The Madness Of King George And Why He Must Be Deposed Immediately.

If you haven’t read today’s op-ed by David Brooks in the New York Times, do so now. When you’ve finished, try to fight the urge to take up any method, any means, to remove forever George W Bush and Dick Cheney, not merely from office, but from the United States Of America. Try not to imagine them set adrift, men without a country, Phillip Nolans of the 21st Century. Try not to visualize torch-toting millions of common folk storming the White House – tanks on Pennsylvania Avenue, Tiananmen Square in red, white and blue. Try to keep at bay images of Frenchmen, New Zealanders and Poles, rapt before their television screens, both horrified and nearly gleeful as the Berlin of 1989 is projected upon the white stone façades of Washington. Try. And fail.

Brooks’ central argument, that leadership will out over the organic and plastic nature of nations, communities and human nature itself, is nothing more than cheerleading for Armageddon. Because it is the leadership of an insane despot, not only does it hold no water, there is no water there – only fire and brimstone.

The meat of Brooks’ essay is this revelation:

“…his self-confidence survives because it flows from two sources. The first is his unconquerable faith in the rightness of his Big Idea. Bush is convinced that history is moving in the direction of democracy, or as he said Friday: ‘It’s more of a theological perspective. I do believe there is an Almighty, and I believe a gift of that Almighty to all is freedom. And I will tell you that is a principle that no one can convince me that doesn’t exist.’”

With this smug exhortation, the President has now revealed himself to be not only the prime arbiter of US policy, but its theologian-in-chief. Jews, Muslims, Buddhists – even Christians who hold to the actual teachings of Christ rather than the screeds of His various self-righteous interpreters, and most certainly, atheists, are no longer welcome to participate in the American experiment. We are now no longer being governed, we are being ruled. We have no say. All must bend to the will of the Almighty and the man who serves as his sole messenger on earth.

Imagine the jihadist reaction to this declaration of Crusade. This is quite possibly not only the stupidest, but also the most dangerous utterance of any American president since 1776.

While David Brooks was correct to call to the fore a Russian perspective on the issue of leadership, he picked the wrong Russian. Not Tolstoy – Stalin. Stalin, who never met a man or woman he allowed to disagree with him. And live.

Stalin, like Bush, was a rube, a blunt instrument. But unlike Uncle Joe, Bush is, at his core, a coward, afraid to expose his method to sunlight, operating under cover of darkness. At least in the former Soviet Union, everyone knew about the Gulags.

Speaking of darkness; Dick Cheney.

Recent news stories indicate from White House sources that Lord Vader has, on the subject of Iran, usurped Bush’s ear from the gentle, soothing and relatively reasonable tones eminating of late from the State department where, you’ll recall, the President’s girlfriend works. Diplomacy is off the table, regardless of how successful it has been – Iran is no threat to the US, certainly not a nuclear one – to be replaced with Cheney’s heroin: more war. A war that will destroy possibly forever what is left of what has long been America’s greatest export, its goodwill among nations. The plot: Cheney has apparently convinced Bush that no future President will have the guts to attack Iran, so he must do it now.

Imagine the “I-told-you-so’s” Condi must be hearing from Colin Powell.

Friends, it’s time to max out your credit cards. Bush and Cheney are the death twins, the two horsemen of the apocolypse, worse than Hitler, worse than Mussolini, worse than Stalin, Mao and Pol Pot. Put together.

Their plan, which they are about to implement whether you give a shit or not, is to send one half of the world to Hell and the other to Heaven.

I don’t know about you, but I prefer Chicago.

Published in: on July 17, 2007 at 4:08 pm  Leave a Comment  

Is Mr. Ford “Insanely Great” Or Just Insane?

