You Fat Pig

Here's a big State Fair attraction, just before it becomes fodder for a BLT sandwich.

I'm A Big Texas Cliche

I don't mean to blaspheme the great State Fair of Texas, but let's face it: this annual event is a celebration of all that is embarrasing about my homeland. Massive calorie consumption, questionable clothing choices, terrible accents are what this event is all about. But there's lots of other fun stuff: live stock; carnies; unusual smells; posing for pictures in front of a giant fake cowboy. And then you get to wander back to your car, praying that it's still there.

Homeless Apparel

I love it when I find the odd irony or juxtaposition in the clothing choices of the homeless who walk the streets of downtown Dallas. I'm sure that most of the clothing comes out of a donation box of the homeless center and the homeless don't give much thought to what they wear, other than the article of clothing fits --- sort of. Still, if you see a street person shuffling down Main wearing a George W. Bush campaign t-shirt, you wonder if the homeless is thinking "You know, supply side economics and social security reform are really what I'm all about."

Today I saw a homeless guy wearing a "2001 Earth Day Celebration" t-shirt and a Titleist golf cap. I think these clothing choices really made a statement. And that statement is "I am very concerned about global warming. But fuck it. I'm going to go shoot 18 holes before it gets too hot outside."

Room 124

For some reason, they always put me in Room 124 at the Austin Motel. As you can see, it is one of the motel's finer rooms, complete with a bed, shower, sink, television, toilet and chair. That's what I want in a room for rent --- nothing else. But this time, the room had a little extra feature --- black ants in the sink.

I think I'll request Room 125 next time.

Corporate Free

I usually stay in the same place in Austin every time --- the funked up Austin Motel on South Congress. This is my no means a luxury establishment. It is sort of famous though. The sign pictured here was featured prominently in The Clash's "Rock the Kasbah" video. And this place is convenient. You can get hammered at Guerro's, walk down the Continental Club to catch Toni Price, grab some late night ice cream at Amy's and then stumble home to your motel room without ever having to get in a car. I almost got to stay at the swanky Driskell Hotel downtown, but circumstances took me back to South Congress this time. That was good.

Austin

I really only go two places for work on a regular basis --- New Orleans and Austin. Strike that. I guess it's down to one city now. Anyway, both of these cities have important appellate courts in them. So when I cover a morning argument, I go down the afternoon before, get in town about dinner time and ply myself with the best alcohol and food the cities have to offer --- all on the man. For New Orleans, I always hit the Acme Oyster Bar for jambalaya, bread pudding and numerous Abita beers. In Austin, it's alway Guerro's for tacos al carbon and frothy mix of margaritas and Pacifica beer.

Sometimes I cover the arguments with a hang over.

Why Heavy Metal Died

I have a theory about why heavy metal is not popular anymore: it's because all of the good and obvious band names were used up during the great metal glut of the 1980s.

Around 1989, I remember stopping in Bill's Records and Tapes during a time when the great James Henderson was employed there. James was standing in the metal section at Bill's and was pulling out metal albums at random. One he selected featured puffy haired bare-chested guys with soot smeared on their faces and smoke rising up behind them, making it just like every album cover in this section. And then James looked at the name of the band and made this comment: "You know, it was just a matter of time before somebody called themselves this."

The name of the band was "Satan".

Stop It

I'm declaring an official moratorium on the used of the cliche phrase "at the end of the day."

I once heard a much hailed reporter from Newsweek --- someone who is trained not to use cliches in his copy --- say "at the end of the day" as a sentence starter no less than five times during a speech.

The Old House Game

I made good on a promise to a coworker that I could find her a cool house in Dallas for cheap. What I found was this lovely 1940 Austin stone cottage that sits in the rolling hills of the Oak Cliff neighborhood of the city. It's got a huge open green area on the side of the house and a creek running behind it. So I took my coworker to go see this place yesterday and she freaked out --- she loved it so much. Who wouldn't? It's got nice hardwood floors, black and white tile in the bathroom, an art deco-tiled gas fireplace and a metal roof that probably sings when it rains. My coworker was ready to write up a contract on the house that day. Whoa Tonto. Unfortunately, cheap always has a cost when dealing with old houses. Hours later we discovered that the electrical system in this house is completely shot, the foundation needs work, the plumbing leaks and the roof needs repairs. Total bill for all of this? Probably around $30,000 for repairs if I had to guess. All of the sudden, it doesn't seem like such a cheap house anymore. But it's still a cool house. So what do you do?

William, A**hole at Your Service

One of Will's favorite gags is to go up to complete strangers and stare at the back of their heads from a distance of a few inches. Usually the victim is so rapped up in what they are doing, they don't notice that Will's menacing side-burned head is way up in their personal space. Here, Will assaults the unofficial videographer of a Mike Doughty performance in Dallas.

Backyard Part II

The hurricane force winds that were supposed to hit Dallas were much ado about nothing. The fake carport survived unscathed.

My buddy Will was in town for the weekend. And it's impossible to not have fun when Will is around. We attended some rock shows and drank. But the best part of the weekend was hanging out in my back yard with Will. In a wishful attempt to usher in Fall weather, I fired up the chiminea. It was 80 degrees out. So, yeah, it was a little hot outside for a fire. So I made a Popeye face to celebrate this decision, for no reason. Check it out:http://photos1.blogger.com/img/127/5475/640/Popeye.jpg

The Backyard Kite

While everybody is watching the weather reports to see which Texas coastal town Hurricane Rita is going to lay waste to, I'm watching to see if the tentacles of the storm are going to kick up the winds in decidedly non-coastal Dallas on Saturday and launch my white trash carport into space.

