( 1:25 AM )
Am I the New Nostradamus?
Special Note: Tonight’s entry is dedicated to the honorable John McFadden Jr, (a new San Diegan come tomorrow afternoon) and yeah, sorry about the swearing.
It’s quite possible that I may posses super-kinetic mind powers. Last February, right here on 2 walls, I wrote an article exposing a purported curse on the San Diego Chargers. It kinda sucked I know, but just take a look at this strangely prophetic prediction I made:
“Who knows, maybe with a decent draft to compliment Tomlinson, the Chargers can go from worst to first and lift the curse. If that happens it will likely pave the way for David Lee Roth to reunite with Van Halen, and Roger Waters will rejoin Pink Floyd.”
Well now, the Chargers really did go from worst to first, winning the AFC West with an amazing 12-4 record—and now guess what? Roger Waters is unbelievably rejoining Pink Floyd for Bob Geldolf’s G8 concert.
So what’s next?—yup—that would be Diamond Dave playing onstage again with Van Halen. You know, Peter Frampton might still have the inflatable pig from he bought from Pink Floyd’s garage sale, and maybe Eddie could dust off the striped Kramer & the practice bomb, while Roth could shimmy into some Capezios.
I feel I must throw in my 2 walls cents here. The only way this ultimate reunion of all reunions is going to possibly happen is for Dave, Eddie, Alex, and Michael to all just get along. I mean really, if Sammy Hagar and Roth could freaking tour together, why can’t this work out? The only better reunion would be for Jim Morrison to finally come out of hiding and jam again with the Doors, but that’s another story.
Anyhow, here’s my personal advice for a successful Van Halen reunion~
David Lee Roth—First you must calm down and take a long, deep breath. You’ve fucked this up before and you are likely to do it again, so just relax for once. Next, quit your day job as an emergency paramedic in NYC—there are already enough people yelling, “Jump” on the street and when you tag along with patients in the ambulance, the crew is tired of you forgetting the words to “D.O.A.”
Which brings me to this painfully obvious fact—Dave, you have got to sing the songs in their entirety. It was almost painful to hear you blather through lengthy song introductions only to have you forget all the words. Ahem, US Fest anyone? Bueller?
Dave, you can pose, preen, and leap around like an onstage idiot court jester, but just sing, man. You’ve actually got a unique voice. I know, I know, it’s difficult to entertain when wasted on Columbian weed and Jack Daniels, but if all those karaoke wannabes on TV can do it, then I have faith that you can too. Aww, Dave, you know we still love you, but we want your vocals, not your ass in our face talkin’ ‘bout nonsense shit fuckin’ up all the lyrics.
Eddie—If Dave promised to sing the songs straight, wouldn’t you consider playing even just one concert with the guy? Is your reclusive nature turning into a debilitating form of stage fright? Hell, even Brian Wilson, the biggest music agoraphobe anywhere is bravely hitting the road
But if I didn’t know any better, it seems as if you are trying to suppress the DLR era. I know Roth is a complete handful on and offstage, but do it for the music—and in this case, do it for African AIDS relief. I haven’t mention money you could generate with a reunion, but trust me; there would be plenty to go around.
Alex—I know you totally hate Roth and have never forgiven him for twisting your ankle during the fake parachute entrance into Anaheim Stadium in 1978. Thing is, you’re the only drummer your brother Eddie will play with, so you have to do it. And you kick ass too. Oh yeah, bring the flaming gong.
Michael—You are likely the most underrated guy in the band. Your backing vocals are great and your bass playing is spot-on & heavy (although your bass solo thing could stay in retirement). Besides, what the hell are you and Alex doing these days?
So once VH completes the third piece of my master plan, I can close finally the Gate to Hell in my backyard that unleashed claymation monsters that routinely attack my wife and I and torment our mail lady, Mary. The fish are on edge too. That’s what happens when you read the liner notes of Mercyful Fate albums out loud.