For the Detroit Free Press, July 29, 1908

Ford’s Folly Shows Its Foibles

With the world aflame with excitement over Mr. Henry Ford’s new mobile vehicle, the “Model-T,” one must take a hard look through a fine monocle at the device the T-cultists are calling “the future of going to meeting in Sunday dress.” I am particularly aghast at the following gaffs and omissions Mr. Ford’s eponymous company has made in the devices’s manufacture, especially in regards to the future he so boldly touts:

1. Rather than utilising water, a substance so common it falls from the sky, Ford is betting his entire industry on petroleum, or “gas-o-line,” a liquid which is so scarce as to be practically non-existent, while every man’s stable is equipped with a pump and a trough. Even the most rudimentary of machines have, with little effort, been converted to operate upon steam and the locomotive has done so with such success as to be unbeatable forever as a transportation system. The foolishness of petroleum operation for his “personal transportation device” will surely be borne out after hundreds of T-cultists return their vehicles to the factory upon running out of Ford’s liquid gold, being forced to hike to Church in rutted, mud roads upon which sensible owners of cheap and reliable horse-drawn vehicles are traveling with pride.

2. The Model-T has neither reins nor steering-rudder, relying instead upon something Mr.Ford calls a “steering wheel,” an utterly counterintuitive device that operates in the reverse manner of the conventional rudder. To turn left, one turns the “wheel,” which one must operate with both hands, to the left, rather than, as with a steam-buggy, simply moving the rudder-stick to the right or, using a horse-drawn carriage, flicking the reins in a manner that, while taking years of practice and trust to learn, is often reliable. People with fat hands, or those who have lost a limb in battle will remain perplexed by this new rudder system and consequently will serve as cautionary examples for others.

3. Should the Model-T sustain an injury, it cannot be put down and replaced with another, younger, healthier Model-T and worse, it will sire none of same.

In sum, this invention of the “mad genius,” Mr. Ford, is certain to bring the fortunes of his Ford Motor Comany crashing down as swiftly as its stock price has ratcheted upward upon nothing more than the hyperbole and nattering of craven newsboys and town-cryers. While some have inexplicably touted this gimmick-upon-wheels as the beginning of a nascent industry, I see it as the end of Mr Ford’s otherwise laudably jew-hating dynasty.

Get a horse!

Published in: on June 29, 2007 at 5:50 pm  Leave a Comment  

Okay, Okay, I’ll Shut Up After This:

If you haven’t read Heather Havrilesky’s post at Salon.com, do so just to read the Journey lyrics. I certainly never paid any attention to them any of the five billion times I had to listen to the single worst song in the world.

Also, props for the opening music cue, Vanilla Fudge’s “You Keep Me Hangin’ On.” Its “set me free, why don’t you, babe?” refrain being in the front of our minds and in the back of Tony’s, it was perfect even without the lyric, as the instrumental ride-up went from silence to chaos before cutting abruptly, presaging the Godardian denoument. I know Chase is lovingly ripping off Scorsese every time he does this, but I don’t think Scorsese’s as good at it. The capo is dead, long live the capo.

Still, as an episode qua episode, not so good. Too many little things. Why did Tony have to go visit Sil and share nothing with us about it? Filler. And another Chase/David Lynch moment: the cat. Too cute by half. Nice touch, though: the audience surrogate throwing up at the gas station.

Yeah, I’m going to have to watch it again and thanks to Tivo, I will.

Fuckin’ AJ, what a putz.

Published in: on June 11, 2007 at 11:50 am  Comments (1)  

Okay. I Get It.

Tony’s dead. He didn’t know what hit him. Hence the abrupt cut, the silence, no title music. The whole series was in the language of his internal narrative.

So Godard.

Published in: on June 10, 2007 at 10:43 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Fuck Was That?

As a complete jerk-off, as successful as any I’ve ever seen.

Published in: on June 10, 2007 at 8:07 pm  Leave a Comment  

One Last Time, Seriously

Since I sucessfully predicted the final episode, at least conceptually, of “Six Feet Under,” (“everybody dies”), I figure I should at least take one real whack at the Sopranos using similar methodology: what’s the most obvious conclusion to what the concept of the show posits?

With SFU, the conceit of the show from the pilot forward was that every week someone dies and against the backdrop of their funeral we observe the quotidian lives of the people whose hands they pass through.