I have a permanant carport behind my house that protects our two cars. But I bought one of those temporary car ports with the poles and the tarp to sheild our third vehicle --- my hoopty pickup truck --- from the evil rays of the sun. Temporary car port for some, but not me. Mine stays up all year long, like so much ghetto Christmas lights. Actually, I've bought two of these things. The last one I had got launched into the next door neighbors yard a year ago during a wind storm and was mangled beyond recognition. Apparently, I didn't do a very thorough job of tying down the carport. The new one is now tied down quite well, but if the winds kick up to 40 or 50 mph, carport two will most certainly launch as well. So, I may have to take it apart tonight. Or I could leave it up and see what happens. I'd make for some good pictures.

I think Karen is rooting for launch number two. She is not a fan of the white trash carport.

Sucking Gas

Isn't it time for the Chevrolet Suburban to go the way of the dinosaur? Doesn't it stand to reason that if it costs 150 bucks to fill up your 50 gallon tank --- which will last you all of 300 miles --- you'd take the hint and get a more economical vehicle? This reason may compute in most places, but not where I live. I use a gas station that is also frequented by residents of an established East Dallas neighborhood (meaning white and rich). And this morning there were two women in two different Suburbans pumping their monster 10 mpg behemoths full of gas. Their stupid SUVs were blocking the pumps for other people to use, causing a line to form. And it takes a damn long time to pump 50 gallons of gas into a SUV. I kept staring at these women, neither of whom had passengers in their cars. I doubt either of them had more than two kids at home --- which is the usual reason for owning a ridiculously large vehicle. And I bet both of them live in enormous 5,500 square foot McMansions that they built over the graves of historic homes that were just too small for their four member families. I grew up in a family of four and we never had anything larger than a 4 door sedan. When gas prices got out of the control in 1980, we bought a used Pinto station wagon. We lived in a 2,200 square foot house. It was more than enough.

But if you've got the credit limit in 2005, too much is never enough. Keep rolling in the Suburbans ladies because you really need and deserve them.

Rock & Roll Nominees

Nobody is going to ask for my vote on the recent nominees for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, but they should. I've been consuming this music at a furious pace for 25 years and have an opinion on most things rock and roll. I don't want to tell the hall of fame folks how to run their shop. But wouldn't you think that to make it in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame you should at least play rock & roll? That would be one of my suggestions. Anyways, here's the current list of the current nominees and my thoughts on whether they should be allowed entry into the vaunted hall.

New Nominees:

Miles Davis: One of America's most important and influential jazz musicians. I repeat jazz musicians. Verdict? No.

Cat Stevens: Was "Peace Train" really that great? Verdict? No.

Blondie: Toughed it out at CBGB's and transformed from rock to disco with the best of them. Plus Blondie was super hot back in the day. Verdict? Yes.

The Dave Clark Five: This was a "me too" band that tried to invade America in 1964 after the Beatles did it bigger and better. I can name all of the members of the Beatles. I can't name any members of this group, except Dave Clark. Verdict? Huge no.

The Paul Butterfield Blues Band: Don't know anything about them. But their name includes the word "Blues." Verdict? No, no and no.

The Sir Douglas Quintet: Texas garage rock band from the 60's. They were supposedly the kings of Tex-Mex music. I'm from Texas and have never heard them. Verdict? No.

Nominated again this year:

Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five: Not exactly rock but I count rap as an offshoot of rock. Grandmaster brought us news from the street in the form of music. "The Message" was genius and set the standard for the genre. I wish rap had stuck closer to Grandmaster's influence. Verdict? Big yes.

Black Sabbath: I do not like Black Sabbath. They're a bit slow, heavy and ponderous for my tastes. But metal started with them. And what the hell would angry pimply 16 year-old boys do if they didn't have metal to listen to? Verdict? Yes.

The J. Geils Band: I have friends that swear that this band is really tight and talented. All I remember is Peter Wolf, his stupid striped shirt, and "Freeze Frame." Verdict? Hell no.

John Mellencamp: Johnny Cougar kept it real . . . real midwestern. His songs have been beaten into the ground on the radio. But they still were pretty good songs. Verdict? Yes.

Lynyrd Skynyrd: Here's another band I hate because the band promotes redneckism. But they were tops for southern rockers (it makes me cringe to write that.) Verdict? Yes, as long as they are the last southern rockers to get in --- no Molly Hatchet or Marshall Tucker Band.

The Sex Pistols: Are you kidding me? I can't believe they didn't get in last time. The Sex Pistols didn't invent punk rock but they showed us what it could be. "Never Mind the Bollocks" is the Beatles "White Album" of punk. Verdict? Couldn't be a bigger yes.

The Stooges: Granddadies of punk. Insane live shows. And Iggy Pop still matters. Verdict? Yes.

The Patti Smith Group: Another CBGB stalwart. The album "Horses" was great art-punk album and there was nothing else like it before. She even had a pop hit with "Because the Night." Verdict? Yes.

Bold Bum

Yesterday I got hit up by a homeless guy with an amazing request.

"Hey" "Uh, could I borrow a hundred dollars?"

Sure. Why not?

T.V. Candy

"It's got nougat in it. Folks like nougat."

