( 1:22 AM )
Bombs Away
Had breakthrough softball game tonight, going a ridiculous 4 for 4 including two monster home runs (three if you count the blast that caped a mandatory six-run inning). Had friends and teammates over at the house for beers and such afterwards. Forgot to get any work done like doing album reviews for 2 Walls. Oops. Once everyone had left, I plopped on the couch icing a bloody knee (which split open from an ugly grounder) and watched Sonic Youth slink through a cool new tune on Leno. I swear Thurston Moore hasn’t aged a day since Daydream Nation came out. Hope I won the giant mega millions lottery tonight so I can buy a building downtown and give money away to bands and folks of my liking. That’d be sweet.
Song of the Day:
“Trunk Fulla Amps,” Self 2000
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( 1:17 AM )
Boo-Hoo
Further proof golf isn’t really a sport and that it’s participants aren’t really athletes.
From today’s Rochester, NY Democrat & Chronicle:
“After finishing with a 6-over-par 76 for his worst round in the event as a professional, Tiger Woods was angry. He wasn’t upset at himself, or the way he had played, but at the United States Golf Association. ‘I think they lost control of the golf course. That’s obvious. There’s nothing wrong with guys being under par.’ In particular, Woods in his complaints was referring to the greens, which had dried out. He said he could not only see the cup placements from the first three rounds of the tournament, but that those former cup placements were shrinking because of the dryness, and the lips of the former cups were raised Sunday.”
Now for my smart ass commentary:
So the greens weren’t meticulously fawned over by virgin girls with brooms made from flower petals. Boo fucking-hoo! I’d like to see Tiger play on some of the less-than-stellar public courses I’ve played on. There’s this one hole at a crummy local course that always has hundreds of piles of goose shit on the green. Millions of whiners play golf daily and have to blame something but their own ability—the clubs, the shoes, the weather, the course, whatever. (Insert cranky sounds of babies crying).
Real athletes and real sports would deal with such trivial adversities with folly. I’ve never heard football players bitching, “Ooh, there’s some mud on the field,” “or “it’s cold outside, that’s why we lost.” Remember the shoddy field surface at Veterans stadium in Philadelphia? They played those games on the fraying concrete carpet anyway. Like men.
Are basketball players so vain as to never play pick-up games on crooked, net-less hoops with metal backboards? Would softball players really care about dusty windblown fields? How about runners afraid of muddy trails? Imagine Whiffle Ball games called off because of some pricker bushes. What a shame that’d be.
Golfers—you big sissies. Remember when Happy Gilmore had to putt around a TV tower that had fallen onto the green? He didn’t complain he just made the shot. Tiger, you are certainly no Happy Gilmore, but a big whiner-head like Shooter McGavin.
Album of the Day:
Shut Up, You Fucking Baby! David Cross 2002
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( 10:38 PM )
The following letter was found crumpled up near McKinley Hall:
Dear Lisa,
I know I just talked to 25 minutes ago, but I miss you already. How’s your potato chip diet going? I’ve already lost a pound since I started that oatmeal and buffalo wing diet two weeks ago. Hey, I meant to ask you if you’ve seen my toenail clipping collection. I’m worried about it—-it’s not with my jars of scabs and my tooth mobile made from dental floss. OH MY GOD! I just remembered that time when we danced on the bar to that Dokken song “Tooth and Nail!” Anyway, listen—-great time last night at the tractor pull and later in that abandoned morgue. Just the best, babe.
I love you like wheat bread,
Kristin
xoxoxo
Song of the Day:
“Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love” Van Halen 1978
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( 12:05 PM )
Happy Go Lucky
It was early April 2002 when I first met Harold Chichester. In one great rock and roll day, I road tripped from Rochester to Cleveland battling an icy snowstorm, visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, watched Howlin’ Maggie play for the first time in five years, and interviewed it’s talented leader, Mr. Harold "Happy" Chichester. I even stayed overnight in the historic Alcazar Hotel where Cole Porter wrote “Night and Day” back in the 1920’s. Very good trip till I lost an hour in the morning turning the clocks back, and had to drive four hours east into the sun with a big hangover.
For the interview Happy sat on a well-worn couch in the back room of Cleveland’s Grog Shop. Surrounded by file cabinets, cleaning supplies, and old concert flyers, he talked about life as an independent artist, the art of the six dollar show, Bill O’Reilly, and Jacques Atalli; a French intellectual who wrote a book on music history predating the printing press. It was pretty amazing actually. I never had to ask inane questions like “what’s your favorite album?” and he never gave any trite, one-word answers. Afterwards Happy, guitarist Lance Ellison, bassist Christian Hurd, and drummer Michael Horrigan put on an awesome show, and I was sure they would garner major media attention.
Well, they really didn’t. And due to financial constraints after the tour, Happy decided to dissolve Howlin’ Maggie, and instead play solo gigs and concentrate on recording an album as Happy Chichester. Months later I interviewed him again Halloween night in Toronto when he was the opening act on a rare Brad tour. Again he was wild. After he compared and contrasted Marvin Gaye’s signature albums Here My Dear and I Want You, he spoke of the musical instrument inventor Harry Partch.
In a meeting of the minds moment, it was then that I realized that Happy must play in Rochester, NY, and it would be up to me to make it happen. The city is loaded with techies, art folk, musicians, Garth Fagan Dance, Community Theater, and a large friendly gay and lesbian population. I figured Happy and his craft would be well received.
I approached a local promoter and a few bar owners about bringing him to town. They all expressed initial interest, but ultimately they blew me off. Who the hell am I right? I later discovered Artisan Works, an art gallery beyond comprehension, and they were intrigued with the idea of having performers play among the building’s wonderment.
Well it took a while but I finally made it happen last week. I won’t bore you with all the details and media roadblocks, but I enlisted friend and artist John Perry to create a gig poster, had tickets printed, emailed every media outlet repeatedly, made dozens of phone calls, and told everyone I knew about this unique gig. Since March, every waking hour was spent promoting this tiny event, but there was one serious flaw from the start—-the date. The show would be held on a Sunday afternoon during Memorial Day weekend. Not the smartest of moves, but that’s what the gallery and Happy had available. Anyway, I was determined to make it work.
The weather the afternoon of the show was too perfect, which meant that most of my audience would either be out of town or at backyard BBQ’s with drinks in hand. The turnout for the show was about eighty-- I didn’t make any money, but I didn’t lose any either which was a major victory. Special thanks goes out to gallery owner Louis Perticone, soundman Ernesto LaBella, and to everyone who came. Most impressive was that two women (Madame Zora & Naomi) drove seven hours from Cincinnati to attend. I especially thank Happy though for one profound Memorial Day weekend. He played a great show in a giant room to a wandering audience completely stunned by the cavernous 40,000 sq. ft. gallery.
Later that night after the show, Happy played some songs at my house for a roomful of friends, and we had great conversations in which he explained the four marketing plans that record labels use, and what it was like to record with Shawn Smith, Michael Shrieve, and Thaddeus Turner. Oh yeah, and the greatness of Odwalla plankton drinks. You should’ve been there.
Song of the Day: “You Got a Friend” Donnie 2003
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