Rock Nightmare

Last night, I dreamt that I was at a small club where Pearl Jam was playing. The show was not advertised because the band was attempting to launch a new sound on a very limited and discriminating audience. I'm not sure how limited and discriminating the audience was because I was there . . . along with McCauley Culkin.

On comes Pearl Jam. And they launch into "The Rainbow" which is the first song on the 1988's masterpiece album "The Spirit of Eden" by Talk Talk. Stone Gossard is absolutely ruining the guitar part of the song, which goes on for awhile before the words start. It's so bad that I have to leave the club before Eddie Vedder starts in with his over-singing. I do not want to become a witness to the full-blown aggravated assault that's being perpetrated on one of my favorite songs.

I wait a safe amount of time before re-entering the club and the band has ended. Then I take my picture with Pearl Jam and McCauley Culkin.

This dream must have had some meaning. Confronting fears? I dunno. I am frightened both by overblown bad American rock bands and freaky aging former child actors --- except for Chachi.

Curious Grill

I love watching all of the damage Josh Howard has been dishing out during the playoffs. But am I the only person who's distracted by his mouthguard? Look at it tonight during Game 4 of Mavericks/Suns. He sports a fancy customized Mavs blue/green guard. But in the center of the guard is a white strip. And the strip is roughly the size of a tooth. So when Josh opens his mouth, he looks very much like a big one-year-old baby with a snaggle tooth right in the center of his head.

Memorial Day Near Chaos

Over the weekend, I fired up the gas grill for the 289th time. I am not a holiday-only griller. Oh no. I'll grill when it's snowing outside. But the trouble with this habit is after a good year of grillling, you start to wonder exactly how much gas is left in the tank. Half full, half empty --- ah, screw it, this grill works mostly on magic anyway.

So we had the neighbors over for hamburgers. And I went to the grill for the 289th time knowing it had been a good year since the gas cylinder had been replaced. I layed out six burgers and commensed the grilling process. Fifteen minutes later, I had six perfectly grilled burgers and a completely spent cylinder. The gas grill gods smiled on me. But there's a lesson in here somewhere for the much appreciated gas grill manufacturers of America. Please put a gas gauge on future grills. This simple gesture may prevent future Memorial Day chaos.

Bathroom Floor

Upstairs bathroom floor, Gaston Avenue, 5:47 p.m, Sunday May 28, 2006.

A Question From a Reader

I've been called out about the source of my so-called Chachi fascination. "What gives john_clarke?" a reader asks.

This is such a such metaphysical question. But I will attempt to enlight you, the dear reader.

There are many facets to Chachi. He's the everyman. He's a trendsetter. And he's the pride of the entire Arcola family.

How did he get this way? Let us document his development.

1. Chachi comes up from the streets as a torn-jeans vest wearing tough. He has instant cred because he's the Fonz's cousin.

2. He pioneers the bandana-tied-around-the-leg look.

3. He puts out an album.

4. Joanie loves him and he pretends to love her back.

5. He stars in Zapped! an unheralded teen comedy that inspires a generation of filmmakers to produce straight-to-video movies.

6. He's so incredibly in charge as Charles.

7. He caps off a career by appearing on dozens of VH1 and E! Channel "what ever happened to?" shows where he nonchalantly recounts every starlet notch on his bedpost.

It's such an inspirational story. And that is why I have devoted my life to developing, understanding and nurturing my inner Chachi.

Wasting Time in the Summertime

When I was elementary school, most of my summer vacation was wasted watching terrible television game shows. The $74,000 Pyramid and the long-running Price Is Right were much more compelling back then than playing baseball with my friends outside in the 104 degree Texas afternoons.

In my esteemed estimation as a 3rd grader, the best afternoon game show ever was the highly unstable and bizarre "The Magnificent Marble Machine".

This show attempted to cash in on the mid-1970s pinball machine craze, which probably seemed like a great idea at the time. I mean, it would have been hard to make a game show out of other 70's phenomenons like skateboarding or disco (wait, they almost did that with Solid Gold and Dance Fever.) So a celebrity, usually some real struggler like Artie Johnson or the pre-red carpet Joan Rivers, would be matched with a contestant as a team against another celebrity/contestant team. They had to answer a bunch of trivia questions and the first team who got five questions right got a chance to play this massive pinball machine. One contestant played one flipper and the celeb was on the other. They won money and prizes depending on how long the ball stayed active. As a kid who put tons of quarters into pinball machines in 1976, I loved this stupid show. I mean, it was comforting to learn that Nipsey Russell was just as bad at pinball as me. And I was only in the 3rd grade.