Once again, when my mind is idle for three minutes, it wanders to cancelled television shows that were good. MTV's Austin Stories was one of those. It was one of the networks ill fated attempts at a sit-com in the late 90s. I watched it initially because it was filmed in Austin and I liked to try to spot all of the places where they filmed. They filmed at lots of places I frequented like Conan's Pizza and an old dollar movie theater where I saw "Good Morning Vietnam". This show was really funny. But MTV only supports funny for so long. Then it's back to the Real World and other tired formulas. Now the stupid, tired, needs-to-be-cancelled Real World is in Austin. And the only place the stupid vapid kids on this show ever go is 6th Street.

Back to the quote above. One of the no job having characters in Austin Stories was named Howard Kremer (all of the characters in the show used their real names including Laura House who had an answering machine that said "This is Laura House's house" and Brad "Chip" Pope). Howard always had some half-baked money making scheme. One of them was dumpster diving behind Zee's Candys, pulling out discarded boxes of chocolates and selling them to unwitting customers. He rakes in the cash until some homeless dude also discovers the dumpster and Howard ends up having to split the take. Then the homeless guy issues the classic nougat line. It all fell apart when the customers started getting sick from eating the candy.

Scotsmen on a School Night

If you had to stay up way past your bedtime on a Monday night, you could do a lot worse than seeing Idlewild bust out a scorching performance in Dallas with about 70 other people. In the United Kingdom, this band would be playing big auditoriums. But here, I pay $12 bucks and walk right up to the stage to see some guys that came all the way from Edinburgh, Scotland.

I briefly considered staying home and watching the Cowboys on Monday Night Football. Then I put on a Teenage Fan Club album and everything started getting Scottish. So on went the Close Lobsters T-shirt and I was off to the show. The shirt, featuring the long-forgotten late 80's neo psychedelic band from Paisley, Scotland, was a big hit with the Idlewild roadies. "Where did you get that shirt mate?" "I know those guys!" It was fun talking with the roadies who all said "aiye" instead of "yes" and could give me an update as to what Close Lobsters lead singer Andy Burnett is currently doing. He's now a college instructor, according to one of the roadies.

Idlewild came on and proceeded to play a ridiculous set --- nailing every song like they meant it, even though it was apparent the Texas heat was beating the hell out of them. And thank God, nobody in the crowd seemed to make the band regret their tour stop. Usually I feel the need to kill someone in the audience at a Dallas rock performance because there's always a contingency of people who either yak through during the whole show or call out for Freebird. But because Monday night only brings out the professionals, none of this happened.

Lead singer Roddy Woomble is fun to watch. He looks kind of like an Evan Dando starter kit, minus the smack and the attitude. And I doubt there are many other guys with the last name "Woomble" who can rock a microphone like this person.

Anyway, this was without a doubt the best 12 bucks I've spent all year. If Idlewild comes to your town, please see them. I can't wait for them to come back.

Speaking of Blowing

How can you possibly expect anything but snickers, ridicule, bad jokes and eventual obscurity when you name your band "The Blow Monkeys"?

Bad or Misunderstood?

Last night, I was watching Nic Cage over act in 9MM, a 1998 film about a private investigator goes "underground" into the dark porn world to solve a murder. Ohhhh, scary. One of the bad dudes in this movie was a fan of Danzig monster music. When Nic snuck into bad guy's house in a scene ripped off directly from Silence of the Lambs, the guy had Danzig music going full blast and a Danzig poster on the wall. Nic and bad guy did lots of fighting to said monster music. And it got me to thinking, who likes really Danzig or his band that started it all, The Misfits? Is it just bad dudes in Nic Cage movies?

Yet to this day, I still see the obligatory Misfits t-shirt on every skate punk I see, even though The Misfits haven't put out an album since 1983. I was always of the opinion that The Misfits sucked pretty bad and got more mileage out of face paint, dumb haircuts and songs about death than with music --- you know, sort of like GWAR. Note, this is coming from a guy who avidly supports and enjoys punk rock. So I decided to relisten to The Misfits, something I hadn't done since Rob worked at Sound Exchange in 1990. Verdict? The Misfits still suck. But some of it appeals to my punk sensibilities. "Hollywood Babylon" and "London Dungeon" are pretty good. But "I Want Your Skull"? Pure shock value. You know when your fan base drops off precipitously past the age 15, your band really blows.

Keyboard Abuse

I've been using the same computer at work for about three years. And for some reason, the face of the "n" key has been completely worn off. The "m" key is kind of fading too. Why is that? I've only used the word "n" five times in this post. I've used triple the number of "t"s in this post and that key is fine.

Choosing Inaction

After jacking around and making no firm commitment on whether to attend my 20 year high school reunion, I finally made a decision on Saturday. Or rather, my indecision made the decision for me. I realized the reunion was starting at 7 p.m. on Saturday about about 6 p.m. the same day. Instead, Karen and I went out to dinner at a bad Italian place and both got kind of sick. Maybe that was a better alternative to having "what are you up to now" conversations with people I really didn't know all that well in 1985.

Saturday Evening on Gaston Avenue

I like how the sun streams into the front hallway of my house in the evenings. The light turns yellow because of the fake stained glass in the window. It slowly stretches from the wall to the floor. Sometimes I just stand in the hallway and watch it.

