Exiled in Cardinal Country

Since the move I have found myself enjoying life a heck of a lot more, and working a heck of a lot less. And with all that free time, I have been able to do something that I really haven't had the opportunity to do over the last couple of summers... Watch baseball.

I have been watching at least a game a day for what seems like weeks now, and while that might seem boring to most, it fits perfectly into my new world agenda of laying on the sofa in the evenings and watching television.

Now, as a Cubs fan one might expect most games I watch are of the Chicago National League team, but that really hasn't been the case. We nodded out of our Dish Network renewal when we moved and opted instead for Mediacom, which to those of you who live in Zimbabwe, is a cable television outlet.

Unfortunately for me however, Mediacom doesn't have the Fox Chicago regional channels, nor Comcast which hosts most of the Cubs games. The team Mediacom does feature most is that outfit in St. Louis, and despite my hatred towards the birds in red, it is nonetheless baseball, and my grievances towards Dish Network are such that I am willing to take a splintered baseball bat up the ass so to speak, at least for the duration of this baseball season. I am blessed with ESPN's coverage of baseball, and the occasional Cubs games on WGN. Other than that, it's at least one hated team on television virtually each and everyday. (I have found that it is just as fun to root AGAINST the Cardinals as it is to root FOR the Cubs because lately the Cubs have been just as good as the Cardinals have been bad. The satisfaction is all mine.)

To take the complications in my life even further, I work outside during the day. I mow big grassy fields and I have the luxury of being able to listen through headphones to an old transistor sports radio that I have had for years while I am working. The Cubs play alot of day baseball, which is nice. On a non-windy clear day I can pull 1350 KRNT out of Des Moines and listen to the Cubs broadcast with Pat Hughes and Ronny Santo. But most days in central Iowa are windy and cloudy, so reception isn't always there when I want it. There are several other stations close to 1350 on the dial that have a stronger signal that jam up the short term frequency of my non-digital sports radio. One of the stations that makes for a lot of interference into my baseball utopia is the local station KCOB, which lies at 1280 on the dial. It's a double whammy because when KCOB isn't playing cheesy country ballads that make me throw up in my mouth, they are playing... You guessed it... Cardinals baseball.

But my love for the game persists. Baseball is in it's purest form when it's broadcast on the radio, and despite the fact that John Rooney and Mike Shannon are complete buffoons, the Cardinals broadcast IS a step better than the suicide driving country music that the station normally plays. Let me elaborate for a minute... Ken Harrelson, who broadcasts television games for the Chicago White Sox is the absolute worst television baseball announcer in MLB history... Even worse than those tools who do the Fox coverage, Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. Harrelson's quirky little sayings and his personal politics are very unwelcome to a baseball broadcast and never mind the fact that he is a complete idiot, who inserts his foot into his mouth at least once a week during the long baseball season. Without the addition of Steve Stone in the booth, an announcer that actually has a brain, Harrelson would shrivel up like a dandelion shot with Round-Up during each broadcast, eventually spontaneously combusting into a stuttering cloud of incomprehensible smoke. His backwoods and hickish demeanor actually taints the splendor of baseball, and brings to MLB what Al Davis and the Oakland Raiders bring to the NFL.

Now if you are wondering where I am going with this, here comes my point. Mike Shannon and John Rooney are the two most boring and incompetent baseball announcers to ever do a radio broadcast, and they together are like Ken Harrelson times two. They remind me of a couple of old men telling fishing stories... Long drawn out yarns of the ones that got away, though done in a steady monotone that fails to excite, or to keep the listener from um... Listening. I find myself spacing off whenever these idiots are on, to a point that I forget that I am even listening to a baseball game. you NEVER get that with Santo and Hughes... The story they tell is full of wonder, vibrant colors and excitement. I am seriously shocked that Cardinal Nation hasn't revolted and lobbied to get these two morons out of the radio booth.

But yeah... I'm looking forward to summer and enjoying the national pastime. Baseball is as pure as it gets for entertainment, and never has a more perfect game been played. As a Cubs fan who is truly kept in exile, I am lobbying to you Cardinals fans to take the first step towards the revolt I spoke of and get somebody with a brain into the radio broadcast booth. If you don't have the common sense or the decency to do it for yourselves, please do it for me... And meanwhile I will be using the Mute button when the Buck McCarver sideshow is on.

Things You Shouldn’t do for 5 Minutes with a Bagel for $500

This post was written by Guest Blogger Marci Tribble who lives in New York City. She used to manage her own blog which was called Subliminal Silence, which she has since abandoned. Her stories of free beer and the shenanigans that ensued were timeless. She says she wants to start blogging again, and this is that first baby step forward... Thank you Marci!

I work for a hospital in the Psychiatry Department at an off site clinic. I often have to walk a mile to the hospital to explore different ways to waste my time for meetings. Today was one of those days. I took off on my hike early so I could eat lunch in the hospital cafeteria before my meeting. I get excited about this because the hospital food only PARTLY makes me want to vomit. Since I work in the hood, my normal options are chinese food with feathers in it or fried fish with mayonnaise, both of which make me actually vomit.

It was 2pm so most people are done eating and there are only a few people in the cafeteria. An old man walks in and gets a bagel and loudly yells that there is no toaster. He comes out and sees a microwave and puts the bagel in it. He then proceeds to sit down at the table next to me. About 3 minutes later, I am off in my own world thinking about world domination when I notice the smoke monster from “LOST” (the one that makes the noise of a cab printing a receipt) out of the corner of my eye. Being someone that refuses to be taken out by a stupid smoke monster, I get up and start Kung Fu Fighting look to see who is going to fix the problem. A cafeteria worker runs and opens the microwave and smoke fills the entire cafeteria. She looks at me as if it is my responsibility to claim the burning bagel. I try to get old guys attention but he is deaf so I walk over to his table:

Me: “Sir, I think your bagel is burning”

Old Dude: “Why is it your problem, I want it burned!!” and proceeds to flail his arms in the air in an attempt to get me out of his face.

Me: “In that case, I think your bagels ready”

By this time the smoke has run people out of the cafeteria and there is talk in the distance about calling the fire department. I look back and everyone in the cafeteria is still looking at me as if I am responsible for this old guy. This is when I notice the bagel is actually on fire, as in flames coming off a black piece of charcoal. A woman sitting next to the microwave pours her soda on it.