I read somewhere that this show is considered to be one of the biggest game show flops ever. Back then NBC used to switch up the game show sets every day --- Matchgame would be filmed on Tuesday, Family Feud would be filmed on Wednesday and so on. The problem with the Marble Machine was that it couldn't be moved --- they tried once and it broke. So they just left it there on the set and filmed a whole season worth of shows in a couple of weeks. Needless to say, NBC didn't reup Marble Machine for a second season.

john_clarke loves Chachi

Please, if you ever see this item available for bid on Ebay, let me know. Please. I am willing to part with so much cabbage for this.

Scoreboard

Which washed-up sitcom hack has had Nicolette Sheridan, Heather Locklear and Pam Anderson?




If you guessed Chachi, you'd be right.

No Sympathy Here

Bill's Records is a North Dallas indie record store --- an institution if you will --- where I spent way too much money as a kid. It will soon be relocating to a smaller, cheaper and more out-of-the-way location. Part of the reason the business is downsizing is because it doesn't make as much money as it used to. Bill, the 62-year-old owner, lamented in an article in the local newspaper that in the age of the internet, people just don't visit his store. He's got three warehouses full of valuable records and music memorabilia, and he doesn't know what the future holds.

Well boo-hoo Bill.

First of all, I haven't bought anything from Bill since the day in 1991 when I went to his front counter with vinyl copy of Wire's "A Bell Is A Cup Before It's Struck." Bill long had a policy of not pricing any of his products. He seemingly asked what he thought you'd pay. In his gruff, cigarette voice, Bill picked up the album, looked at it, and issued a line that seemed well worn: "That record is out of print. That'll be 30 dollars."

30 dollars?

For starters, even in 1991, nobody had record players. Only music nerds like me owned record players. Vinyl records --- unless they were an original release Beatles album on the Apple label --- were worth nothing. Sure the vinyl was out of print, that's what happens to stuff that nobody buys. I told Bill as much, left the Wire album on the counter, and walked out. I didn't return to his shop until my buddy Rob started working there in the late 1990's. And even then, I never bought anything from Bill.

So Bill is all teary about his business drying up --- the internet took it all away. Sadly, if Bill had fully embraced the internet about 8 years ago like the rest of the modern world, he'd be making as much or more money than he did in 1991 when he was attempting to profiteer off music geeks like me. I guarantee that there is some kid right now in Osaka, Japan surfing the internet looking for a promotional Kiss Rock and Roll Over album poster that Bill probably has stuffed away in a corner somewhere. The Japanese kid would pay $300 for the poster, but that's money Bill likely will never see.

Oh but Bill does have a website. In fact he's had one for quite some time. I just visited it. Most of his site seems to be dedicated to his official man-crush, Ben Harper, with photos of Ben in Bill's store and gifts Ben has given Bill. Great. So I punch the online store link on his web page. Ooops. That line is currently broken. For crying out loud.

Give me Bill's three warehouses of stuff, a group of people to document and catalog the inventory, a decent website and a Paypal account, and I'd make Google dividends.

Gassy

Here's the new PR defensive from big oil makers. I am not making this up.

"Uh, we can't reduce gas prices now. If we did, there would be a run on the pump and our supply would drop to an all time low."

This may be the stupidest talking point I've heard yet. So people, who generally own vehicles that hold 15 to 20 gallons of gas, will somehow buy 25 to 30 gallons because the prices drop one dollar per gallon? Simple 3rd grade math debunks this argument real quick.

It's almost as stupid as Exxon's CEOs statement that the reason they made record profits --- billions upon billions of dollars more than they'd ever made --- was because demand was up in the face of more expensive crude. They just had to charge more. Hey asshole, if the product really costs more for you to produce, how come you're making such an obscene profit?

Keep on insulting our intellegence. See what happens when the gas buying peasants revolt and toss out the legions of politicians who've been protecting your back side for the last decade. Price controls may just be around the corner. Have a nice stockholder meeting.

Fun With Urology

During my waning days living in Austin, a colleague told me with a straight face that there was a urologist in town named Dick Chop. I laughed, but was pretty sure my co-worker was jerking me around.

Then about eight months later, I got a painful-as-hell bladder infection. This was no laughing matter. But I decided to turn it into one by looking up to see if there really was a Dr. Dick Chop who could help me with my excruciating problem. Sure enough, listed in the Yellow Pages among Austin's medical specialists was one Richard Chop.