I Love The Sound Of Chainsaws In the Morning

One of the minor inconveniences of having three 200 foot tall, 75 year old pecan trees in your front yard is that when there's a strong wind or thunderstorm, the trees start dropping massive limbs like they just stepped on a land mine. Thursday afternoon, central Dallas got hammered by a strong, five minute thunderstorm. And I came home to find an enormous limb laying in my front yard. It was so big I couldn't move it. So this morning, I started to call neighbors Rick & Mike to ask if I could borrow their chainsaw. This is the third time I've done this in two years. So I figured, if you've asked to borrow a power tool three times in two years, the rule should be that you have to go buy your own power tool. So I am now the proud owner of a 33cc, 14 inch boom, $99 chainsaw. It destroyed the limb. And I had fun doing it. The tools that are the most dangerous are always the most entertaining. And now I have enough wood to do plenty of this in the future: http://photos1.blogger.com/img/127/5475/640/Fire%20Near%20the%20Mustang.jpg

Honest Mechanic

Remember last month when I stopped by "Just Brakes" on a Saturday because they said they'd fix my brakes on my Ranger for $99, then called me back an hour later and said actually it was going to cost an astounding $1,800? They said my entire brake system needed to be replaced --- master cylinder, power booster, all the brake lines, all the pads shoes and rotors. It in the worst condition they'd ever seen. I took my truck away from them as fast as I could.

I knew all that was wrong was that I had a sticky caliper on the passenger side front brake. In the photo, the caliper is the red thing.

This morning, I took my truck to the very honest Mustang Service Center. I told Butch, the owner, that my passenger side caliper was sticking. He just called me back. He said "Yes, your passenger side caliper is sticking. We'll replace that one and the driver's side caliper and turn your rotor. That'll be $266."

Thank you Butch. You are an honest business man. And I'm sending everyone I know to your shop. It's Mustang Service Center 2201 Abrams Road, Dallas, TX. (214) 824-6716.

F you Just Brakes.

Obscure Band of the Day: The Fall

During the summer of 1985 I attended a punk show for the first time. That experience sparked my interest in music that couldn't be heard on album rock radio or seen on MTV. One of the only ways for me to learn about new music back then was through a low-wattage public free-form radio station in Dallas called KNON. There was a show that came on after 10 p.m. that played stuff I'd never heard of before. I used to tape the show, listen to it over and over again, and then go look for more stuff by the bands they'd play. This process led me to a band from England called The Fall. I'd never heard anything like them. Most of their songs started off with a spooky repetitive guitar. Then some guy would start ranting, not singing. I loved it. The first song I ever heard by The Fall was called "L.A." I assume the song was about Los Angeles, but I couldn't tell. I bought the album "This Nation's Saving Grace" that summer and it became the weirdest and most wonderful thing I owned in my expanding music collection. The Fall, lead by the crumudgeonly Mark E. Smith, may be better known in England, but they never caught on in the States. Americans like cuddly British rock acts, and The Fall definately did not qualify. I got to see The Fall about two years ago play in Dallas. There may have been 40 people who accompanied me in seeing this groundbreaking band perform. All of the membership had changed save Mark E. Smith, who looked like he was 70 years old and should have been manning the counter at some dusty old book store instead of ranting into a microphone like a mad poet. But they still sounded as fresh and weird as the first time I heard them some 20 years earlier.

human beaks

"No. No. Like this. Pull your lips out like this. I promise, when we get home you'll laugh at this photo."

Crime Story # 2

In 1994, I started writing a lot about a wave of teen gangs that started to root in the worn-out, blue collar suburbs. In the grand scheme of big city crime, this was stupid kid stuff for the most part. The kids were bored. They learned how to flash gang signs and all of the sudden they consider themselves to be full-fledged Crip members. But there was a massive freak out in the 'burbs that year over gangs because of one incident. A 14-year-old kid mouthed off to another group of kids, exchanged gang lingo, and the kid got shot in the chest. The cops formed a gang unit after that and spent Friday and Saturday nights patrolling all kid hang outs for the next few years. They got to know all of the kids, documented what gang they'd pledged and stopped a lot of garbage before it got started. They sent a lot of kids off to jail. I got to know the gang cops pretty well. Since I didn't have anything else better to do, I'd ride with them on most Friday and Saturday nights to see what happened. Sometimes stuff did indeed happen.

One Friday night, they were looking for three 14-year olds who had gotten ahold of a .45 caliber pistol and used it to hold up a liquor store. Because the cops knew where all of the little criminals hung out, they went right to the most obvious locations. I went with them. One location was a beat-to-hell house that was the residence of some jobless burn out. He was home, and said he hadn't seen his little 14-year old buddy all week. The cops searched the house anyway. In the kitchen pantry, they found a pile of clothes. The kitchen pantry isn't a place most people stuff their clothes. So one of the cops kicked the pile (Actually, now that I remember, it wasn't a cop who did the kicking. It was the father of one of the hoods who asked if he could go along and help find his son. He was high pissed that his child had held up a liquor store and didn't doubt that the child had done it. The cops were in awe of this father. They'd never met one like him before.) And there was a muffled "ouch" that came from under the clothes. Kid number one was caught.

Next they went to another falling down house closer to the big city. This was the house on the block where the "cool parents" lived --- in other words, they let any hooligan from the neighborhood drink and act foolish at their house as long as the cool parents were allowed to participate. We rolled up and the front yard was full of young punks having a big Friday night. It was at least one in the morning. The kids weren't surprised to see the cops and neither were the cool parents, who were sitting in lawn chairs. The parents said, no, of course they hadn't seen the two teenage robbers. Then one one of the partying kids discretely nodded towards the detached garage behind the house. By this time, the gang cops had been joined in their search by a bunch of patrol cops and a police helicopter which had a search light going over the neighborhood. The gang cops entered the garage with their guns drawn. I went in behind them with a note pad. And one of theses robbers was supposed to still have the .45.