The old guy just sits there as if he doesn’t realize that there is no longer oxygen in the air. Realizing that I am on my lunch break and I should only be dealing with crazies when I am not on break, I gather my trash and try to run for the exit, at which point I hear the man call to me. I turn around to see that he is finally noticed his wet bagel ash and asks me if I “am going to replace his bagel that I burned”. This is when the faux fire fighter chimed in and said “you can replace my soda while your at it”. I decided work was better than this so I put on my confused face and walked away.

Life Adjusted

Jeebus, I haven't posted since St. Patty's Day?

Well... Some hangovers take longer to heal than others. In this case however, it wasn't a night of heavy drinking that developed into my absence, but more like a mental hangover... Or maybe adjustment works better. St. Patty's Day did play a major part in this mental correction, but only because I missed the holiday completely.

See, I had plans to go out on St. Patty's Day. My friend William has a kilt that he has worn in years prior, and this year he was offering it up to me in lieu of a lime green polyester jumpsuit he acquired at a local thrift consignment shop. The idea was that with me donning his quilt and he in his jumpsuit, we would go out and hit the hot spots and see what kind of  shnenanigans we could get ourselves into, all under the constant eye of a video camera. The idea was to have fun, drink heavily and mingle with strangers, and to have a photo journal of it as it happened. But as was the  case way too often, our plans... Well at least mine... Were foiled by my job, which was becoming an ever looming dark shadow on my personal life. It was getting to a point to where my personal time was getting sucked up by an increased work level, which in turn was making me want to work less and less. I wasn't being financially compensated for this extra effort, and frankly the friendly pat on the back that said I was doing a good job had become non-existent too. So, in a sense I was working for nothing, with no personal benefit, and right around St. Patty's Day the proverbial shit hit the fan. I realized that I was spending less time with my daughter, as I was constantly working during the weekends of her visits. I was missing out on the little things in life too, such as making that video journal of a shenanigan filled Irish holiday. I was growing to resent my job, which wasn't a good fit in a kid-friendly environment.

I realized my need for an adjustment in my life. I wasn't happy. I was working and living in the non-profit sector with kids... Something I love to do... And while that aspect of my soul was satisfied, the personal side of things was deteriorating rapidly. In kind of a leap of desperate faith, I decided to pull the plug on this slow drain and open up the valve to a new life. So, even though we had no money saved up and no real plan in motion, Essie and I decided to pack up and quit.

The move was easy. Things were packed up quickly, and with the help of a few friends with pick-up trucks, we were out of there in a flash. My father offered some garage space as a place for temporary storage, and luckily we had friends and family that were willing to host us throughout April, a month when Essie and I were virtually homeless. I found a job in Des Moines as quick as I could... Ironically in one of the Irish Pubs that I had planned on hitting on St. Patty's Day. The agreement was that I could work as long as I needed to, until I landed something a little more lucrative and stable. Frankly while it would make for a good video journal, a bar full of drunk Irish assholes isn't the epitome of stability... And when a summer mowing gig opened up, I jumped at the chance for the change. We moved from cabin in the woods to an apartment in small town Iowa, and the adjustment while slow, has been towards the positive.

For the first time in two months, I have the urge to write again. I have the Andy Shernoff interview half-way transcribed, and a couple of other ideas I am eager to get started on... I appreciate you hanging around.

Pineapples, Peaches, and Doomsday Prophecies

I woke up from a nap a while ago. I fell asleep to a show about the 2012 prophecies of Nostradamus and woke up to The Pineapple Express. Apparently Essie wasn't as fond as the doomsday forecast as I was. Interestingly enough, she too fell asleep while watching TV... Whatever she was watching. When I woke up the Pineapple Express was just starting. Because I didn't know any better it's been on since, and seems to be nearing it's ridiculous conclusion. I'm wondering, does Seth Rogen play the same old dipshit in every one of his movies?

I got up and grabbed a beer. It is St. Patty's Day afterall. I've spent the last hour or so reading blogs and answering emails, and even took a peek at Facebook. A friend became a fan of Peaches!, and this particular FB friend isn't one who would just cling to any ol' fan page, so I clicked the link and decided to see who/what this Peaches! thing was all about. I didn't expect to find a page dedicated to the furry tree fruit, but I really wasn't expecting this gal either:

Well of course I became a fan too. I don't always need to hear a musician to know whether or not their sound is going to soothe my soul. Sometimes you just know... And even if not, oh well.

Time Waits for No One (Except Chuck Norris)

It came to my attention that Chuck Norris turned 70 yesterday.

I was a little surprised at his age... I honestly had him pegged for a man in his 50s. He doesn't look, nor act like somebody who is older than my father. To make my point, my father who just turned 65 last week never made a workout video, never single handedly took on the Viet Cong to save forgotten prisoners of war, nor has he ever donned the uniform of a Texas Ranger. Not once was my dad ever referred to as Lone Wolf, and I have no recollection of him ever inventing his own form of martial arts... In fact compared to Chuck Norris, my father has led a pretty average life. But tell me... compared to Chuck Norris, who hasn't?

Chuck Norris is the American word for tough mother fucker. He trained alongside Bruce Lee, which should have been a clue to me regarding his age, but somehow I missed it. While competeing in martial arts competitions throughout the '60s he dominated his opponents with such verocity that he almost single handedly ended the peace movement (Only to re-build it again later... Read on). There was several times for instance in 1968 that Chuck Norris wiped out an entire block of hippies with one giant sweeping round-house kick. If the U.S. Army had been smart they would have hired him to track down and punish the draft dodgers that so proudly eluded their national service. He became known as a super human destroying machine, and most likely his existence was the prime reason the United States didn't enter any substantial wars in the 1970s and the '80s. Nobody fucked with us during that time period and the reason is quite obvious... Chuck Norris was in the prime of his life.

But back to my point. I find it difficult to believe that Chuck Norris has turned 70. It just seems so old... And if you look at this photo taken yesterday morning, he doesn't look a day over 25. If there was ever a man who found the fountain of youth it is this guy... It's as if his martial arts training has shown him the path to living forever. I find it amusing that he shaved his beard on his 70th birthday... Perhaps another fuck-you to the hippie movenment? Maybe. Or possibly because of his extensive knowledge of the martial arts, his body is actually growing younger. Like the curious case Benjamin Button.