Conclusion? The cast is in for the same thing as everyone whose blood they drained and face they painted.

In the Sopranos pilot, we see a mafia boss undertake therapy to deal with his parallel families, some members of which are enmeshed in both blood and bread & butter.

Conclusion?

Come on, is there ever a conclusion to therapy?

Here’s what I don’t see happening:

AJ commits suicide. Nope.
Tony gets whacked. Unh unh.
Silvio is an FBI snitch. Get real.
Adriana or the Russians or Livia come back. Fuggetaboutit.

Ponder this:

Where’s Uncle Ju? In the hospital.
AJ? Hospital.
Sil? Hospital.
Where did Johnny Sack die? Hospital.
Where have most of the whole last two seasons taken place? Oh, yeah. The fuckin’ hospital.

The hospital, which has been the show’s metaphor for jail all along.

Count on Tony coming back to Melfi for one more session, or vice versa — things need to be balanced in melodrama.

Melfi’s had the diagnosis for some time now. What’s the cure?

There is no cure.

The result of that session, and I have no idea what’s going to go down there, the result is going to put Tony away, but not behind bars.

It’ll be curtains for Tony. White curtains.

Dead would be too obvious. Federal Witness Protection? It’s called “Goodfellas,” saw it.

How about “crazy?”

Bada bing, bada boom.

Published in: on June 10, 2007 at 2:13 pm  Leave a Comment  

End Titles Up, Fade To Black, Cue “At Long Last Love.”

June 10, 2007, 8:00pm CDT, HBO.

Opening scene: Tony is shot by… who cares, somebody. The camera pulls back to reveal the set, we hear “cut!” and there’s Peter Bogdanovich, sitting in a directors chair.

“That’s a wrap!”

Covered in fake blood, Gandolfini and the rest of the cast do lots of back-slapping and palling around.

The rest of the hour is the best failed-director-making-a-mafia-film-while-being-shadowed-by-actual-mafioso hour of television we’ve ever seen.

Oh, and yes, Bogdonovich gets whacked at the end.

Published in: on June 8, 2007 at 12:50 pm  Leave a Comment  

Watching The Defectives

The hammer — the one that rings the “I get it” bell in my head, comes down when Phil wraps the whole thing up perfectly — “the Soprano family was never anything more than a glorified crew.” Wait… that’s what I’ve been watching all these years? Shit, he’s right. We’ve been watching the hilariously pathetic adventures of the East Coast Mafia’s most lovable pack of idiot losers. Then they prove it, fucking up the easiest hit of their made-in-America careers. The feds practically hand Tony the gun. He throws it, along with his sandwich, into the trash.

Somewhere between the Italians-need-glasses bit and the “Double Uke” headline, we break the fourth wall to bring you this important message from Dr. Elliot Kupferburg, the leader of the show’s Greek chorus, all assembled, as we are, to watch the tragedy unfold and fold and unfold again: Tony’s a sociopath. Duh. Dr. Melfi changes the channel, tired of the show, sick of being manipulated by all the manufactured plot twists, red herrings and McGuffins — where are the fucking Russians? Those two Arabs don’t mean shit, right? Click.

Bobby gets it beautifully, right in the toy store where it hurts. Check out the TV audience… I mean the kids, whimpering on the floor in the aisle. Then Silvo, full of holes as we all come streaming out of our living rooms… I mean the ‘Bing, to gape.

Look at this thing of ours, this television show. Look what David Chase has done with this thing. It’s fucking brilliant. All this time we thought it was about all about Tony. It’s not all about Tony. Even with an hour to go and dynamite strapped to every member of his family it’s not about Tony. It never was.

It’s all about us.

Published in: on June 4, 2007 at 4:01 pm  Comments (1)  

Virgin Birth, No. Virgin Death, Yes.

It was a sad, albeit tacky-sad, thing to watch Tower Records dissolve into God’s cut-out bin, but hey, there was always Branson-rich Virgin. That guy could bleed Euros well into the 23nd century. We were safe.

Not anymore.