There was a bunch of junk in the garage --- broken chairs, smashed televisions, greasy car parts. But the floor of the garage was covered in this gross molded carpet. I looked down and saw something odd. I told Bill, one of the gang cops, that the carpet in front of me seemed to be moving. He grabbed the carpet, pulled it back, and there were the two remaining robbers.

One of these kids was an astounding 6 foot 1 inches tall and weighed a good 180 --- huge for a 14 year old. Bill grabbed him by the back of the neck and put hand cuffs on him with his arms behind the kids back. And something happened next that I'll never be sure about. Bill lifted the kid up. And then he shoved him back to the ground really really hard. Since the kid had his arms cuffed behind him there was no way to break the fall. Bill looked over at me to see if I'd reacted. I didn't say a word. It's quite possible that what I saw was police brutality directed towards a juvenile. The kid was pretty much helpless when this happened but he didn't seem to be hurt. Bill said later that the kid had put his elbow into his stomach and Bill just reacted. I really wasn't sure what I'd seen so I didn't write about it. But I knew going in that it was a very charged up incident. And I might have done the same thing if I were Bill. Lots of what happens when police deal with criminals happens in a grey zone --- there's really no right or wrong, they just follow instinct.

I was glad I didn't choose the police line of profession.

Obscure Band of the Day: Champale

Champale, named after a particularly nasty sparkling Malt Liquor from the 1970's, is from New York, I think. I ran across them on someone's self-programmed internet radio station several years ago. Champale produces dreamy pop music without the sappy sheen. And they only have one album I know of called "Simple Days". This album was in the CD player of my car when I had my last date ever before I got involved the person who would become my wife. The album starts out strong, but reaches it's high point on the second track called "Motel California" an outstanding song that's features a Vibraphone --- a chiming sound you'll rarely hear in a rock song. The rest of the album is forgettable. I hope Champale is still around. They could be outstanding if they keep at it.

Obscure Band of the Day: Northside

Northside came out of the so-called "Madchester" scene in the late 80's Manchester, along with The Charlatans and The Happy Mondays. They had about half of the talent of their compatriates, but lots of enthusiasm. The one album I own by them is called "Chicken Rhythms". It was apparantly named that because of the quick, scratching noise the band made while playing their guitars. "Take Five" is probably their best song which starts off with a strong bass line and get's right to their jangly chicken scratching guitar work. The only other notable song they did on this release is "Funky Munky" which is pretty much a Happy Mondays cast off song meant to be heard while the listener is X-ing out of his or her mind.

Frustration Humor

Historically, I've always hated frustration humor. Frustration humor is the sort of comedy involving either a dumb or hapless character who chronically finds himself in awkward or compromising positions. A key element of frustration humor is that the audience can forsee the mayhem the character will walk into. And that element is what kills the humor for me. If the unfortunate situation that befalls the character is a surprise, I'll laugh. But if I can see it coming, and the character can't, my gut reaction is to scream at the character rather than laugh at them.

The queen of frustration humor was one Lucille Ball of "I Love Lucy". In her classic 1950's show, Lucy was a walking disaster who would screw everything up. And you knew this from the outset. I couldn't figure out why anyone, let alone husband Ricky, would love Lucy. Lucy was a troublemaker who'd launch into an irratating baby cry if she didn't get what she wanted. Her most assissine desire was to perform at the Ricky's club. Ricky, wisely would tell her no. Then she'd show up at the club anyway dressed as Carmen Miranda, would get on stage with a terrified look on her head as the fruit motif on her head started to fall apart. I get ill when I see the stupid bit when Lucy works in the chocolate factory and can't keep up with the conveyor belt. Lucy should have been banned from employment. In fact, she was probably the main reason that women were not a major part of the workforce in the United States in the 1950s. It was even worse in the late 60's and early when Lucy made a final run at frustration humor with the "Lucille Ball Show". She was too damn old for the brand of comedy. Get off the wobbly ladder Lucy, you're going to hurt yourself!

The new kings of frustration humor, in my estimation, are the Stillers --- son Ben and father Jerry. Jerry's role of George Costanza's father on Seinfeld was classic. But when George and Dad were on, it equalled double frustration humor. Both would get their signals crossed, there'd be lots of yelling, and I'd have to switch channels until the show refocused on Kramer and his pratfall humor (which I love). Son Ben has taken up the torch and has appeared in a string of frustration humor movies including the Meet the Family series and Along Came Polly and other movies about weird, whacky chicks. I guess I hate frustration humor most when it's placed in the family setting --- it's just tense enough being around your own family, why would it be funny to watch a hyper dysfunctional family scream at each other? But because Hollywood loves this formula, Ben Stiller will likely never be out of work.

Eating crappy cereal, watching crappy kids tv shows

I remember when I was a kid, I got really excited in September because that's when the networks rolled out the new Saturday morning kids shows. Most of them were lame Hanna Barbara cartoons that were poorly drawn and dealt heavily in frustration humor like "Hong Kong Phooey" (a stupid dog super hero that was supposed to solve crimes but was so dumb, the crimes always got solved by accident.)