But again, back to the point of this blog post.

Today I read where Merlin Olsen died. Now... Much like I was surprised to find out that Chuck Norris had turned 70, I was even more taken aback at the age of Merlin Olsen at his death. He was 69.

I would have bet my right arm that this guy was at least in his 90's. He seemed old when I was a kid when I used to see his bearded face on episodes of Little House on the Prairie. And even then it seemed that he had been retired from pro football for a few decades... Nobody I knew had his football card, which for a Hall of Famer was pretty rare unless the person played so long ago that the card became virtually unattainable. We knew who Dick Butkus was, and Bronco Nagurski... Night Train Lane, and even Frank Gifford. It only seemed right that a Hall of Fame pro football player would have been on our radar unless he played so long ago that he became barely mentioned. He was nothing to us but John Ingalls's best friend on that television show... His pro football career a mere after thought.

I found a picture of Merlin Olsen when he was 19 years old. Look how old he looks compared to the photo of  Norris on the day he turned 70. I think it is safe to say that life was kind to one man, while totally taking a shit on another. Merlin Olsen might have been a great NFL football player, but he also probably played varsity football when his peers were still in the pee-wee leagues. This kind of training and experience no doubt helped him as he formed his Hall of Fame career.

So yeah... I guess it's plain to see that while two different men can live a life dedicated to good living it doesn't matter much unless father time is on your side. While I am wondering if I read Merlin Olsen's age wrong... Was it 96, and not 69?... I am equally amazed at how old Chuck Norris actually is. Two American icons, basically the same age... And one is a grandfather and one is a young man.

Even the concept of time respects the powress of Chuck Norris.

It's Alive! (Not to be Confused with It's Alive!)

I learned something today. There are at least two movies with the same name... It's Alive!.

The one I already knew about came out in 1974 and featured a murderous baby. I remember seeing the theater poster when I was a kid, and it scared the hell out of me. Despite that, I wanted to see it badly... But there was no way that my folks were going to let a 6 year old boy watch a movie that featured a blood-thirsty gluttonous baby that gnawed on human flesh... Even in the early '70s. But that poster seemed to beckon me. As my mother grabbed my hand to scurry us past the theater I stared at it unable to shake my glance. It was hypnotic. So like I did with most things deemed too adult for my childhood brain back then, I made a mental vow to myself... I would watch that movie someday. 

Tonight I got my chance... Or did I?

I was flipping through the channels trying to find a good program in which to take a nap to. I was stunned to see It's Alive! had just started on the Independent Film Channel. Immediately recognizing the name of the movie and remembering my childhood vow, I clicked to the channel. It had just started. I hit the INFO button and read what it said: It's Alive! (1969) Tommy Kirk, Shirley Bonne, Bill Thurman A deranged hunter captures and feeds three people to his pet prehistoric monster. There was no mention of the murderous baby and the date seemed a little bit early considering I was born in 1968, and specifically remember that moment when my mother grabbed my hand as I stared at the poster... I knew I was older than one year old. But I gave it the benefit of the doubt, because it did fit the era, thinking that perhaps the prehistoric monster WAS the murderous baby.

That is one hour and a half I will never get back. Upon doing some internet research I discovered that the It's Alive! movie I was remembering was not the same as this film with the same title. The movie I had been thinking of was released in 1974, had an entirely different plot, and  most likely had better acting and better special effects. The film I watched this evening was so bad that I literally could not bring myself to change the channel. Seriously... Like that poster I stared at as a child, this movie had me in some hypnotic spell that wouldn't let me give it up. Maybe I hoped that it would get better, or maybe I didn't want to watch Wheel of Fortune, but I sat through this entire schlock-filled borefest all the while wondering why.

You can read the best review I found of this film here. I don't deem this film worthy of my own review, but I do have a few thoughts worth sharing...

The monster costume was so bad that it left nothing to the imagination. It was obviously a mask made of rubber, and most likely the most expensive prop in the entire film. If I was trapped in a cave with this creature, fear is the last emotion I would feel. I'd probably offer it a handful from a bowl of candy and shoo it on it's way.

The person who plays Wayne Thomas (Tommy Kirk) gets shot in the chest almost immediately after waking up from being thrown down a rocky mine shaft, but mysteriously makes no mention of pain, shows no weakness, and displays no blood throughout the rest of the film. But he does manage to charm his way into the heart of Leilla Sterns (Shirley Bonne), who despite watching her husband get eaten alive by the monster, seems to welcome his advances, stroking his hair and even teasing him about not liking her once they get out of there.

The guy who plays the villian, Greevy (Bill Thurman) looks like a cross between Jack Nicholson and the Sysco Foods rep I use at work. He shot Wayne Thomas in the chest and locked three people in a cave as food for his prehistoric pet, but seemed genuinely concerned that they ate really well while they were alive. He would send his "wife" down with food and coffee, and even bandages to help heal the afore- mentioned unseen gun shot wound.

The movie ends with the words THE END? written drearily on the screen, as if the question mark was going to send the movie goers home with an unsettling thought of this entire tragedy re-occuring, which in effect, is scary enough. Apparently it was the end however, as it's now going on 41 years since the release of this horrific film.

My vow stands. I will watch It's Alive! someday.

What's Wrong With February and a New Blog Shout-Out

Dang, it seems like it's been forever since I have been active on this ol' blogamajig.

The month of February wasn't kind to me in a creative sense. Maybe because we are in the armpit of winter here in the midwest... Or maybe because I have had other frustrations to deal with... Or perhaps it's because of  for whatever reason, the person who designed the calander only granted February 28 days. That seems a little unorthodox considering that January, March, May, July, August, October, and December all get 31 days of allowance..  And February only gets 28 days? What the fuck? That's like Tuesday only having 22 hours. Even in  leap year February comes in a day below the regular monthly standard of 30.

But back to my point... Blogging isn't like riding a bike. It's not something that is easy to pick up again, once you set it down and let it collect dust. The longer you stay away from it, and the less you do it, the harder it is to get the creativity going again or let alone consider any thoughts worthy of sharing. But with the beginning of March upon us, I figured it's time to at least try... Afterall, I do owe that to my '10s of readers who come here regularly... Right? 

