Okereke was in a relatively talkative mood during the band’s one-hour-plus-four-songs-for-an-encore set. At one point, he began talking about how Chicago’s fans were great. (“Yay!” cheered the fans.) Better than the Miami fans of the day before. (Cue up more: “Yay!”) Then the proverbial house came down. Deadpanned the charismatic frontman, after a moment’s pause: “I’ve never seen so many douchebags in one place before.”
What followed was this: the crowd losing its collective mind for the next eight-10 seconds. Sheer pandemonium and glee. As if every giddy emotion a group could feel crystallized into one moment: the ball had dropped at Times Square on New Year’s Eve, in the exact moment that the biggest firework had gone off on the Fourth of July, while the best Christmas presents ever had just been delivered to each attendee by giant, talking unicorns.
All around me, people paused their cell-phone photography and pumped their fists in the air, they hooted and howled and engaged in small dances. I didn’t imagine this. It happened. In Chicago. On Saturday. In front of a sober me.
Nearly undone by confusion, I sorely needed a drink.
Is there something especially funny about a Brit saying that line? Is there a relatively-unspoken competition between Miami and Chicago? Are Chicagoans prone to moments of mass hysteria? If Okereke and friends had played St. Louis tomorrow night, would he have dropped the same line on Chicago, calling it the Unquestioned D-Bag Capital of America? And, had he done so, would St. Louisans have partied like it was 1999?
Ah, hell. Many of the best answers are left to the imagination.
I’ll ponder it all while listening to/watching my third favorite B.P. track, if I had to, you know, make a list of such things:
Involved as I am in a weeks-long housecleaning operation of some major scope, there’s still surprise when a find of notable, historical curiosity presents itself. So it was recently, when the summer reading club checklist of seven-year-old Thomas Uhlander was unearthed. The youth had used the Carpenter Branch Library to secure these fancifully-named bits of literature:
15. when water animas are babies 14. Jokes to enjoy draw and tell 13. Sam the minuteman 12. The pig war 11. Binky borthers detectives 10. Kick pass and run 9. Sophie and Gussie 8. Mr cat’s wonderful surprice 7. Glaciers 6. Fishes 5. Wild animals 4. More riddles 3. Crazy horse 2. Steven and the green tutle 1. Fables of aesop