Virgin’s Chicago flagship on Michigan Avenue will be shuttered in less than a month from today to make room for Christian-owned slut-clothier Forever 21.

That means there will no longer be a one-stop retailer for jazz, gospel, world, classical, folk, country or deep-catalog-anything physical artifacts of musical expression in the second-largest city in the United States.

Folks, that’s the end of that.

Sure, there’s always Amazon (sigh) and if you’re a classical music fan, ArkivMusic, and sure, it’s not as though you can’t get anything you need if you look deeply enough into the screen you’re reading right now, and sure, it’s not the end of the world.

Wait. It is the end of the world. It’s the end of a world I grew up in, worked in, fucking loved. Imagine that supermarkets or fleamarkets or telephones or bicycles or paper money were scheduled to vanish in less than a month.

I mean, fuck.

I refuse to believe that internet access to everything will supplant the meat-space experience of wandering the aisles of a big-assed record store staffed with lucky-to-be-working music geeks who wish they could be doing anything else.

Indie stores? In order to survive, they need to learn to be good at one thing. So you have the Jazz Record Mart in Chicago, that’s cool, but where’s the Country Record Mart? The Indian Music Record Mart? Dump on big retailers all you like, but I could buy Kenneth Gaburo, Imrat Khan and Sandy Bull in one visit to Virgin. Not at Reckless, Chicago’s biggest indie. Dusty Groove, three blocks from here, is absolutely the finest store in the country for deep grooves, but can I pick me up some Ely Ameling there?

This is horrible news, and not just horrible news for me. Forget record stores. Something you love, something you take for granted, something that defines you is about to be ground into pixels.

Go to it now, it calls you — you can’t refuse.

Ten Reasons To Not Even Consider In A Billion Years Backing Michael R Bloomberg For President

1. He’s a billionaire.
2. He’s a billionaire.
3. He’s a billionaire.
4. He’s a billionaire.
5. He’s a billionaire.
6. He’s a billionaire.
7. He’s a billionaire.
8. He’s a billionaire.
9. He’s a billionaire.
10. He’s a billionaire.

Published in: on May 19, 2007 at 6:29 pm  Comments (1)  

From The Gyros Circuit

The press release reads:

“TYLER PERRY presents
‘DON’T MAKE A WOMAN TAKE OFF HER EARRINGS’
starring Tyler Perry as MEDEA
Fox Theatre
St. Louis, MO
Thu, June 7, 2007 8pm showtime
‘Tyler Perry’s #1 rated book comes to the stage for a summer tour of music and comedy.'”

Wait… Tyler Perry as Medea?

Medea, devotee of the goddess Hecate, and one of the great sorceresses of the ancient world? Daughter of King Aeetes of Colchis, and the granddaughter of Helios, the sun god, who fell in love with Jason, seeker of the Golden Fleece, and agreed to use her magic to help him in return for Jason’s promise to marry her?

Medea, who with her younger brother, Absyrtis, fled with Jason in the Argo after obtaining the golden fleece? Medea, who killed her brother and cut his body into pieces, scattering the parts behind the ship so the pursuers had to stop and collect Absyrtis’ dismembered body in order to give it proper burial, and so Jason, Medea and the Argonauts might escape?

Medea, who restored the youth of Jason’s aged father, Aeson, by cutting his throat and filling his body with a magical potion, offering to do the same for Pelias the king of Iolcus who had usurped Aeson’s throne? Medea, who tricked Pelias’ daughters into killing him, but who left the corpse without any youth-restoring potion?

Medea, who fled Iolcus; settling next in Corinth, where she bore Jason three sons (the first two being twins) before Jason forsook her in order to marry the daughter of Creon, the king of Corinth? Medea, who got revenge for Jason’s desertion by killing the new bride with a poisoned robe and crown which burned the flesh from her body, killing King Creon as well when he tried to embrace his dying daughter? Medea, who fled Corinth in a chariot, drawn by winged dragons, which belonged to her grandfather Helios, taking with her with her the bodies of her three sons, whom she had murdered in order to give Jason further pain?