I have mentioned the College of Idiots on this site before. It is a blog that masquerades itself as a Cubs blog while maintaining it's true identity as a cork gun taking aim at popular culture. It's a great read... I enjoy it immensely. However in all it's glory it should be noted that it is the bastard son of another blog, Thunder Matt's Saloon, which officially closed it's doors this morning. I would check both of these creations daily in my usual blogosphere meanderings, and I knew several weeks ago that it was holding setting up a clearance rack for it's going out of business sale. But as in most cases in life, when one door closes another one opens. Thus I present to you Exile on Clark Street... The newest addition to what has been a long and very entertaining family of blogs. It seems that Ginger Russ and the guys over there like to keep their material fresh and there is certainly nothing wrong with that. I applaud their efforts and look forward to reading their drunken transcriptions and hilarious and random interpretations of life as we know it. And of course the occasional post about the Cubs.

So yeah it's good to know that even while my creative juices have coagulated into a solid brine, someone else is there to pick up the slack.

Good luck, Exile!

Birthday Tribute to Johnny Cash

The first time my daughter heard Johnny Cash, she was sitting in the back seat of the car in her child safety seat. She was barely 5 years old and as I often would, I was singing to her to make the road trip more bearable.

When I was just a young boy my mother told me son,
Always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns...

I would glance at her through the rear view mirror as I sang the words. She was off in her own little world, her mind encompassed in whatever thoughts travel through such a feckless childhood brain. It was hard for me to tell if she was listening to the lyrical phrases as I sang them to her, or if she was just in that Walt Disney princess world that most little girls seem to be in at the age of five.

Then I sang that fateful line...

Well I shot a man in Reno... Just to watch him die.

Suddenly it was as if she had been poked by a needle. He glance immediately met mine in the mirror, and she had that look of Woah!..  Did you just say what I thought you said? on her face. I gave her a smile assuring her that yes I said it, and don't worry. Everything is going to be alright.

I began to sing the next line of the song... But she interrupted me.

"Daddy," she said. "What is that song?"

"It's called by Folsom Prison Blues, sweetheart."

"Did you write it?" she asked, still gazing at me through the mirror.

"No baby," I answered. "It's a song by Johnny Cash."

The look on her face went from mild concern to genuine fascination. "Sing it again!"

That was five years ago, but I remember that moment like it was yesterday. She is 10 now, and Johnny Cash is still very much a part of her musical life, just as he was for me when I was a kid. He was the one musician who had that universal quality that held no barriers... No walls surrounded Johnny Cash. Country music fans adored him, as much as rock fans thought he was cool. He was dangerous enough to appeal to the punk rock scene and even hardcore fans considered him iconic...  And so did a 5 year-old little girl who suddenly found herself wrapped up in perhaps the most famous song lyric of all time, sung to her by her daddy as she sat in her safety seat during a long road trip.

Johnny Cash would have turned 78 years old tomorrow (February 26) had he not died six and a half years ago. Religion was just as much a part of his life as were the drugs he abused and his revolting attitude. In many ways I see myself through the eyes of Johnny Cash, without the fame of course, and the knack for writing great songs... But more in the aspect that he and I shared that same tortured soul syndrome... With a list of bad choices made throughout our lives, but the ability to humble ourselves in the eyes of God. Johnny meant so much more to me than just a song writer. I literally looked up to him as a figure of hope when my life would fall to shambles and as a halo of light when times were good. His beacon was bright, and it carried me through many hard times. His loyalty to God did not go unnoticed, and sometimes during the bad times the combination of his voice and lyrics would bring a tear to my eye as he sang the gospel... Just as his outlaw songs might other times bring out the cause for a whiskey celebration.

Like my daughter, my introduction to Johnny Cash was through my father. I loved to sit and listen to my dad play his guitar when I was a small boy, usually around a campfire with a notebook full of song lyrics that my mother had hand written from listening to a stack of vinyl records. He would play the songs of Ernest Tubb, Kris Kristofferson, Jerry Jeff Walker and Willie Nelson. But the moment I would get most excited was when he would pick out that intro to Folsom Prison Blues on the guitar and start singing those lyrics. Anybody who happened to be sitting around the camp fire immediately seemed to fall into a hypnotic state as he sang the words... Well I hear that train a comin'.

Happy birthday, Mr. Cash. As you so eloquently sang with the Highwaymen, you may simply be a single drop of rain; but (you) will remain. And (you'll) be back again...

And again and again and again and again.

Theory of Intelligence as Explained by Cliff

'Well you see, Norm, it's like this . . .  A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo.

And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first.

This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members.

In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine.

And that, Norm, is why you always feel smarter after a few beers.'

Phat Tuesday Randoms

I didn't watch the Olympics opening ceremonies this year, and didn't watch any events until Sunday when the games were already into their third day. This isn't because I have been advocating a boycott, but more so because they fell on a weekend that I had my daughter. I had been distracted for the most part... At 10 years old, she dominates my time in so many more positive ways than watching a television program could.

So the Olympics weren't even on my radar until Sunday, and until I heard the unmistakable melody... The Olympic theme song... It hadn't even really hit me that I watching. The magnitude of the games and the intensity of the participants, and the competitive aura and national pride... When I heard that theme, I got goosebumps. Now I have had the Winter Olympics on every night since.



I'm not a big fan of the mens' figure skating. I would enjoy that event so much more if they made it a bit more gladiator-like. You know, send out defensive lines of random hockey teams for a quick skate-by at irregular intervals during the figure skaters' routines. This would certainly boost ratings, as I am certain that NBC loses half of it's audience during that particular competition. Heck, I would invest in a Tivo system if that actually were the case.

I look forward to the hockey more than anything else, of course. I don't see the USA beating Russia or Canada for the gold medal, but it sure would be something if they did. Bobby Ryan, who played a stint in Des Moines last year with the Iowa Chops (Now with Anaheim) scored the first Olympic goal for the United States this afternoon. It's got to be a pretty cool feeling to go from playing minor league hockey in a small market one year to scoring a goal for your country's Olympic team the next.