Song of the Day:
“Young Lust” Pink Floyd 1979
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( 9:29 PM )
The following letter was recently discovered on the grounds of McKinley Hall:
Dear Lisa,
I hear club This changed its name to club That. This is confusing because This was the place & between This and That and This That and The other, This was totally all That. Hey last night I dreamt I was solving square root problems with a nutty mathematician named Ginkgo Biloba and carving corny corncobs with snobby Bob Hobnob. You were there too—as an Imbecilian alien sent from planet Retardo to break my kneecaps (I was forced to bludgeon you with a garden weasel). Then later on Evander Holyfield taught me to cha-cha. I…had…the time of my life…and I never felt this way before. I swear.
Absurdity is my passion, confusion is my business,
Kristin
Song of the Day:
“I Don’t Know (Spicoli’s Theme) Jimmy Buffett 1982
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( 9:13 PM )
Things bugging the crap out of me over the past few weeks…
President Bush came to Rochester, NY not to eat a garbage plate at Nick Tahou’s or shop the Great House of Guitars or to hang out with my wife and I to talk politics, but instead to blather about the social security “crisis” to a carefully screened & handpicked audience at a suburban high school. What makes me angry is how totally pointless and hugely expensive the trip was considering the more important issues facing our country.
Local news ran daily stories about crews working overtime preparing for Bush’s visit, and how law enforcement agencies, medical personnel, and the airport had all beefed up security. For the roughly ninety minutes Bush was here, it required days of large government aircraft flown here for a motorcade that would whisk Bush down an expressway to the Greece Athena HS and back to the airport. Seeing as how protestors were kept miles away and only social security questions could be asked--what was actually accomplished here? By noon, Bush was back safely in Washington threatening to veto any stem-cell bill that comes his way.
The other problem I have is why groundskeepers were working feverishly to paint railings, plant flowers, lay sod, and mow grass. Why did the president’s trip here have to force people to do stuff that should’ve been done anyway? Rochester has a major litter problem, but there’s never enough funding or manpower to mow grass along expressways or to keep trash picked up. Just take look out your car window at any of the city’s expressway exits—Rochester--now with more cigarette butts on the ground than ever! Hey, don’t get me wrong; a little city pride will go a long way. Just imagine what might happen if people stopped throwing garbage on the ground in the first place.
2. Nowhere near as baffling, but still annoying, I was driving in my car recently when an unnamed radio station had the good sense to play Van Halen’s “Mean Street.” Nice, except a DJ talked over the cool guitar intro and then cut at least twenty seconds off the righteous finale in a rush to air a damn commercial. If it wasn’t already, radio is pretty much dead to me now. Thank you, Maxell, thank you. My music mixes on 90-minute XLII’s have saved my life in every car I’ve owned. I wonder if the next car I buy will even have the option of a tape deck? It’ll probably only be CD’s and Satellites by then.
3. So the myopic “runaway bride” merely got two years probation and was slapped with a few grand in fines. It’s not that big a lesson for anyone who does the same thing again in the future. “Oh, I didn’t know I couldn’t fake my own abduction and make up cockamamie stories to the police.” I’m looking in your direction Susan Smith, Tawana Brawly, and that dorm chick from last year. The punishment should fit the crime—in these cases I’d sentence offenders to a paddling by every person who wasted their time searching for no reason.
4. The Fantastic Four movie. As a childhood fan of the comic book, I’m already upset that Ben Grimm, aka The Thing is wearing tights. Tights? Thing don’t wear no stinkin’ tights, he wears speedos dammit! As for the Commish playing The Thing—I hope he doesn’t screw up “It’s Clobberin’ Time!” or it really will be clobberin’ time. You know instead of a computer generated, live-action Fantastic Four movie (which can’t possibly live up to the spectacular imagination of the comic)—how about doing a FF film in the same style as The Incredibles. Now that’d be cool.
Ahh, blogging. I’ve been missing some creative venting through typing.
Song of the Day:
“Blood and Thunder” Mastodon 2004
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