But I liked the live action series better. For some reason, the shows I liked only lasted one season. Remember "Big John Little John?" It was one of those kid and adult switch places story lines starring Robbie Rist, the little John Denver look-a-like punk who was on the last season of the Brady Bunch as Cousin Oliver. How about "Shazam!" All I remember about that one was the Shazam guy was a teenager who'd say "Shazam" and would turn into a super hero. I seem to remember that he traveled around a lot in an RV with his uncle. I'd watch the hell out of "Isis" and "Electra Woman and Dyna Girl" and "Wonder Buggy" in which various transitional super heros and teens who turned a junked out dune buggy into a super car would solve crimes.

The most obscure of them all was "The Red Hand Gang". All I can remember about this show was a bunch of kids would gather in a wooden hide out that they'd marked with a red hand print. And, of course, they'd solve crimes. Kids just don't solve crimes like they used to.

If you want to drill the Red Hand Gang theme song into your skull, click here:
http://www.culttelly.co.uk/infousa.html

Resignation

FEMA Chief Michael Brown finally resigned. I'm sure it was so he could "spend more time with his family."

Lunchtime Minefield

I had a strategic plan for lunch today. There's a sort of trendy sandwich place a block up from my office that I've never been to. So I looked up their website and a review. But the review was really a story in the alternative Dallas weekly explaining why the place had just closed down. It seems that nobody wanted to eat there because it smelled. The trendy Mexican food place above them had a leaky grease trap system that flooded the trendy basement sandwich shop. So I had no choice but to take my trendy ass elsewhere.

Then I end up across the street at this pizza place. This place is a buy-the-slice joint that had a whole bunch of good lookin' pies layed out for customer perusal, along with a board listing all of the specials. But there were three less-than-sophisticated women and a small child ahead of me in line. The head less-sophisticated woman was asking the pizza girl a barrage of questions. "What's that pizza?" "Does that come with salad?" "What if I buy two slices of pizza?" Then she turns to her two friends for a round of deep consultation, as if they were contemplating the purchase of the Hope diamond. Finally, one of them turned around, after about 5 minutes had passed, and says "Uh, you can go ahead." Thanks. By the time I sat down with my food, a long with about four other customers who bypassed the log jam, the ladies were still there and had moved no further. Finally they gave up and left. The proposed pizza purchase was that complicated.

Then I sat down and ate. I did this quickly because the restaurant's ambiant music was a "hits from the 80's" radio station. When is this format going to be officially played out? I dealt with George Michaels' "Faith" and Falco's "Rock Me Ammadeus" and Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven On Earth" before getting the hell out. But maybe that was all part of the plan for the pizza shop owner. Beat 'em down with 80's hits so the tables turn over quicker.

Sunday Stupor

From September until January, I spend nearly every waking moment on Sunday in the smallest room in our house. It's sort of a television room off the master bedroom. And I watch a stupid amount of football in this room. Originally, it was the sleeping porch for the house --- the best place to catch a breeze in the days before air conditioning as this room has windows on three walls. Now it's dedicated to the professional football industry.

I've found that you don't have to have a big television to watch football. You can get the same effect from a 13 inch set if you sit close enough to it.

Crime Story #1

Warning: The following tale is from my crime reporting days. It's kind of gross. If you're squeamish or easily upset by the evil that man does, don't read any further.

In 1991, I became a crime reporter for a major North Texas newspaper. It's not really a beat that I wanted. I'm not blood thirsty by nature. I started out by filling in for someone else. I grew to like writing about crime. The experience taught me much about human nature and how to write and report quickly and instictively. I became a very good crime reporter. And ultimately, I learned that I couldn't take being a crime reporter for the rest of my life.

The job started off early. I had to be in the office by 5:30 a.m. Back then, the newspaper had both and afternoon and a morning edition. And the deadline for the afternoon paper was 11 a.m. So I had to run the traps at the police department and find out what happened the night before, talk to who I needed to talk to and get something in for the afternoon paper. Most of the time, I'd sit by my desk in the police department, read police reports and listen to the police radio in hopes of finding something to write about.

One morning I heard on the radio that the fire department was at a house fire. And they called out "signal 12". That was code meaning that someone was dead. So I grabbed a brick-like early 1990's cell phone and jumped in my car and headed to East Magnolia Street where the burned house was. This was a street that dead ended into some railroad tracks. All of the homes on this street were old shotgun houses. They're called this because if you fire a shotgun through the front door, it would hit the back door because all of the rooms in the house were in a row.

When I arrived, the firefighters were busy. They'd put out a smoldering fire in the front room of one of the shotgun houses. And I could see that there was a dead man in the front room. He was laying on his back, his body badly burned and it looked like his chest had caved in. I had no idea that fire would do that to someone. It pretty unsettling discovery for that early in the morning.

So I shook that off and started asking all of the people who had gathered around what had happened. One man told me that a 14-year-old boy named Julius had seen the fire and had tried to help save the man. So I found Julius and talked to him. Julius said he was out walking his dog shortly before dawn and saw smoke coming from the house. He said the man was on fire. So he grabbed some pillows off the man's bed and put out the fire on the man's burning body. But the man died anyway he said.

I call my editor and dictate what the boy told me. He loved it. Boy tries valiantly to save man but man succumbs to flames.

After I'd called in the story, all of the firemen left and the homicide cops showed up. That seemed strange. Why would they be there?

Then some aspects about Julius' story started to bother me. But I had to get back to the police station to make some more phone calls on another story.

When I arrived I saw that one of the homicide cops was standing in the lobby of the station. Right next to him was Julius. Here was my chance to ask Julius some more questions. I asked the cop if I could talk to Julius. He says sure.