One thing about Iowa... There is currently enough snow here now to host a Winter Olympics. Getting the car stuck in a drift has become the norm... It doesn't seem like morning to me without my 7:00 cup of joe and my 7:45 morning dig out. I live at the very end of an extremely narrow road in a very wooded area... And I don't always get the care that the city folks get when it comes to plowing the streets. In fact I don't get the plows at all, but instead a man on a tractor... Who comes around when he deems it necessary, which needless to say, isn't always in coordinance when I deem it necessary. Not that I blame him. I'm sure it's brutal for him to come out on a weekend and plow a path to my garage... And probably not very high on his priority list. I don't pay him, so I am thankful that he comes at all... Just merely stating that his narrow path doesn't make room for much error when backing my car out of the garage and attempting to turn it around to drive forward on the walled path out of here. I choose to be here, so let me emphasize what I said a few sentences ago... I am not complaining... Just explaining the reason that my car gets stuck nearly every single morning.

I heard on the radio one day last week that there was snow on the ground in 49 of the 50 states. Hawaii was the lone stand-out, which seems sensible. But after thinking about it for a moment or two, I wondered if anybody had bothered checking the ground at Mauna Kea which at 13,800 feet is the highest point in the state. In fact, there are several regions in Hawaii that tower above the 12,000 foot range, where snow should visible at most times, I would think.

So yeah... Anyway.

Sometime when I wasn't looking, this blog has taken a turn towards becoming more of a music review blog than what it used to be... For those of you who read this and aren't into the music I blog about, namely punk and garage, I apologize. I hope you have stuck around. I have decided to make a conscience effort to ease back into the old format, which is basically just blogging from the hip, and writing my thoughts as they occur to me. I will not sway too far away from the music scene, however as I have gained quite a few new readers from blogging at that angle, and I appreciate their interest too. Music has always been a huge part of this blog, and my conscience effort is directed more at mixing my humor and randomness along with the music... Where The Bigfoot Diaries is a close balance of both, and not so much a blog that is just about music, or whatever that other style may be called. Either way, thank you for stopping by. As I said, I do appreciate your interest.

Next Year's Super Bowl Half Time Band Suggestion

Yeah... I'm betting the Sleaze-aholics can throw a party and hold their own on the big stage. I gotta wonder though... Is that a real leopard skin?

The Tale of the 97 Cent Shoes

I'm not one for shopping malls.

But this weekend Essie and I spent a quality weekend in the big city together as a little get away... Call it an early Valentines to each other... And of course in the spirit of fairness, I was dragged invited to one of the larger malls in Des Moines. Now, I have to admit. I am not a mall person. I don't know if it's the pretention, or the bright lights, or the jacked up prices... Or the current lack of a good toy store... But I start to get figedty about 10-12 steps into the process of mall shopping. This day was no exception.

So... I was trying my best to be the good boyfriend and even spent some quality time with the little lady as she rummaged through the panty bin at Victoria's Secret. About that time she suggested that we split up... I'm sure my heavy sighing was a dead give away that I'd rather be anywhere else... So at her advice, I wandered off and found a sporting goods store that had some cool Cubs jerseys in the windows, and a few assorted NFL jerseys. I wandered in hoping to find a section of hockey jerseys, or even hockey t-shirts, but was told by the sales clerk that they do not carry hockey clothing "anymore because it just sat on the shelf, so it was shipped back to the warehouse." I told him that it would probably sell quite nicely in a clearance rack, but whatever, I'd look around at the cool Cubs jerseys I saw when I walked in. Well I lost interest rather quickly when I saw that the t-shirt style jerseys started at about 45 bucks.

I'm sure at that point I let out a heavy sigh.

Eventually I found Essie... The cell phone signal was blocked within the walls of the mall, so that in itself was a chore. After searching for her for 45 minutes walking up and down the corridors, I finally found her at a point I had already walked past about three or four times. She said she had been there for long time, and I had never passed her. I thought about arguing with her, but decided against it. I was just happy that she seemed to be done shopping and that we could get out of this surrealistic cartoon world. We started for the door.

"You never bought anything" she said to me. I noticed she was carrying two or three bags.

"Well," I said, "I didn't really find anything that I needed, or wanted to pay an arm or a leg for."

She said, "You should go to Old Navy... Thay have great stuff there, and the clothes are your style. We should check it out." I had never been to Old Navy before, but had seen the shirts and jackets with it's logo brightly advertised on the front. About 110% sure that I wouldn't find "my style" of clothes in there, I followed Essie in. She was already walking through the door...

I wandered to the mens' section and did find some cargo shorts I liked that should have been a hell of a lot cheaper than $35.00. Afterall, it was 12 degrees outside with about 3 feet of snow on the ground. Again it seemed like a great clearance rack item.

Suddenly I saw them. In a bin of folded khakis there was this simple pair of shoes... Skating loafers... The ones you slip on without the worry of shoe laces... Generally the most comfortable of all shoes. The tragedy about this style of shoe is that most pairs are incessantly ugly. The pair in this bin of khakis however was not ugly. In fact they were cool. And they definitely seemed to be my style.

I walked over and picked them up. I was instantly shocked. They must have been carried from a clearance rack because the price on the tag had obviously been lowered with a pricing gun. The orange tag connected to the shoe said 97 cents. I couldn't believe it, and was even more blown away when I saw that it was a size 9... The size I wear. I found a clerk and asked her if this was indeed the price of the shoe, and she said yes. She also said that it was the last pair in the store.

It was fate... Or maybe my destiny... But I bought that pair of shoes at the mall at the Old Navy store. Essie led me to the promised land... And I suddenly wasn't so upset about being in the mall anymore. We went out that night to see some local music and I wore the shoes.

...And I must say, I rocked them. I looked cool as hell.

Garage Podge dept.

Sometimes by the sheer grace of all that's not right in this world, something amazing happens and nobody seems to notice. That seems to be the case with The Mummies, a California band that somehow flew under the radar of all that is right with rock and roll.