I called for an appointment. But Dr. Chop was all booked up --- way longer than my infected bladder could stand. So I eventually located a doctor with a less humorous name who cured me.

Speaking of Big Fat White Guys

Is there any doubt that the new book by unstable pro-golfer John Daly will be huge? He's tragic, but people seem to love him because of his flaws. Booze, eating, gambling are three of his biggest weaknesses, but we love to read about his exploits including the recent admission that he's lost $3.8 million at casinos.

I love reading about his bizzare home life. Several years ago, some men's magazine --- Details maybe --- did a piece about what it's like to live at Big John's house in Arkansas. He's led the life of the common trailer park dweller, except his ability to hit a golf ball 300 yards upped his life style ante considerably. But you could tell that money hadn't changed him all that much --- he'd be wheels off with or without lots of cash. And he's funny, whether or not he realizes it. Back then, his late mother still lived either with or near him. "MamaLou" would cook him breakfast every morning. My favorite quote from Daly in the story had something to do with him bragging to the reporter about MamaLou's cooking. He said: "MamaLou, fix this boy some chocolate gravy!"

Big Fat White Opinion

An interesting sidelight to the immigration reform debate is something I like to call spot the big fat white guy. My theory is that the big fat white guys who live in neighborhoods full of other big fat white guys are the most rabid about proclaiming: "We must protect our borders!" The next time someone says that, see if the phrase is attached to a big fat white guy. It's fun.

On Russert this morning, he had two Republican white guys on to debate immigration reform. On the moderate side was Lindsay Graham, R-South Carolina. Graham is also a man of moderate girth. He thinks making border jumping a felony is ridiculous and tossing 11 million hard working immigrants out of the U.S. is insane. I also think that Graham --- much like the president --- realizes that to stay in power, Republicans have to continue picking up the growing Hispanic vote in Texas and California or they're toast.

On the other side was Charlie Norwood, R-Georgia, a proud big fat white guy. Of course "We must protect our borders!" was practically the first thing out of his mouth. Norwood believes that border jumping is a violent act akin to robbing a bank. He says the people of Georgia want a sealed border and lots of fences. Curiously, the last time I checked a U.S. map, Georgia is bordered by Florida to the south, the Atlantic ocean to the east, North & South Carolina to the north and Alabama to the west. In other words, the fine folks of Georgia don't have much stake in the immigration debate. If their neighbors all decided to move into their state, it would only result in Norwood's district becoming bigger, fatter and whiter --- just like he likes it.

My home state Texas is famously close to the border. And we're home to a whole lot of big fat white buys. But immigration is changing that rapidly. I live in a neighborhood that's largely Hispanic. I shop, do business with and enjoy the company of the Hispanic. And I think that if I was born 1,500 miles south of Dallas and could only earn $5 a day, I'd probably put on a backpack and walk across the desert to get to Texas so I could earn enough money to eat. And I'd probably live in a neighborhood that had food, music and attitudes that I was comfortable with. And immigration has done something wonderful to Texas. These days, you only have to live next door to the big fat white guy if you want to.

So that's why immigration reform worries me. What would it be like if I woke up tomorrow and East Dallas was more chicken-fried, Toby Keith-lovin', and hyper nationalistic?

God Bless Texas and the Hispanic.

Wanted: Muffin Boy

The FBI is currently on the hunt for "Muffin Boy" --- a kid who brought some pot muffins to a Dallas high school and left them in the teacher's lounge. They released a video of the culprit to local news stations to assist with his capture. And just like the effects of the illicit muffins, the story itself makes me giggle.

What is it about free food? Anyone who works in a office knows this simple fact: if you bring any kind of left over food product to work --- no matter how disgusting --- and offer it for public consumption, people will devour the food within a matter of minutes. At my office, I could bring in a bag of dung cupcakes, set them on a table, and they'd be gone practically before I left the break room.

So, of course, it's really easy to believe that 19 teachers scarfed down the muffins. What's a little harder to believe is that, according to news reports, all of the teachers became "sick." Nevertheless, the city health department got involved.

"According to physician reports and patient interviews, patient symptoms are consistent with acute marijuana toxicity," said Dr. John Carlo, the health department's medical director. "Additionally, several of these patients have tested positive on urine drug screens for cannabinoids."

Umm, could we be a little more precise in this reporting? Say what really happened. 19 teachers got high --- really really high.