Medea, who then took refuge with Aegeus, the old king of Athens, having promised him that she would use her magic to enable him to have more children, ultimately marrying him and bearing him a son, Medus? Medea, who when Aegeus’ other son Theseus returned to Athens, tried to trick her husband into poisoning him? Medea, who, unsuccessful in her effort, had to flee Athens, taking Medus, who later became king of the country which was later called Media with her?

That Medea?

Well, that’s gonna be one Hell of a show.

Published in: on May 17, 2007 at 11:03 pm  Leave a Comment  

Jerry Falwell Converts To Atheism

A recent unexpected event in Rev Falwell’s life has convinced him that there is no God.

Take that, The Onion.

Published in: on May 15, 2007 at 2:21 pm  Leave a Comment  

This Woman Is My Hero

Marilee Jones, the dean of admissions for 28 years at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, otherwise known as “fucking MIT, man,” had no undergraduate degree when she applied to the college. And now she’s the Dean? Well done! Right?

Well, she was fired today, because she’d never told anyone that she had no degree. Check out this quote:

“There are some mistakes people can make for which ‘I’m sorry’ can be accepted, but this is one of those matters where the lack of integrity is sufficient all by itself,” Phillip L. Clay, M.I.T.’s chancellor said. “This is a very sad situation for her and for the institution. We have obviously placed a lot of trust in her.”

This is not a crime. It’s not even an infraction of the rules.

This is a Horatio Alger story.

Brava, Marilee Jones. Fuck you, Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Published in: on April 26, 2007 at 10:17 pm  Leave a Comment  

Boris Yeltsin, Dead At 76 Proof

Yelts – yeltz – informal

Verb (intrans.) To vomit Vodka and Red Bull.

“Oh, man, I must have had a gallon of that crap – I gotta yelts.”

Gerund:

“After three V&RB, I’m yeltsin’ all night long.”

Published in: on April 23, 2007 at 12:02 pm  Comments (1)  

What’d I Tell Ya?

That didn’t take long.

Published in: on April 20, 2007 at 11:02 am  Leave a Comment  

If You Can’t Say Something Bad About Hitler, Don’t Say Anything At All

Bryan Ferry‘s new album, due for a US release in May, is a collection of covers by a popular folk-singer from Hibbing Minnesota, Robert Zimmerman, who, though he might have last week, this week, I suspect, will not find the effort pleasing.

Published in: on April 17, 2007 at 8:17 pm  Comments (1)  

America’s Greatest No-Longer-Living Playwright

I can guarantee two things:

This play will get more than than one off-off Broadway production this year.

Somewhere tonight, an indie band just named itself Richard McBeef.

Published in: on April 17, 2007 at 7:42 pm  Leave a Comment  

We’ve Got A Bad Connection… Some Kind Of Buzzing… You Hear That?

“Albert Einstein once said that if the bees disappeared, ‘man would have only four years of life left'”.

Published in: on April 15, 2007 at 9:44 am  Comments (1)  

I’m Not Trying To Cause A Big Sensation In My “Depends”

Published in: on April 13, 2007 at 5:27 pm  Leave a Comment  

Brain OK

My long, intercrainial nightmare is over. Well, one of them, anyway. I’ve just returned from a year-one consult with my neurosurgeon who gave me an all-clear. There’s nothing in there. Goodbye anti-seizure meds, hello vodka!

Published in: on April 13, 2007 at 2:40 pm  Comments (2)  

Mr. “Not On My Radar” Now Further Off It

MSNBC and CBS have dropped Don Imus, a radio personality I have never listened to and only seen pictures of. What great news! This means that Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, Ann Coulter, and Bill O’Reilly will all be out of work tomorrow morning!