While the radio stations became more corporate in the '80s and MTV was carving it's ugly niche in rock and roll history, these boys from San Mateo were taking the local scene by storm, playing gigs up and down the coast. The venues ranged from sullied bars with names like Tina and Linda's and Al's Bar to regular gigs at pizza parlors. They were even known to take the stage at open mike sessions. Dressed in tattered cloth... They were the Mummies afterall... This band had a knack for bringing the garage to each of their shows. They might epitomize what the garage sound is... I was shocked when I discovered that the Mummies were indeed from the '80s and not of the pre-punk era of the early '70s.

My first impression of listening to The Mummies Death By Unga Bunga!! was a mix of euphoric delight and cautious trepidation. I was at work and surrounded by people whose taste in music was vastly different from mine. I could hear the savage beats of the drums and the side-splitting guitar riffs and the screeching howl of the vocals and the Lee Dorman-like bass... But it just wasn't loud enough.. And being at work in that situation, I knew that I would have to wait to turn it up. Luckily I didn't have to wait long. As soon as I got home I opened it up to full volume and gave my ears the smashmouth beating that my brain had been craving up to that point. From the first song on the CD (or as in this case my Ipod to which I loaded the CD as a suggestion from my pal Driver 13...), Introduction To The Mummies to the final and 22nd track on the CD, a secret mystery song titled ???, I was finally in the state of euphoria without the trepidation.

And I was literally pissed off at myself for not having heard this band earlier. I mean seriously. Where the fuck had I been?

This band had several aspects that made it aesthetically pleasing. They skirted the mainstream by playing low budget venues and spent most of their time on tour wagging their middle finger at not just the corporate music world, but also at everything else that made up the '80s... Plastic, glamor and glitz. They were a long ways away from the material world that other bands were singing about in that era.

They defamed themselves further by using archaic and often-wrecked equipment which actually led to that "bringing the garage with them" sound that is so electrically appeasing. Instead of traveling in a padded bus with all the frills, they chose instead to tour within the (dis)comforts of a white 1963 Pontiac ambulance, with THE MUMMIES painted drearily on each side. In the spirit of being "low budget" they only released their music on true vinyl until 2003, when after a 9 year break up the band reunited with the release of  Death By Unga Bunga!! in the CD format.

The band soon broke up again, this time seemingly for good and lied dormant until October '08. Then... As in most cases with mummies, they came back from the dead once again to play a show in Spain, of all places. That led to just a few more shows in the states in the summer and fall of '09... Which leads us to the here and now.

Will the curse of The Mummies bring us a new CD release?... Another tour?... Only by the sheer grace of all that is right in this world.

The Imperial Dogs and an Interview With Don Waller (Part 2)

This is the second installment of the two-part series featuring an interview with Don Waller, the ex-frontman for The Imperial Dogs. The I-Dogs were a short-lived rock and roll band that seemed to exist for the sheer enjoyment of causing mayhem and playing electric music at bone shattering decibels. You can see this for yourself on the DVD The Imperial Dogs Live! In Long Beach (October 30, 1974).

As the singer of the I-Dogs, Don was an eccentric showman. Though his style predates many of the frontmen who later seemed to copy him, his flamboyant stage presence might be under-shadowed by his writing. In 1985 he had a book published, "The Motown Story". It sold enough copies to make the effort lucrative for Don, and eventually it fell out of print. You can find it on Amazon, but be prepared to pay. A good used hard cover copy (at the time of this writing) runs about thirty bucks to have it shipped to your door. Other copies, in very good condition run well over a hundred.

Don Waller has also penned his share of CD liner notes as well as having been published in the L.A. Times, USA Today, L.A. CityBeat, Billboard, Variety, Mojo, The Guardian, Creem, Spin, Musician, Radio & Records, BAM, Guitar World, Launch, Rollingstone.com, Sonicboomers, Napster and Pulse, to name a few. The list seemingly goes on and on... It's as endless as his razor sharp passion for music.

Despite his contribution to the mainstream press, Don might be most famous for the contributions he made to Back Door Man, a now legendary punk rock-zine founded in 1975 by current New York City record spinner Phast Phreddie Patterson.

Able to contact Phast Phreddie, I asked him if he would mind giving me a few words on Don Waller's writing style. His response was eloquent and surprising. He didn't offer just a few words, but got "carried away about the old days." Although he didn't necessarily say much about Don's writing style as I had requested, he did say quite a bit about Don the human being.

It was golden. And way more than I could have hoped for:

The personage of Don Waller first came to my attention when I saw his band Sugar Boy at El Camino Junior College in November 1972. The band impressed me because they seemed to be unique, playing songs I had never heard--I had not heard of The Move, Mott the Hoople, etc. at that point. Other local bands usually covered the obvious songs by The Rolling Stones, Cream, Iron Butterfly, Grand Funk Railroad and other acts I had basically given up on by then. I was into Captain Beefheart, The Mothers of Invention, Bonzo Dog Band, free jazz, Howlin' Wolf and anything that sounded weird to me--plus oldies but goodies.

Sugar Boy performed Eddie Cochran's "C'mon Everybody" in a manner that did not suggest nostalgia, and I thought that was hip.

A month later, Sugar Boy was opening for a more popular local (Torrance, CA) group called Clap. My brother and his friends wanted to go, so I drove them, knowing Sugar Boy was on the bill. All during Sugar Boy's set I kept bugging them, "When are you going to do the Eddie Cochran song?" "C'mon Everybody!!!" I literally pulled Waller's leg as he stood on the stage and I requested the song!

Around that time, I had listed a free ad in Rolling Stone looking for musicians to play wild free-form improvisational music of some sort. I didn't really play anything, but wanted to make noise. The only person to answer the ad was Sugar Boy's guitarist, Paul Therrio, who played sax and was into Albert Ayler.

He invited me over his house were he lived with Don Waller and some other folks and we discussed making noise for a while, until he had to go to work—he worked at a gas station in Gardena. At that point, Waller took over. He and I talked about music—with him pulling records from his collection to illustrate points and to turn me on to stuff I never heard before—until about two in the morning.

I heard of the MC5—having purchased the first LP when it came out. But the Stooges I only read about until that night. He played selections from Nuggets, which impressed me because Lenny Kaye had assembled it (I was a fan of Kaye because of the Eddie Cochran reissue he did about a year before that).