"So Julius. When you went to the front door of the man's house, was it locked?"

"Yeah, it was locked."

"And when you approached the house, the man was on fire?"

"Yeah, he was."

"So this man went to his front door, unlocked it, let you in while he was on fire?

"Yeah."

The homicide officer told me Julius was being arrested for homicide.

It turns out that the man was 58 years old and was an invalid. Julius had wanted a jar of nickels the man had. The man told him no. So Julius beat him with a wooden stake, stabbed him, and then set his body on fire.

Because of his age, Julius was committed to a juvenile facility where he'd have to stay until he was 21 years old.

Julius would be 28 years old today.

Too Old For This

Is there anything more childish than fantasy football? The answer is no. And that makes me a complete infant.

Last night, I participated in my 13th straight fantasy football draft. In 1993, when I had nothing else better to do, I joined a league that was formed by a bunch of police officers in the Fort Worth area. And I've stuck with these guys every single year since then. It's fun to see them every year. It's sort of like stepping back into time when I show up on draft day. I'm reminded of the days when I was an apartment dweller, had an exciting but poorly paid position at a daily newspaper and spent many nights out way past my bed time drinking whiskey with cops who were the source of many good stories --- publishable and non-publishable.

The guys in the league are largely unchanged from 1993. Some have moved, a couple got kicked out, some left after petty arguments (guys fight about the stupidest stuff, like who gets to play short stop on the D division softball team and who gets to pick up Ben Rothlesburger on their fantasy team.) But the guys left in the league are the best of the bunch --- hard working blue collar types who put on a gun and a badge everyday and keep us safe. But they're still a bunch of babies "I told you not to take Daunte Culpepper!", kind of like me.

This Is My Private Life, These Are My Private Things

The sink in my bathroom is so old that the hot and cold water come out of seperate faucets. I only turn on the hot water because it takes so long time for the water to get hot that by the time I'm done brushing my teeth the water is just warm enough to wash my face.

I've used this sink every day for two years. It's as if this sink was made just for me. I forget that countless people have used this sink since it was first installed in 1929.

The Legend Passes

Gilligan's dead.

I remember when The Skipper, Alan Hale, died. I was in my last year at UT in 1989. Back then, the Skipper and Gilligan were a daily part of my life --- and Dave and Rob's too, and not because we watched too many reruns. Whenever some calamity happened in our lives, our automatic reaction was the one syllabal exclamation: "Buuuup!" That was the sound The Skipper made when Gilligan bumped into him. And we all said it when The Skipper died. It was our tribute to two TV characters who made us laugh.

I don't say "Buuup!" as much as I used to, even though my life is still full of calamity. However, it was the first thing I'd say every time I'd read that Gilligan had been busted for marijuana possession again.

Rest in peace little buddy.

Where the Hell is Dave?

I met Dave Howard at Dallas' Richland College in my first journalism class ever in 1985. I thought Dave was cool because he liked new wave music a lot. Dave was more than happy to share his knowlege of all things new wave with me. That year he introduced me to not only to new wave dance music such as Belouis Some, but also to Rob, who's been my friend ever since. Rob and Dave had been friends since high school. They also bonded over new wave music --- two of the only 1985 graduates of Plano Senior High School who can legitimately claim they were fans of new wave music when it was actually new.

Dave went to London before me to study for a semester in 1986. And he came back looking just like Belouis Some, who's single "Imagination" hit number 17 in the UK while Dave was there. Dave had very blonde hair and developed a fondness for black clothing and leather jackets. And I believe at one point he told me he'd like to become more like the obscure Belouis Some if possible.

Dave went to tranfered down to UT in Austin shortly after I did. And his hair got even blonder as he moved further south. I spent a lot of time with Dave and Rob, who'd also moved to Austin. But getting Dave to show up for our shared foolishness was always a problem. Rob and I continually found ourselves waiting on Dave to show up. About half the time he eventually would. The other half of the time, he'd have some excuse --- a biking event that took up all of his time or his girlfriend of the moment would "kidnap" him, making it virtually impossible for him to see his friends. "Where the Hell is Dave?" got asked by Rob and I more times than I could count.

I stayed in touch with Dave long after college. We lived in the same hellish Tarrant County suburb for a while. Then I moved to Dallas and didn't see much of Dave anymore. I haven't talked to him since 1997 and have no idea where he is now.

I heard Belouis Some's "Imagination" on XM radio yesterday. And it made me wonder "Where the Hell Is Dave?" and if he still looks like his idol.

Me and Jesus, Down by the School Yard

Brand New Haircut

I got some tragic news before I left town. My neighborhood barber shop closed --- for good. And I didn't have time to find a new place before I left for the weekend.

I'm the kind of guy that likes his barber shop old school. I want an old guy in a white smock to cut my hair, I don't want a chick sitting next to me getting a perm, and I want to read 6-year-old copies of Field & Stream while I wait. They're aren't many barber shops like this left in Dallas. But Hot Springs seems to have plenty. I picked one out of the phone book and walked a brisk 20 blocks from my hotel to Kilbey's Barber Shop on Central Avenue.

Mr. Kilbey, a spry 81-year old man, cut my hair. He wore a white smock and knew how to use a straight razor. He spent a good 40 minutes cutting my hair which has to be some kind of new record. The reason it took so long was because Mr. Kilbey was regailing me with stories about the time he spent in the Navy during WWII while cutting my hair. Mr. Kilbey's job during the war was setting up torpedos which were attached to bomber planes. And he was stationed some place called the Admirality Islands which is off the coast of the Phillipines. He told me what it was like to watch a torpedo bomber explode. And he said at night, he and his buddies never missed the sunsets on the islands. "It was a damn shame. Such pretty sunsets and not a girl in 100 miles to enjoy them with."

