I’d like to dedicate all of this week’s posts to Steve Pohlman, co-proprietor of Off Broadway. Not that anything bad’s happened to him. Instead, I’ll note that he needled me at the club the other night, about not having posted anything new here in some time. So, for a little while, buoyed by the fact that I have one reader, I’ll move into hyper-drive.

For today’s second post, here’s a link to a short story about Emily Hemeyer at the St. Louis Beacon. With the online publication now running shorter spotlight articles on local artists, this is one of the first ones to appear. Was happy to spill some digital ink on one of the South Side’s most creative.

It’s right here.

This story is 100% true.

Just returned from the Trophy Room, on Arsenal and Brannon. The radio show The Men’s Room was broadcasting from there today and I’d hoped to run into co-host Brian McKenna post-show. Missing him, I figured that I’d sit down, nurse a beer and watch some of the live coverage of the balloon racing across Colorado. At the bar were about 15 bottled beer-drinking hoosiers, along with the stacked, just-off-shift bartender, relieved by another young lady of similar ilk. Nothing about the scene was particularly surprising or new or notable.

But then… at some point in proceedings, one of the resident wits decided to fire up the digital jukebox with The 5th Dimension’s “Up, Up and Away,” which caused the locals to either yuck-yuck, or to sing along to the chorus “up, up and away/in my beautiful/my beautiful balloon.”

Not sure that I needed to be reminded that The Trophy Room’s regulars were a band of dipshit huckleberries, but I just got one anyway.

It’s 10:22 a.m. on a Wednesday. This is normally the time I’d be rousing myself from sleep, but an appointment had me up earlier than normal today. With a few minutes to kill, I noticed that at 8:35 a.m., I’d already received about 57 e-mails on the morning, a good number for a full day. Even the quickest check showed something awry, as almost every subject line was “re:” and there were dozens of those, mixed in with the daily dose of junk and even a few legit pieces of correspondence.

Well, apparently, my account just added to the world’s spam problem, as my Yahoo contact list has been used to distribute some Canadian pharmacy options to friends, colleagues, countless former students and folks that I couldn’t place in a police lineup. As I’ve responded to each, I’ve gotten more e-mails, along with responses to my responses. I’m currently at well over 100 e-mails sent and received this morning. Fun.

Wading through additional readings every few minutes, I’ve begun to detect a pattern in the responses-to-responses. Guys over 30 often write “Don’t need Viagra… yet!” Others bear a vaguely hostile “WHAT IS THIS?” or the more confused “Huh?” And while I appreciate the “I just wanted you to know” tone of many… I know! I know! And I’m so sorry! But I know!

After changing my account password, it seemed a good time to trim away at the 1,031 names in my account book. Now, I’m a lean, sinewy 690, simply by knocking out students from 2001-2008, names that I simply don’t remember and a few dozen enemies. It’s very cleansing. But only cleansing, after the fact. Because at some time during the 7 a.m. time block this morning, my computer sent Viagra appeals to all these good folks:

Noted American historian Howard Zinn

The parents of my soccer players

Former State Senator Jeff Smith

All of St. Louis’ TV and radio sports media, including Rich Gould, Frank Cusumano, Martin Kilcoyne, Bob Ramsey, Andy Strickland and Rene Knott

At least two employees of Roxy’s

Someone named Silab

Soemone named John Doe

Various people that write me checks

Roger Boyd of the band Head East

And all my current students at Webster U., which will make for countless enjoyable comments at the start of the next couple classes

Happy Wednesday, folks!

One of my many jobs is serving as the quick-call-fill-in-deejay at the Halo Bar, which happens to be one of my favorite jobs, as well. This very Thursday night, I’ll be there ’til the witching hour of 3 a.m. After enjoying several Sunday night slots recently, always with the Pageant dark, this gig will follow an actual show at the main room, by Ghostland Observatory.

Now this got me thinking about the fact that my ears and eyes have suddenly started growing shut, as I’m fairly certain that I’ve never heard the music of Ghostland Observatory before yesterday, and have only the dimmest memory of ever reading the duo’s name. YIKES. This is happening on a far-too-frequent basis of late, but I’ll just deal, while playing and enjoying music suitable to my generation. Yes. Dignity will be applied. Always.

Speaking of dignity (being damned), I can fully blame Marla Hare Griffin of the Royale staff, for causing me to play mid-’80s, comeback-era Heart on a daily basis for the past two weeks. Thanks to YouTube, I’ve been reliving my teens, spent in miniscule, low-lit TV lounge of Loretto Hall, crushing on Nancy Wilson during the hyper-frequent playings of MTV hits like “These Things,” “Never” and “What About Love.”

Have to say, the one that’s sticking for me is “Alone.” Hadn’t thought of the cut in years, but now I’m aware of the Seattle acoustic show, the Carrie Underwood version, the Carrie Underwood-with-Ann Wilson rendition from American Idol, etc., etc., and so on. Thanks, YouTube users! Let’s fire up the time machine with the original today.