At the end of 1972—just days after my 19th birthday—I was a rudderless creep, destined to working crappy jobs because I knew I could never hack the college scene. Meeting Waller gave my life some direction—I still worked crappy jobs, but I knew what I was going to do with the little spending cash I could muster: buy records and go to rock’n’roll shows. Eventually it would lead to a rock’n’roll theory class that Waller and I taught at UCLA’s experimental college and then Back Door Man.

The experimental college, in 1973, is worth noting because it was mostly Waller’s theories we discussed. At the first meeting of the class we played “Search and Destroy” real loud, as soon as all the students had taken their seats, before even introducing ourselves. Waller said, “This is the future of rock’n’roll.” This started arguments and some people walked out, but the people who remained enjoyed the class, which lasted a couple months, and some students later became influential in the music industry and/or writers for Back Door Man.

Bottom line, though, is that Don Waller was right.

Interview with Don Waller Part 2

(BD:) How did you arrive at naming the band The Imperial Dogs?

(DW:) Our mutual friend, Bob Meyers -- who grew up literally right around the corner from me in north Torrance and was also an original member of the Back Door Man staff -- came up with the name. We're were going to call ourselves the Plug Uglies, which was the name of a gang in Harrison Salisbury's book, "The Shook-Up Generation". The Plug Uglies gang name goes back to the 1800s -- they're cited in Gangs Of New York (which Martin Scorsese turned into a movie a couple of years ago).

Anyway ... we liked Bob's suggestion for several reasons. One, it had that oxymoronical combination of high-life (royalty) and low-life (animals). Two, it was in keeping with the rock 'n' roll tradition of naming your band, say, the Royal Coachmen or the Fabulous Dinos. Three, the commies were fond of using "imperialist dogs" as an epithet. Four, it sounded like a gang name.

(BD:) Is it true that the entire gig was set up and based off of a student's thesis about the decline of society, and by filming your performance she was providing documentation to support that thesis?

(DW:) We met Linda Pascale -- who was also from north Torrance, but we didn't know her growing up 'cause she went to a co-ed Catholic school on the other side of town -- through Phast Phreddie Patterson (the future founder of Back Door Man), who went to that same school. (We also met him after we'd all graduated high school. Matter of fact, Phast saw us play twice when we were still Sugar Boy, although we didn't really get to know him until several months later ... )

Anyway ... Phast brought Linda -- who happens to be one of the all time great rock 'n' roll fans -- down to the house where we were living in Carson to see us practice. Linda was in the honors program at what was then called Cal State Long Beach and was doing her thesis on "death themes in rock 'n' roll." (You really could do that sort of thing back then.) The school had a burgeoning film department -- run by Augie Coppola (Steven Spielberg also went there), so Linda decided to take advantage of that and make a film of us playing live be part of her thesis. (Obviously, she picked up on the dark themes -- S&M, drugs/O.D.'s, violence, etc. -- in our music.) She was also trying to do us a favor by getting us a gig, which as I noted earlier, were hard to get back in those dark days.

Parenthetically, when I say Linda's a great rock 'n' roll fan, know this: She can stand up on the bar and shout, "I saw the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan and His Band -- as they were then-billed -- play the Hollywood Bowl in 1965 and I've got the ticket stubs to prove it!" (We're still good friends; in fact, we just finished working on a project together in which I spent four hours at her home just poring over her collection of magazines from 1964 and 1965. In so doing, I found a bunch of photos that I'd never seen before and we're going to use them in the long-awaited official home video release of "The T.A.M.I Show" movie -- it's set to come out on March 23 and it's going to be be great.)

Linda also had the mind-boggling foresight to actually BUY the tape from the school afterward -- she gave it to me, we all watched it, hated it, and I threw it in a box for 35 years -- which is why this DVD could even exist. Like I always say, she's the real heroine of this story.

(BD:) Noting the recent death of drummer Bill Willett, describe your current relationship with Paul Therrio and Tim Hilger. Is there, or has there been any discussion of a reunion performance... Or at the very least discussion about re-releasing more (or new) audio of The Imperial Dogs? (I would love to land a copy of Unchained Maladies: Live! 1974-75, but it is so rare and seemingly unaccessible.)

(DW:) Well, we're all still friends ... Tim and I lost touch for a while after the band broke up. (We were still living in the same house for several months until we went our separate ways.) We reconnected for a short time in the mid-'80s and then fell out of touch until about a year ago, when I looked him up on the Internet -- he has his own business, so he wasn't that hard to find -- and told him I'd digitized the videotape and did he want to see it? He came over to my place and watched it and was as surprised as anyone at how good it was. I've since sent him a copy of the finished package. Last time I talked to him was the night I found out that Bill had died. We were all sad and shocked about that. Tim's a really busy guy with his job. (He's an accountant who these days makes his living by writing about tax and accounting issues.) He's also divorced with two kids that are young adults or college age and mostly spends his free time playing golf -- he lost everything he'd owned, including his musical equipment, in a house fire in the early-'80s -- so I don't see or talk to him much. We keep meaning to get together -- and we really wanted to get all four band members in the same room again, which obviously isn't going to happen now -- but we haven't been able to do that yet. He says I was a great inspiration to him as a writer, so I'll take that as a compliment ...

As for Paul ... well, we didn't talk or see each other for a few years after the band broke up. But we eventually started seeing each other again in the '80s. Then Paul wound up moving down to north San Diego county 'cause he and his wife, Mary Fleener -- who's a semi-famous visual artist, a musican, and also a South Bay homegirl -- bought a house down there near the water ('cause Paul's a serious surfer). It's about three hours away, so occasionally I'll go visit him when they throw a party or he and Mary will come to L.A. for one of her art openings. We always have a great time hanging out. If we lived closer together, I'd see him a whole lot more.

We've had some great times together over the last couple of decades. There've been some legendary parties. And we used to get together on occasion and write some "hundred dollar songs" -- some good ones, too. Paul still plays every day and he just keeps getting better 'cause he works at doing so. One year, he threw out all the picks in the house and just played finger-style. Another year, he played in nothing but alternate tunings. He's one of the most creative musicians I've ever met and he taught me a lot. Last time we spoke was about a week ago -- he called me out of the blue -- and we talked some politics and a bit about music, but mostly about cooking. Heh.

