Rock & Roll Wingwoman

About six years ago my friend Cheryl left for Austin. After enduring a tragic sequence of events, she's returned to the Dallas area. And this could not be more glorious for me because Cheryl is my longstanding rock & roll wingwoman. For years, she's been the one person who's always been willing to stave off sleep to make the journey into some of Dallas' most questionable clubs to see music.

When Cheryl came back, I had to brace her for all of the changes that had occured in small Dallas rock venues. Several of the venues have closed, most notably Trees and The Gypsy Tea Room. But the most disturbing change in Dallas music has been the horrible deterioration of the manners of its patrons. I'm referring to the assholes who are willing pay 25 bucks to see a show, but don't want to hear it, because they won't shut the fuck up. This happens at nearly every show I attend these days.

So Cheryl and I went to see Todd Snider last night at the Sons of Hermann Hall --- one of Dallas' coolest and oldest venues known for it's respectful patrons. But these days, even the Sons of Hermann is no longer safe, as Cheryl saw first hand. Todd Snider does a sort of renagade folk act in which his stage banter is as important as the songs he sings. He'll tell you a Mitch Hedberg like-story and then rip right into some equally absurd and funny song. Listening to every word of his show is important --- if you don't, something hysterical might slip by.

A group of three guys and one girl are standing next to Cheryl and I. And they're the ones --- the Dallas assholes of the evening who regard Snider's act as nothing more than a soundtrack to a really uninteresting documentary film featuring them and their banal lives. I stare directly at them with my patented "what in the name in all that's holy do you think you're doing?" look. They ignore it and keep talking. So Cheryl steps up to the plate with this direct confrontation.

Cheryl:"Excuse me. Could you talk a little louder? I can't hear your conversation over all this live music."

Male Dallas asshole: "Oh you can't? That's funny."

Cheryl: "I wasn't being funny. Shut up."

After mumbling for a bit, they shut up. It was beautiful.

God, I'm glad Cheryl is back.

Gooster!

My buddy Dan posseses the magical ability to shoot the wheels off a musical performance ---specifically, the prelude to a musical performance. And he employed this talent last month at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in front of some 7,000 people.

This event reminded me that I like attending festivals with my friends but kind of hate bluegrass. So after enduring hours of endless mandolin noodling, I moved to closer to the stage with Dan and other assorted idiots to see Guster, the only indie-college-radio-friendly act on a bill full of mountain jug twang.

The woman who was tasked to introduce Guster obviously knew nothing about the Boston band. She meandered along, describing how the band was a little different and had graciously agreed to play. In mid-sentence, as she was trying to find more words to describe a band that she hadn't even called by name yet, Dan screams at the top of his lungs: "Gooooooster!"

The woman stops. She doesn't know what to say next, for fear that she's about to mispronounce the name of the band. Obviously, the fans know the band's name is pronounced "Gooster" --- she thinks --- because some jerk just yelled that.

Then she says, demurely, "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, uh, Guster."

What is this Dyn-o-mite?

Last year, Will and I were sitting in a bar in Utrecht, Holland in the midst of a delimma. We were trying to figure out where the hell we were going to sleep that night because every single hotel in the greater Utrecht area was booked because some extremely popular blues festival being held that night. Of course, we rolled into town with no reservations. Since we couldn't get a room, we decided to get blasted. Sitting right next to us at the bar were a couple of young Russian guys who were way ahead of us. And one of the Russians was wearing a get-up that would provoke a reaction out of anyone who ever watched American television in the 1970's. He had on a turtleneck sweater and a low brimmed skull cap --- oh yes, for a white guy, young mister Moscow looked just like Jimmy "J.J." Walker star of the classic blaxsplotation sit-com "Good Times". I felt compelled to enlighten the guy about his choice of clothing. So, just imagine explaining to a Russian dude that he looks just like an American television legend on a show he'd never seen and couldn't possibly understand --- certainly not from my drunken description of it. "What is this Dyn-o-mite you speak of?" "Is this Jimmy "J.J." like the Snoop Dogg?" "Do you threaten me?" Will and I walked out of the bar along with the fake J.J. and his Russian comrade at closing time. We were quite surpised when we parted company with those guys and didn't get stabbed.

Home

Patches wanted to go to the rooftop party but wasn't invited

Many miles, many bugs

My neighbors Rick and Mike always know when I'm heading out of town because this black bra makes an appearance on the front of my car (at least half of it in this photo.) When this piece of vinyl is strapped to the front of my car, it's guaranteed that A. I'm about to have a good time and B. I'm about to run into a lot of bugs.

Kruidvat

Up In My Grill

Of all my worldly possessions, I would place my gas grill as the 17th most important item I own --- even higher than my electric toothbrush. I use this flame-spitting beast at least three times a week, usually to burn chicken. Since I've had it four years, this kind of regular use tends to stress the insides of my grill. And last week, the grill completely gave up. It had been flame blasted so many times that it disintegrated. The lid was completely baked and the flame shield had split in half. So on Sunday about 5 p.m. while hungry, I make a snap decision to go to Target to buy a new grill. This transaction could not have taken more that 30 minutes including completing the sale and getting the new boxed up grill home. I figure I can have the new grill together in about an hour. Um, no. About 8 p.m., I am fucking starving and the grill isn't even 1/3rd of the way assembled. It has at least 60 parts to assemble, all held together by 100 bolts and wing nuts. I order out. Monday night, I complete the second 1/3rd of the grill. And Tuesday the grill that was supposed to feed me on Sunday was finished.

Lesson learned? Never buy a grill when it's dinner time.

Rainy Texas Highway

Animal Experiment Gone Wrong

This convienence store in Western Colorado sells gasoline, Sun Chips, beer and taxidermy disasters.