Frightening the Locals

The Jumbotron focused on this idiot in the crowd briefly, not because he was rowdy and crazy, but just for the sake of ridicule.

157

Holy crap! 157 dollars!

Game On

My good wife Karen knows about lots of stuff. But sports is not her department. In fact, the last sporting event --- televised or otherwise --- she watched occured when I forced her to watch the final four minutes of our alma matar's victory over USC. She's thanked me for making her watch as it may have been a top ten moment ever in the history of organized football.

So about an hour ago, I get this call:

Good Karen: "Hey. I just got offered two Maverick tickets. I'm not sure if we should go?"

john_clarke: "Are you kidding? That's game four of a playoff series! We want to go!"

Good Karen: "Who are they playing?"

john_clarke: "The San Antonio Spurs. You know the world champion San Antonio Spurs? We want to go!"

Good Karen: "Well . . . . ."

I explained to her the significance of this game in mathmatic terms --- NBA playoffs series can go to seven games, Dallas has already won two, they've been strong against the Spurs, all of which was like talking to a fish about shoes.

Finally, she was lobbied by another person who is not me to go.

And that, my friends, is how Good Karen and myself will themselves watching the best sports franchise in Dallas get just a little bit closer to an NBA Championship.

And who knows --- maybe, just maybe, tonight's experience may be so revolutionary that the Good Karen's television viewing habits are forever shaken, so much that Sex in the City reruns are abandoned for backboard shattering matchups of NBA powerhouses.

Um, fish, shoes. Scratch that.

At least it's a good night out with the lovely Good Karen.

Will Hollywood Ever Get It?

Another weekend passes, another weekend I didn't go out to the movies. Why? Because it's blockbuster season. The bullshit that Hollywood cranks out this time of year is geared towards the lowest common denominator --- read, not me. I might actually see the overhyped Da Vinci Code, even though I haven't read the book, for only one reason --- it's a movie that hasn't been made before.

The Poseidon Adventure tanked over the weekend. You know why? That movie was already made in 1972 and it wasn't that great then, unless you like Shelly Winters and campyness.

Mission Impossible 3 receipts are sucking bad for a supposed blockbuster. You want to know why? Not only are people tired of Tom Cruise's story, they've already seen two Mission Impossibles.

So here is the secret to big box office --- and I'm only telling you this once. Repeating prior sucesses is no longer a viable strategy. Slapping a II or XVII at the end of the movie's title means failure. The same will happen with movies that rip off an old T.V. series or film.

Get an original screenplay, film it and watch the dollars roll in.

I should be a Hollywood executive.

Vanishing Chill

If you find yourself thristy for cocktails on the very last evening of the year when there's a chill in the air, the best place to be in Dallas is near an outdoor fire pit at Lee Harvey's.

Audio Tapes

When I was in the seventh grade, I had one of those massive tape recorders that I used to record funny stuff on T.V. with. This was way before anyone on my block owned a VCR because they cost about $2,000 at the time.

One thing I recorded, and listened to over and over again, was a Saturday Night Live from around 1980 that Steve Martin hosted. His monologue was brilliant. I think all he did was state things that he believed in. I still remember a bunch of the lines, such as:

"And I believe in the family, Mom and Dad and Grandma.. and Uncle Tom, who waves his penis."

"And I believe 8 of the 10 Commandments."

"And I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, wholesome and natural things.. that money can buy."

"And I believe I made a mistake when I bought a 30-story 1-bedroom apartment."

"And I believe the Battle of the Network Stars should be fought with guns."

I miss the old Steve Martin.

Man On The Run

Usually, when someone bangs on your door at 4:21 a.m. on Gaston Avenue, it's not going to be somebody you want to see. And unless you want to get jacked, you'd better not open the door until you've peeked outside and assessed that it's a person you know.

So when a loud banging on the front door woke me from a deep sleep this morning, I didn't even consider opening the door until I saw that there was a police squad car in my driveway. The police helicopter flying over our house was also a tipoff that the law had a genuine reason to be getting us out of bed.

I opened the door and a cop says: "There's a guy running from us and we think he might be in your back yard. He's got a gun. Can we look?"

Sure you can.

Three cops poked around our back yard for a while and found nothing but dog poop, which unfortunately one of them stepped in.

Then they left our house dejected. "We've been at this since 2 p.m."

I Fear White People

There's a crime trend story in my local newspaper that I like to refer to as a "no shit news flash."

