THE KIDS LOVE THE MONKEY
Alright, a little late, but work's been hell, and if I stop working on the book now, I'll lose the thread forever, and then I'll have to go back to indulging my fantasies of being a rockstar in the style that no longer exists except in Cameron Crowe's glue-addled little mind. After that, it's law school or the circus, and I can't swallow swords like I used to back when I had a habit.

But here is the sordid pictorial tale of last Saturday, when Vidiot and Bari and Jonmc and Pips and Towerbrave and I celebrated a night of glory with our favorite puck rockers, The Zambonis, along with the ever-apathetic trendsucking dilettantes in Williamsburg.

They mocked us for wearing hockey jerseys to their little love den, and we ragged them for wearing package-clenching Dwight Yoakam pants and hair just floppy enough to repeatedly stab themselves in the eye whenever they put their PBRs down. I'd call it a wash.

Fears that the Z's weren't going to play Jon's (and, okay, my) most favoritest song ever, Hockey Monkey, went quickly away as the Hockey Gorilla came out, clad in little more than a Dave 'The Hammer' Schultz jersey, and proceeded to do a little mariachi dance in the middle of the dance floor.

Seriously. It was better than porn. Better than most gorilla porn, anyway. That I've seen.

Anyway. The gallery, dirty as it may look, is up, with lots of shots of the band. I thought there were more shots of Vidiot and Bari (okay, here's another blurry one) and Jon and Pips and I, but y'all got lucky this time. (Towerbrave is in a bunch of the band shots, because she snagged the seats closest to the stage. Also she took most of the pictures as the rest of us were pretty drunk by the time the band came on.)

SO RIGHT, WHERE WERE WE

Well, between the houseguests and the writing (callously ignoring the aforementioned houseguest, over whom I was extremely excited to actually, uh, have, while they read, napped and stared darts in the back of my head, revealing heretofore untapped reservoirs of concentration in my otherwise way-too-scattered-these-days mind) and the one lovely night out with the posse (many pictures of our night of ecstasy at the Zambonis show on Saturday night to follow), well, something had to fall.

But you know I love you, baby. Don't you? Here, let me get that for you. You like flowers? Whatever you want, baby. Pictures of gorillas wearing Flyers Jerseys? Tonight, sweet darling, and always after that.

Ok bye.

GATHER THOSE ROSEBUDS

This space is three years old today. If I'd have known I was going to be blogging this long, I'd have moved servers and learned something about code a long time ago, instead of trying to get that all together now.

Anyway. Happy birthday to me, and to you.*

Now. I got two emails this morning about the death of Gordon Jump. Look, people. I've considered going to an all-obituary format, tying my lot in with the Dead People Server on one side and Googobits on the other, but despite my heroes having recently acquired the unseemly habit of dying the fuck off, and despite the fact that I've had as many obits published as everything else I've ever written combined (I should check that, but I'm pretty sure it's true), not to mention my deep and festering Six Feet Under fetish, well, this has gotta stop.

I mean, I loved WKRP as much as any of you other Gen X teevee addict types. But enough, as they say in the obit business when the well of prewritten pieces on cultural icons both major and minor is suddenly depleted through the natural flow of life and death and hasty meetings are called to figure out who conceivably could be next, is enough.

* and to Bruce Springsteen too, but I've digressed plenty already, and no amount of coffee could make me any more coherent at this hour of the morning.

I'M THE RAT IN YOUR LIFEBOAT, BABE

To start with: no, I didn't watch the Emmys last night. The idea of drooling through my narcolepsy into my chest hair while watching some z-list sitcom walk-on tearfully recount the time he served John Ritter an arugula salad in 1988 between effusive Price-Is-Right-style thankses to their respective saviours and/or agents was enough to put me off my feed.

Instead, I found myself nuking fish sticks every hour on the hour and switching between buckets of iced coffee and ice water, trying to tap one of my lapsed veins for a few extra drops of inspiration to get through the next piece of the book.

Okay, I exaggerate. But -- actually, no, that's pretty close. Light a candle for me.

Of course, while I'm fiddling away like an undersexed ape over here, everyone's been moving house the last week or so. (And of course, by everyone, I mean towerbrave, Sally/Dana and Brittney. That's everyone, right?) They can consider their asses recommended, even more than they usually are. Which is plenty.

FY'f'n'I

I haven't looked at a newspaper for the last three days. My computer at home may be perilously close to joining Cash & Zevon in the great beyond, so heavy-gauge late night surfing (of all kinds) is largely out. I've let myself slide a little into a book-induced haze, interrupted only by ten-hour stretches of changing diapers of old lawyers and their fartcatchers and one glorious night playing hooky from everything to win trivia with the Vidinator (Update: and of course Val, whom I did not notice because she wasn't actually facing me and I am currently a solipsistic self-obsessed pud who owes her an apology, also I lost my peripheral vision in 'Nam; long story don't wanna talk about it, right so where were we), which was great not just cos of the free Guinness (for some reason we aced the visual round, "stills from movies shot in New Jersey," none of us knew shit about 'em, wish I could use that luck somewhere where it'd do real good but I'll take the pints, thanks) and the one-of-the-boysnesses these nights bring out best.