Wait… they won’t? Why not? I mean, they’ve all done much more hateful things than trying to get a game of “The Dozens” going with the Rutger’s Women’s Basketball Team. Surely, now that we’re living in the new, hate-speech scrubbed atmosphere of the 21st Century, they all deserve to be be publicly rebuked, humiliated and deprived of their livelihood — better yet, hung and disemboweled, their entrails stuffed into their mouths. Shouldn’t show-trials at least be scheduled, a string of them lined up to coincide with various primaries and caucuses over the next twelve months? And why stop with the perpetrators themselves? They all have families. Hunt them down and send them to the camps. Oh. We don’t have camps? Well, shit, let’s get some camps. The one thing this country could really use right now is some forced labor, what with all those Mexicans taking all those jobs we Americans are unwilling to do.

What do you mean it’s not gonna happen? How come?

Oh, yeah, right. The 1st Amendment. Damn. Forgot about that. That’s the one that says I can decide not to like whatever I please and tell the world about it. I can even say stupid things, really stupid, inappropriate things, and well, it might even piss somebody off so badly that they’ll get all worked up and do stupid things, like punch me in the face — right in the face! — they’re so mad at the stupid, inappropriate things I’ve said. This guy Imus? If he said stupid innapropriate things about me, that’s what I’d do. I’d call him out, ask him to meet me after school behind Bettendorf’s Grocery and punch his lights out. I’ll bet, I’ll just bet if they took this approach, that the Rutgers Women could take him, easy. Not only do they outnumber him, he’s just an old man dressed up like Gene Autry and they’re like, college athletes. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it would be fair.

But I can see that this wasn’t just between him and the team. Nope. It was, if you’ve been following what’s been in Pravda this week, between him and every-fucking-body in the world.

Well, the world is a safe place now. Never again will his filthy lips sully a microphone. Nevermore will his tainted airwaves poison the good-old American freedom-loving ether.

The bad boogey man is gone. We are all cleansed now.

Published in: on April 12, 2007 at 5:20 pm  Comments (1)  

Elvis Fires The Colonel

So this is why we haven’t been able to get Beatles downloads.

I feel the powerful tiny hand of Yoko behind this…

Published in: on April 12, 2007 at 12:36 pm  Leave a Comment  

Recently-Brain-Injured Genius Emigrates To Tralfamador

Were it not for this man, I might never have separated long paragraphs with short, single-sentence ones.

So it goes.

Published in: on April 11, 2007 at 10:10 pm  Leave a Comment  

A Vote For Sanjay Is A Vote For Just About Anybody (Caveat: I Have Never Seen Even One Minute Of “American Idol”)

It’s amazing how much you can actually participate in the national debate about something without having any real contact with or even interest in the subject itself. For instance, the only American Idol contestant from the current season that I’m aware of or might recognise on the street is Sanjaya. I hear he sucks. I have no doubt that’s true. How? By the the gleeful outcry of scores of habitually televisual Americans clambering to take down whoever is portraying the character of “the successful bad-guy” in whatever the current vehicle might be for the tent-show morality play American entertainment has become; in this instance, he is played by Simon Cowell, a personage I have seen parodied so often that I have no need to witness the real thing in order to perceive, in exactly the right manner to play the game, his dark, evil and highly successful excuse for a soul. Sanjaya? He’s “the earnest good-guy the system didn’t see coming.” Do I want him to win? Sure, why not? I just might vote.

And there’s our electoral system in a nutshell.

Published in: on April 11, 2007 at 2:25 pm  Leave a Comment  

Happy Easter To All My…

easter_rainbow.jpg

Published in: on April 8, 2007 at 12:52 pm  Comments (1)  

What I Want To Know About The Apple/EMI/DRM Deal

Who’s managing the Beatles? The Colonel?

Published in: on April 2, 2007 at 2:15 pm  Leave a Comment  

Alas, ‘Tis Sinusitus That Silenced My Voice

And deafened my ears. The left one still only picks up burbles and whistles. Since SXSW, I’ve spent most of my time in bed, where the only writing I’ve done is that which pays for Sudafed and Amoxicillin; in this case, a 2000 word essay for the Knoxville Voice, appearing April 4th, titled “The Adults Are Alright, The Aging of SXSW, Rock And You.”