The story explores the fact that property crime is exploding in the commuter suburbs north of Dallas. They interviewed some real criminals about the trend --- which is actually sort of refreshing because most crime stories rely on cops and "experts" for sources. A couple of the burglary convicts told the reporter that the reason they traveled from miles away to rip off homes in 'burbs was because that's where all the stuff is. The story was supposed to dispell the notion that most criminals do property crimes in the neighborhoods in which they live. Sure, the lazy ones do that. But it doesn't matter where you live, crime can happen, especially if you've got a lot of stuff. No shit.

One of the most interesting things the article showed was that most of the burglars arrested in the 'burbs for releaving homes of their DVD players and golf clubs were white guys. That dispells the notion that lots of suburbanites have that if they live in a neighborhood with people who's skin color is the same as theirs, that crime will be lower. Wrong. Leave your garage door open all of the time and your $1,800 laptop in the front seat of your unlocked car and you're going to get burgled. Fear the white man if you must. But fear your own stupidity more for leaving garage doors open and expensive items in plain veiw for criminals of all races to rip off.

Baby Crap

Today at work, we had the obligatory office baby shower for a guy who's wife is due pretty soon. I like this coworker, so I joined the gathering in the conference room for the pot-luck lunch. Because I was seated in a corner, there was no way to gracefully escape the gift opening portion of this show. So I watched as my male co-worker had to comment on all of the gifts he and his pregnant wife recieved from the office (I pitched in some money for some unknown Baby's R Us product.)

And while the co-worker was doing his best attempt to contain himself over the excitement of being gifted with a Tigger onesy, I imagined how I'd handle being the center of attention at an event like this. It would probably go something like this:

"Uh, thanks for the Diaper Genie guys. I sure glad I now have a can to store a week's worth of shit."

Dreams of Friends Past

Last night, I dreamt that I was driving my old 1987 Mustang GT. Of all 11 Mustangs I've owned, it was probably my favorite for one reason --- longevity. I drove it for over nine years and put nearly 200,000 miles on it. It took me to Colorado and back at least 25 times ---- a nice 2,000 mile round trip for each journey. And because it had a gas saving five-speed transmission and I resisted putting all kinds of boy racer speed equipment on it, it could make the Dallas to Denver trip on an amazing two tanks of gas. The white paint still shined, the interior was comfortable and clean, and the car rarely needed repairs, only routine maintenance.

I'd still be driving that car if it weren't for a few inconveniences. The worst thing about driving that car --- especially across country --- was that it had no cruise control. By the time I crossed the Texas border, my left foot was always worn out. Then there was the fact that the car had a habit of conking out when I drove it in the mountains. Its computer just couldn't adjust to altitudes about 9,000 feet, which was a real problem for someone who likes to hike and ski in the Rockies. But really, I could deal with those things. However, I finally decided that driving a car that didn't come with airbags or anti-lock brakes was just stupid. I liked the car. But I loved breathing more.

So now I just drive my shiny white 1987 Mustang in my dreams.

Quick Change

While waiting for a train in Eindhoven, Will decided that 40 degree weather was too cold to be wearing shorts. So he dropped his pants right there on the train platform in full view of the good people of Holland and slipped into something warmer.

"Nobody knows me here."

Heaven

There are probably ten meals I've eaten during my lifetime that were so remarkable, I'll never forget them. This plate of banana pancakes at The Caroselle in Amsterdam was one of those meals.

Hair Metal, Meet Pop Punk

So Fall Out Boy's latest release went double platinum. Seems like emo, pop punk, screamers are selling like bottled water. Tours with Hawthorne Heights and All American Rejects are instant sellouts among girls who just graduated from loving boy bands. Here's my question --- can any of these bands produce a single guitar hook between them?

Predictable America

This morning, The Today Show had a feature on what an average American family was doing to fit the $3.00 gallon of gas into their budget. They featured parents with two kids who live in a newer McMansion in the suburbs, with an executive dad who works in the city. They were doing things like mapping out their daily errands to make one trip, cutting coupons to save money, and Dad would call Mom from the road and she'd advise him where the cheapest gas in town was through an internet search. Of course, the Today Show reporter never mentioned the obvious --- the primary vehicle the family owns is a four-door Ford Explorer SUV which gets a combined 17 MPG in city and highway driving.

Bitch about gas prices, oil companies making record profits and extortion all you want, but we're part of the problem. Every other car on the road is an SUV. You want gas prices to drop? Don't use so much fucking gas. It's called supply and demand.