But aside from that, I'm deep inside my own head, trying to work through the perilous middle of this project. I'm not going to be like William Gibson just did and quit this, my last distraction, my final crutch, but -- give me a moment to compose myself.

ACTUALLY, I HAD A PRETTY GOOD WEEKEND

As far as I know, no further musical icons died over the weekend, but that's not this week's problem anyway.

This week is going to be all about the hurricane.

Did you see that thing on the radar? It looks like the fucking death star, or like some obese naked old person fixing to sit down somewhere on the eastern seabord. (You're welcome. I'm here all week.) And I know some hurricane enthusiasts I know will be following this with a certain amount of glee. Good on you. If you're happy, I'm happy.

But what's next? Locusts? Plague? The end of Ben & Jen?

It never ends, does it?

CASH'S CLAY FEET

Okay, is there anyone else who's changed my life who is near the end of theirs that I have to worry about? (I'm not talking about John Ritter, although there might be a place for his daddy in this rant somewhere.)

Jeezus. It's not fair to lump Johnny Cash in with Warren Zevon or anyone else; both those guys deserve their own chapters in Great Lives, with the full-page obit and the lights going dark in their hometowns and school being closed on their birthday. And the last thing I want to do (and even more, the last thing Cash deserves) is another pithy quote from one of his songs to describe what he meant to me, and I'll refrain as long as I can. But between those two guys especially and all the nine-eleven-revisited shite this week, I could really use a happy week.

Like most of the artists I love these days in my dotage, I came to Johnny Cash a little later than I should have. Sure, he was on the TV all the time growing up, but I always remembered him from those appearances as someone who was avuncular and a little goofy. It wasn't until after I got out of high school that I came back to him and realized how much of a genuine raise-the-bar rebel he really was.

The man had nothing to fear. He could not do anything halfway, which was what made his music so utterly convincing. He doesn't even get played on the country channels anymore, except for that old nonthreatening TV kid stuff, which looking at it now I finally see how incredibly high he was when he did it. But at least it's not his bad, bad stuff. Even when he does Folsom Prison Blues, he doesn't do it with the black hole heart and fuck-you snarl like he did in San Quentin; he throws a wink and a smile, like you know I was kiddin' about Reno, dontcha kid, had you goin' there, didn't I, heh heh heh, here have a lollipop & I'll sing you the pretty one about the cowboy's last prayer. Well of course they wouldn't want to show the rage in Cash's clay feet; three minutes later they're gonna have to play a fifth-generation photocopy of that same badassedness by some muppet hat act who's only murder fantasy involves whoever recommended this new conditioner for their mullet, because it is just! not! working! and the Zima isn't chilled and I can't work like this, and putting the real thing beside that tripe would show it up for the sham that mainstream country music has become (oh, who am I kidding. It's been like this since at least the rise of Glen Campbell. Yet another crime against humanity to lay at that dude's feet), which would destroy the delicate lie upon which a multibillion dollar business has been built. Then what'd happen? They'd have to give genuine modern country rebel types like Steve Earle and Jimmie Dale Gilmore and, what the hell, even Mike Ness equal time on CMT, which will happen about two days after the apocalypse, and certainly not before.

Sure, the papers (and CMT; hey, they still call it country) are going to give him plenty of love, but like Zevon, I'm glad he got to live long enough to understand that his influence was going to outlive him in a million different and wonderful ways.

To say that Johnny Cash was the country version of Elvis gets the scope right, but his greatness had a different shape. Cash was just a stronger personality; he didn't need a mafia around him to tell him he was okay. He just needed June, and his Lord, and after he kicked the bottle, that was enough. (Cash's gospel songs signify way more than Elvis' ever did, and I think that's because he'd thought his relationship with God through a bit more than the King ever did.) If Elvis had lived, he & Cash might have patched things up and they & Waylon & Willie and whoever else would have had the critical mass necessary to stage a putsch and destroyed this modern-style fake-tits-&-hiphuggers shite for real.

But there's only so much one man can do, and nobody knew that as well as Johnny Cash. Even his latest goth-metal experiments with Rick Rubin signified way better than the originals ever did (if you haven't heard his gospelized versions of Hurt or I Won't Back Down, then you have an assignment for this weekend), and I'm glad he managed to get a few non-country albums out, which showed that even in his twilight he could take Trent Reznor's and Tom Petty's songs away from them and still whup them both unmerciful.