This is probably the best hair cut I've ever recieved.

Now Less Shady

I decided to walk way way down the main strip of Hot Springs' downtown area to a part of town that isn't advertized in the chamber of commerce brochures.

This storefront is some sort of weird massage parlor/adult bookstore/bar situation. From the look of it, this place is now safer and friendlier, if not a little short on wait staff. But the real hook to this establishment is that now they have "fewer drugs."

Gay Antique Road Show

I love my neighbors Rick and Mike. They are two of the most generous positive people you'll ever meet. Just don't go antique shopping with them because it gets ugly quick.

During the trip, Rick and Mike nearly came to blows over whether to buy a huge antique buffet at a Hot Springs antique shop. Mike insisted it was a steal at $1,100, was likely made in the late 1700's and was actually worth about $15,000. Rick's response was "where are we going to put that thing? We already have two buffets." Rick's reasoning eventually won out, but he paid for it for the rest of the day as Mike consistently reminded him that they'd just passed on the antique equivalent of the holy grail.

Massage Humor

Hot Springs bath houses are just like they were in the 1920's. For a nominal cost you can get the full treatment which includes sitting in your own huge tub full of natural mineral water which come fresh from the underground at a near boiling 145 degrees, taking a steam bath in one of those old metal boxes that you sit in while your head sticks out, and getting a massage.

I started to get the giggles during my massage. As the guy was rubbing my back, I remembered the stupid altered GI Joe video you can find on the internet where one of the character says "Who Wants a Body Massage?" for no reason at all. Lucky for me, I was face down and my head was planted into the hole of the massage table so I didn't have to explain to the 60-year-old man why I was laughing.

Welcome to Hot Springs

I spent labor day in the surprisingly pleasant and not so surprisingly white trash, Hot Springs Arkansas.

One side of downtown Hot Springs is dominated by about seven bathhouses, which were all built around the turn of the century. All of the bathhouses are very attractive buildings that are maintained by the national parks service. The other side of the street is a different story. All are very nice Victorian era window shops. It's what inside them that is kind of sad. NASCAR, Get 'Er Done paraphenalia, camoflauge items and, for some reason, swords are big sellers this town.

Squirrel Attack

Squirrels are cute little bastards until they get into your attic. Then they're just bastards.

When I was in Colorado earlier this year, a windstorm pulled down the t.v. cable line to our house. I came back home to moderate house disaster. Some idiot cable guy had anchored the cable to a siding board underneath the roof, which should be the first rule they teach you at cable guy school --- don't attach cable to siding board under the roof. The board, which measure 13 feet long, came off side of the house with the cable. And, of course, it's on the second story. Before I could replace it, a band of squirrels decide to use the opening to get into my attic. And guess what? Squirrels like to run around at night, keep you awake and chew on your electrical lines until your house catches on fire. So I put up the replacement board one day, thinking the squirrels were out having lunch. I ended up trapping some inside. I heard them scratching for their lives. But the little a-holes just chewed through the board, making a squirrel sized hole, and got out. Then they laughed at me.

I called an independent pest control guy --- one of the only ones who deals with squirrels --- and he quoted me $500 to deal with the squirrels completely meaning he'd trap and remove as many squirrels as it took and release them into the wild until they were gone. Or I could pay him $90 bucks for every squirrel he hauled a way. I went for the whole package. This guy hauled away about 25 squirrels over the course of four months. I got the better end of this deal.

This one got trapped on my fence line. I hope he choked on somebody else's roof siding board.

Rings

Karen and I wear a piece of New Orleans on our fingers every day. In fact, we haven't taken them off since Oct. 25, 2003, when we got married.

I bought our wedding bands at Hoover's vintage watches and jewels at 301 Royal Street in the French Quarter. I was there in June of 2003 to cover an argument at the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. Royal Street is where most of the antique shops are in the French Quarter. And Hoover's was the first place I walked into. I spotted both of the rings but waited to buy them. I'm an irritating consummate shopper, so I had to go down the whole length of Royal to see if there was anything better. There wasn't. I went back to Hoover's, made the deal with owner Stacy Hoover, and I considered it to be fate. I picked them up after attending the argument at the 5th Circuit. And I had them in my pocket while I was drinking Dixie beer at the Acme Oyster Bar in the Quarter. A criminal defense attorney that Karen I both know walked into the bar after finishing up arguing at the 5th Circuit. He saw Karen's wedding band before she did.

Karen's engagement ring, which is not pictured, is a really cool 1925 white gold ring with a inset diamond that's offset by two inset sapphires. I got it at another vintage shop way before the wedding band purchase. Karen says I nailed the wedding band purchase --- her rings match perfectly.

My wedding band was made in 1937, has a bunch of filigree on it, and somebody's initials inscribed in it.

I wonder what happened to Hoover's. It kind of makes me ill to think some looters are carrying off their merchandise --- stuff that could never mean as much to the thieves as the purchase I made in the shop.

What's Next?

Will the next horrific twist for New Orleans will be that bands of gay rogue looters start scouring the Garden District, stripping the area of its antiques?

"Lance! Help me pull these 1899 beautiful Victorian brass sconces off this wall!"

Don't laugh. It could happen. As we've seen, anything can happen.