‘Cause I need more nostalgia in my life.

(Edit: Okay, after eight attempts to embed the actual video, it ain’t gonna happen. The link, then.)

Admitted: I’m obsessed. With The Wedge. Long story. Some other time. So…

It’s open again. Went by last night. Got stood up by a pal. (Thanks, pal!) Watched hi-definition football with: three patrons (including the pensive owner of the Iron Barley, who I’m convinced wants to ring my neck, though I’m not sure of any plausible reason); the cook; and the sexily-clad bartender, who introduced herself before studiously avoiding me for the remainder of my 15-minute stay, thus denying me the opportunity of finding out who owns this spot. For this, I gave a $2 tip. Go figure.

The decor’s the largely the same, save for the addition of: a Golden Tee; a pair of electronic dart boards; a crookedly-slapped sticker above the bar proclaiming that “you can’t fix stupid”; and a touch jukebox that was cranking out top-40 hip-pop. Strangely, that modern musical vibe was set against the classic punk-rock photos that still line the place, so that, for example, you might be drinking your $2 Busch beer, while staring a framed photo of the Sex Pistols, as blaring Li’l Wayne washes over you. Can’t recall if the boar’s head is still there, or came out. Details, details.

I dropped by, so others don’t have to. It’s my gift to you.

Visited Hartford Coffee Company yesterday afternoon for some mega-reading, on what was a very typical Sunday shift. A folksinger playing to light applause. Barista Nelson greeting everyone with a quip. Almost everyone in the place sitting alone, save for a pair of ladies, mid-room, who were carrying on a conversation driven by the newspapers on their table.

As they prepared to leave, I was surprised to see one of them approaching me.

“I don’t why I’m picking on you, but read this,” she said, with an RFT opened to Ian Froeb’s restaurant review. “You really need need to eat here.”

Discussing the article, the accompanying photo, the menu, the prices and a few other items of note, my Redbird-clad coffeehouse neighbor gave the ultimate word-of-mouth plug to South Grand Gyro Express.

It’s located just south of Bates on South Grand, of course, next to the dead-ender bar the Palomino Lounge. (As luck would have it, I drove past last night and noticed the orange glow of the space while zipping past.) It’s always nice to see new, internationally-owned businesses anywhere in South City, especially on Grand as they’re moving ever-southward, passing Chippewa, Meramec and, now, Bates.

Hummus, anyone? I’ve just heard about this great, little place…

Returned, an hour-or-so back, from a show at the City Art Supply. What a wonderful evening for an open-door gig, with three local artists teaming with two Portland-based performers to create quite a magical night of music (and video) on Cherokee. For a time, I sat on the stoop of a neighboring house, sipping at a donated can of PBR and listening to a gorgeous drone-scape from guitarist/sound manipulator .e and I was as deliriously spaced-out as you can be.

In the past couple years, I’ve run into a few nights like this at City Art, evenings when I didn’t necessarily know the musicians, but wound up a serious fan of one, or more. Already, I’m on the second listen of a CD that I picked up tonight, Shelley Short‘s “Captain Wildhorse (Rides the Heart of Tomorrow).” Great voice, interesting sonics… maybe a slightly-less-oddball version of St. Vincent? That’s what striking me as an apt comparison at a late hour. At any rate, t’s an awesome disc and it wouldn’t be in collection tonight if I hadn’t taken the three-minute bike ride to C.A.S.

While tonight had certain, lovely qualities, more often I would up at City Art Supply on Saturday afternoons, maybe after running to Soulard Market or before striking some errands off the to-do list. I’d stop anytime that I’d see Dana Smith in the shop, usually finding him painting in the front window, with natural light streaming in on him and on his latest work. It was fun to sit around and kibitz about the local art scene, music scene, freak scene. Once in a while, I’d even buy something, figuring, hell, it was a place of commerce, not just a conversation salon.

City Art’s been a valued piece of the “new” Cherokee Street. And a great resource for tips on new artists, of all stripes. If tonight was my last chance to sample the particular energy of this space, I’ll miss it, for sure. But anytime Shelley Short’s on my stereo, I’ll look back on fondly, with thanks and hosannas going out to Dana.

Damn you for being so cool, you funky little shop.

Oh, I got ’em. Don’t we all.

But bad cameras, unworkable cameras, underutilized cameras… those I got more than anything. Alas.

Still taking pix-es, though. Was recently crowing about a five-stop UE trip and the evidence is in. Probably the set most interesting to people will one dedicated to Hobo University, located on the north Riverfront and run by the Amish Hobo, Jeremiah. Enjoy them in all their blue-tinted glory.

They run an open potluck on Thursday nights, so if anyone’s game one o’ these weeks, hit me up.

My ghost peppers are making the news. Kinda.

And I might say that “limited” is a relative term. There are 25 red hots on the vine right now, so let me know and I’ll undercut my price at Local Harvest, ‘k?