I'm glad he lived long enough to know how immortal he was going to be, and that he didn't have to live without June for too long. In the end, he was just another force of nature with a conflicted heart and an amazing voice to match, who did what he had to do to make his way in this world.

SPEARS, LOVE, CICCONE & ARTHUR:
WHO SAYS AMERICAN LIVES HAVE NO SECOND ACTS?

Re: below:

I'm not being flippant about the 9/11 anniversary, at least not intentionally. It's just that it seems a lot more valuable these days to derive a small amount of entertainment (not to mention perspective) by reading a well-written piece about the glacially slow decline of a still-young performer who is approaching royalty, American-style, and who was actually dealing with her station in life quite well up until recently.

Only a fool would pity Britney Spears. She's a little lost, but she'll be alright. Fame comes and goes, but Britney-sized bank accounts are forever, and as long as she stays off the pipe, she'll come out the other end of this little mini-career crisis. Just like Madonna did, just like Courtney Love did, hell, let's be ornery for a second, just like Bea Arthur did after "Maude."

The Onion & Fametracker were joking, but I'm serious. What is freedom if not to be able to pay lazy attention to people succeeding and failing on grander scales than we peon-types could ever fathom?

I have a nameless friend * who has A Very Famous Talk Show Host fart on him about once a week. It's a bit gross, it explains a lot about the talk show host's dietary and intestinal habits, and it's certainly not in our friend's job description, but it is a hell of a story in the bar after work. And that to me is as much what life is as anything else. Seriously.

Look. I will never forget the three thousand people who died two years ago today, and neither will anyone else, especially those who saw the towers fall. And of course it's changed the way I look at the world, and especially my place in it and that of the quickly fading Great American Empire.

But I'm not in the bread business. I'm in the circuses business. And the great thing about living in New York is that the circus never, ever, ever leaves town.

That didn't clarify a damned thing, did it. Okay, to sum up: it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive, so enjoy every sandwich, and if nobody loves you, then so the hell what.

No go forth and kiss someone you love.

STUPID BULLSHIT? COMING RIGHT UP.

Almost two years ago, in the aftermath of 9/11, The Onion published a story entitled A Shattered Nation Longs To Care About Stupid Bullshit Again. (Note who's in the middle of that graphic.)

In that light, I bring you a proper B. Spears update, in which it is revealed that her current role model is not Madonna at all (of course), but rather Courtney Love.

You could have guessed, couldn't you.

QUOTE OF THE DAY

He is a great film star. But I find his idea to run for governor absolutely insane. America should be governed by people who have a clue. I hope he doesn't win.

— Emily Robinson of the Dixie Chicks

THIS MONKEY'S GONE TO HEAVEN

The Pixies are getting back together!

I know it's kind of Steel Wheelsish and all, but due to the fact that many of their fans at the time were assholes, I didn't discover them until after they had split up. And after having endured the CSNYs and Whos of the last generation, the reunions of bands like Television and the Buzzcocks and now the Pixies doesn't seem like the crime against humanity I thought it might.

So I'm not as hardcore about hoping to die before I get old as I used to. What did you expect? I got something to live for now.

So now that I've finally (finally!) caught up with the bus, maybe I can see them live, have them hopefully exert their potentially still-huge influence on a gormless, humorless, soulless generation currently relying on the likes of Jack White and a bunch of alt-country acts to keep the flag of authentic music alive, and most importantly, hear them sing My Theme Song.

MISCELLANEOUS, ET CETERA

Brittney, the bestest ranthappy Tennesseean sexpot covergirl steakhouse waitress in the universe, has a new blogspace. She's more alive than any five of you, or ten of me, and her last blogspace proved that beyond any question.

Send her a virtual housewarming present. I sent a blender. I'm such a keener.

TOUR WRAPUP

So nobody died at my last-show-till-the-book-is-done show last night (unless Leni Riefenstahl counts, and I didn't sing any songs about her, at least not so's y'all'd know, so we can push her obit off a little bit and maybe forever; she was a fascinating personality on top of all the glory and horror she was involved in, but I got a backlog of dead folks I wanted to go on about in the first place and I don't wanna digress any further in the second place), and I sang a Zevon song on a horribly out of tune guitar and then smashed the crap out of the strings for the rest of my set, which everyone seemed to appreciate, especially the cadre of literate drunks sitting at the bar and the table of engineers sitting at my feet like I was some kind of rock and roll guru. It was a bit of a trip, actually.

(Micky's looks like a Hollywood sitcom re-creation of a cozy little pub, with the bar and all the patrons around the middle of the place and the outer walls having desultory art, like you could knock them down and put in a studio audience and no one would be the wiser. There's even a back room with a pool table, just like Cheers, except it's all in blue, and there's a silkscreened Joe Namath poster instead of it being a Red Sox shrine. I'm describing it all wrong, but I never tried to be accurate, just colorful.)