In other news, this Friday, I’ll be revisiting the site of my brain invasion for my first yearly MRI. I get the result on the following Tuesday. I’ll keep you posted for as long as there’s something to post. Then that’s it for Geezers United. The best of its 2006/2007 output will be collected in a limited edition hardbound book titled “Geezers United: Prizewinning Brain Tumors, Poorly Punctuated” with dual letterpress cover illustrations by Jay Ryan and Travis Lampe. Neither illustrators yet booked, but both interested. I’ll keep you posted on this, too.

After that, some of GU (those parts that might help people who have been recently diagnosed with brain tumor) will be archived for viewing at a new site, host yet to be determined, probably WordPress, under a new title.

Why am I doing this? GU started out life as a writing excersize and nothing more; an excuse for me to put something down on pixels every day. When I discovered that I had (“let’s not kid ourselves,” as a doctor said of my meningioma) cancer of a sort, GU suddenly became the voice of a surprized and awakened cranky old coot from the rock era instead of just a, well — cranky old coot from the rock era. It also became, in addition to good practice, theraputic, to a degree.

I’m not certain that, in its present form, it’s either of those things any longer. For one thing, as though my laptop were some kind of Scientological E-Meter, my interest in my own brain surgery wanes with each new entry. In light of Guy Robichaud’s passage, among other things, the topic carries less gravitas, even to me. Of course, should I get bad news next week, that would certainly change, but it’s time to file this story away, at least for awhile.

Plus, I’ve discovered that, as an essayist, maybe I can do better. For one thing, I can make a living (nothing I do, until recently, qualifies as “work for pay”). I can certainly write better. Unless I can restructure GU as a revenue-generating site (possible, perhaps – thinking about it) with like-minded writers, artists and photographers (really – thinking about it) I’m pretty content to write for editors who actually want me to do what I do. That’s a rare thing and I’m going to treasure the shit out of it.

In the meantime, new brain revelations will be revealed, along with anything else I absolutely have to say. Beyond that, there will be a new blog somewhere, sometime, probably soon. What it will be, I have no idea. Yet.

I’ll keep you posted.

Published in: on March 31, 2007 at 10:29 am  Leave a Comment  

The Most Depressing News Of The Day. Week. Decade.

There must be a good reason for this, I mean, after all, he’s not stupid when it comes to money… wait, he married Heather Mills.

Published in: on March 22, 2007 at 9:51 pm  Comments (3)  

Here’s A Holy Shit Moment For About Three Of You

My friend Bob Mehr is doing a little interview-in-a-box here at the SXSW trade show with Ian Mclagan. Bunch of British Geezers sitting in the front row. Mac looks out and shouts “Fuck! It’s Terry Reid!”

My Reaction: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Realizing that I’ll have to speak now or forever hold my peace, I walk over to him and say, “Fuck! It’s Terry Reid!”

He’s playing tomorrow night at Antones. Fuck. It’s Terry Reid.

Published in: on March 16, 2007 at 2:42 pm  Leave a Comment  

Pete Townsend, I’m Sorry I Dissed Your Novel

There’s a lot to be said about Pete Townsend’s presence in Austin; let’s start with “he’s everyfuckingwhere.” He did the keynote, the Austin Music Awards (where he played “Whatcha Gonna Do About It,” with Ian McLagan – Small Faces fans among us, pause for a moment and imagine that) and an Attic Jam show with Willie Mason and Martha Wainwright (Willie Mason – quite good). But what was most illuminating about his presence among throngs of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, is how he’s just lit the place up. Gregarious and as welcome in your home as your favorite Uncle, he’s put a smile on every lip, going so far as to formally eschew rebellion in his keynote address. Mellowed out, he is.

Of course, he still performs as though he’s channeling God on a bad day one moment, Satan on a good night the next.

Weird. I feel so positive about him all of a sudden. I mean, I always have, but off-paper, the crank dissolves into someone who just washed down a ball of cotton candy with a pint of sunshine. No shit.

Wish he lived up the street so I could have breakfast with him every now and again at the local.

Published in: on March 15, 2007 at 7:28 pm  Leave a Comment  
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