Parenthetically, Paul, Mary -- a damn good bass player-- and Tom Gardner -- together with a female drummer that Mary found playing in a local dyke bar -- played together a couple years back and made a CD under the name the Wig Titans. It's a really good combination of witty, roots-rock (think Rockpile) and minor-key, guitar pop (maybe the Smithereens?). Three singer-songwriters; two lead guitarists. I wrote their bio -- it's on the Internet -- and you can get a copy through the fleenerwerks website. Unfortunately, there were some, uh, personality conflicts and they broke up a couple years back.

But I really do wish I could see Paul more often. Mary and I are also good friends and I enjoy her company as well. Tim Napalm Stegall, who wrote the Ugly Things story about the Imperial Dogs, says, "You South Bay people are like ... tribal." I explained that's because there were so few people in the South Bay (which is population-wise, the size of Dallas, Texas) that were into the same kind of music, books, movies,etc.as we were,that when you found each other, you became instant and close friends. These relationships go back 30-40 years, so you can understand why outsiders might see us as clannish ...

As far as an Imperial Dogs reunion goes ... we could never do it without Bill. He was a monster drummer. And even if he was still walkin' the planet, Tim hasn't played in decades and I haven't sung onstage since 1978. It would've taken weeks' worth of practices -- and we all live so far apart even that would've been very difficult -- and I don't think we could've ever come with kissin' distance of that crazed level of intensity that you see on the DVD. Plus, Paul, Tim and Bill all have or had high-paying day jobs (computer programmer, accountant, and aerospace engineer, respectively) so there's no way anyone could've piled enough money on the table to make it worth their while. I think it's better that we remain semi-legends ...

As far as releasing any more audio goes, how 'bout we sell all these DVDs I've got sitting around my boho love-shack first? To begin with, the audio on the DVD is better quality -- plus you have the visual element -- than anything we've got on audio tape.

Yeah, there's three original I-Dogs songs on the LP that aren't on the DVD. "13 Sons Of Satan," "The Bad And The Beautiful," and "Needle And Spoon." (And I'd like to see them get a wider release). And yeah, there's one other I-Dogs original ("Suck City Shakedown") and a pair of cool covers (Eddie Cochran's "Nervous Breakdown" and Earl Vince & The Valiants' "Somebody's Gonna Get Their Head Kicked In Tonite") that I didn't put on the LP -- and I wouldn't mind those eventually seeing the light of day, either. But people have gotta show me there's enough of a demand for that.

(BD:) Lastly, I read somewhere that cooking is your hobby, but music is your life... Actually I am just the opposite... What did you make the last time you went crazy in the kitchen?

(DW:) Well, I cook about 98% of the meals that my longtime galpal and I eat every year. (We only eat out for business purposes and on special occasions.) I've been cooking since I was a kid 'cause my mom always worked and she told my younger brother and I, "I'm not gonna have you guys be at the mercy of the first woman who comes along and can cook you a meal." Heh.

I got more serious about it when I was a young buck living out on my own and couldn't afford to eat at McDonald's every night. Plus, my ex-wife was of Sicilian extraction and her dad used to own a restaurant back in Pittsburgh, so after we'd exhausted all the stuff we'd learned how to cook as kids, we discovered the secret was to learn how to make different sauces. (She's now a certified pastry chef who owns her own bakery/cafe; she's also married to a guy I've known for 20-some years -- we're all still pals.)

So, cooking for me is economical, healthier (and remember that I still smoke and drink and dance the hootchie-coo) -- and, let me put this poetically, I cooked my way into a lot of hearts ... (My galpal of the last 15 years hasn't cooked a meal since we started living together back in 1997.)

What I'm leading up to is that I cook every weekend and we eat leftovers during the week 'cause we're both free lance journalists with crazy schedules that we can't really control. Mostly it's just simple stuff: meatloaf with mashed potatoes and peas; macaroni & cheese; various types of enchiladas, soups, and chilis; spaghetti & meatballs -- although everything, including the enchilada and marinara sauces, is made from scratch with fresh ingredients. I've got a gas grill, a deep-fryer, a water-smoker, and an ice cream maker that get a lot of use when the weather's warmer.

As for the last time I did what I call "stunt cooking" ... hmm ... I made Hoppin' John (blackeyed peas 'n' rice) and collard greens for New Year's, but that's traditional ... I did a chipotle-pineapple glazed ham, Southern biscuit muffins, roast garlic mashed potatoes, green beans with walnuts and a lemon vinigarette, and a gingerbread cake with caramel icing for Christmas ... hickory-smoked turkey, pan gravy, cornbread-pecans-bacon stuffing, yams with brown-butter vinigarette, Brussel sprouts with chorizo, and a walnut-raisin pie for Thanksgiving ... I did three kinds of tapas (tuna & green olives, ham & machengo cheese, tomato & garlic), a shrimp-scallops-mussels-chicken & chorizo paella, and a Spanish-style chocolate cake for my galpal's -- her name's Natalie Nichols -- last birthday party ...

But things have been rough for writers all last year so I haven't done a whole lot of "stunt cooking." However, since Natalie and my "first date" was a Super Bowl party -- and we're both serious pro football fans -- we always do something special for the Super Bowl and usually the meal is based around which teams are playing or where it's being held. Since Natalie's from a small town outside of Erie, Pennsylvania and a big Steelers fan, last year I did a traditional Pittsburgh thing called "Devonshire sandwiches." Basically, it's a pile of sliced roast turkey breast, topped with semi-crispy smoked bacon and a thick cheddar cheese sauce served open-face and eaten with a knife 'n' fork. I don't think you could eat more than one unless you were playing for the Steelers, about to pull a shift at a mill, or you'd been out drinking all night, which pretty much sums up life in Pittsburgh... Ha ha ha.

The great Jenny Lens, who's photographs document the early '70s punk rock scene so relentlessly has said that Don Waller (Phast Phreddie too) writes "from the heart and hip". Obviously this is how he handles every situation he becomes involved in. Aware of my interest in this band, and that particular era of music, Jenny emailed me a great reminder: WE MUST CONTINUE TO GIVE PROPS to pioneers, but with respect.

I couldn't have said it better than that... Don Waller, the singer, the writer, the cook, and THE MAN is certainly worthy of insurmountable respect.

Thank you, Don.