So yeah, I broke no strings, I didn't kill anyone, and today is a beautiful day where I have nothing to do but my thing.

Thanks to everyone who came, You made a not terribly old fart very happy.

SLEEP TIGHT

Craig's BookNotes has a really good compendium of links about Warren Zevon's death.

I have something to say about Warren too, but right now I don't want to write anything. I just want to go have a sandwich or two and a beer or six and watch the human zoo for a little while.

TOUR DIARY

Work is killing me, but I had a great weekend. The first leg of my final tour before I check into my own private Betty Ford for what I'll call "exhaustion" went swimmingly. The fact that Vidiot and Val dragged their bad selves out to Babylon to see me scratch through two sets was lovely, and I hadn't seen Ari Scott in something like 800 years, and she was only there because her mother was moving to the next town over (sic transit Long Island).

I forgot more words than Mike Wallace, but nobody was injured, which is my definition of a good night.

I'm doing it all again one more time tomorrow night in the East Village. You might want to bring a raincoat. There may be some stage blood spilt.

LAISSEZ-LUI TRANQUILLE

If you don't know who Warren Zevon was, except as the guy who did "Werewolves Of London", you're probably sick of me going on about him. But if there's one songwriter onto which I hope I turn you, it's this guy.

He died last night. Even knowing it was coming, it sucks.

I'll be mourning for a while.

Save your flowers.

 

* COMMUNITY CALENDAR *
Just a note: the two shows I'm playing in the next four days (Saturday the 6th at the Pisces Cafe in Babylon, and Tuesday the 9th at Micky's Blue Room in the East Village; details on both shows here) might be the last ones I play the rest of this year.

I've decided to push hard to get this book finished, and the back-and-forth between music and literary shit this last year and a half has been sucking the life out of me.

So the hell with it. I'ma get the one thing done, and then I've got a ton of songs (and by then, surely lots more) to play with when I get back. Nothing topical ("Bryant Park," my opera about Kobe's rape trial, is sadly going to fall by the wayside), just solid music I've got lots of energy left to play.

But I won't be playing live again for a while, certainly through the end of this year. So if you want to see me, I sure would love to see you.

Come on out to at least one of these shows. I ain't too proud to beg. Pride is a sin.

Thank you.

LIKE A VELVET GLOVE BOILED IN OIL

I've had a Deep Fried Mars Bar before, and really, it's possibly the grossest thing I've ever put in my mouth (not counting, of course, that night with the junkie oompa-loompas down by the city dump; you're only young and stupid once, and I had to pay for college somehow). It (the Mars Bar, fergodsake) was unevenly hot and way too sweet and gooey with chunks and a crusty outside that gave the entire thing the feel of eating a medium rare one-pound cockroach.

So I'm not holding my breath that anyone, even the great Irvine Welsh, can convince me that they're worth having again as some sort of Great Ethnic Cuisine Experience. My biggest fear is that he'd succeed, and I'd learn to like the things.

Mars is a registered trademark.

HAIKU

Georgia's pirate story.

STRIKE ONE FOR THE LIBERAL MEDIA CONSPIRACY

So. Al Gore is considering buying Newsworld International from Vivendi-Universal, which has just been absorbed by NBC.

I think it's pretty cool, but reading the piece, two things jump out. One, NBC merging with Vivendi only makes the sixth biggest media company out there. You know how unbelievably fucking huge this merger makes these two companies? NBC is GE, which made about two-thirds of the things in your kitchen right now. And Vivendi is Universal, which along with being one of the very biggest movie studios and music labels in the world, is also the world's number one water distributor. Among, of course, many other pies in which they have their fat Belgian fingers.

(No slam on Belgians, by the way. They do waffles, esoteric vegetables and female tennis players quite well.)

And as big as GE-NBC-Vivendi-Universal-Fuckingwhatever-else would be, there are five (5) media conglomerates even bigger than that. So someone (or okay, a small group of someones) is getting absolutely dirty fucking titanium-toilet rich, and what really boils my nightly ramen is that it's no one I know, at least in the freelance writing or music-industry circles which make up most of my friends. And all the talk on the news channels these people own of how we need to tighten our belts and things-are-getting-worse doesn't stop those yachts getting bought. But that's a whole nother rant.

The other thing is that now Al Gore is thinking of buying a piece of the CBC. Well, it used to be part of the CBC, anyways. I still watch it to see Peter Mansbridge and Ian Hanomansing do their things. If they carried This Hour Has 22 Minutes I'd get positively homesick.

And Al Gore is buying into this empire? That, on the other hand, sounds like it's not the worst thing, either for Newsworld or for Gore. Keep him busy and visible but not in a re-election kind of way, and hey, no one ever called him a dummy. (No, Dittoheads don't count.)

(I missed you too.)