Piss off...

Friday, February 15, 2008


Right now I've got a very mild touch of the flu, and I feel like absolute pounded shit. So it's rather astonishing to think that ten years ago I would continue my pack-a-day-plus habit throughout a cold, and nine years ago almost exactly I kept my habit through a seven week bout with pneumonia. The thought of inhaling air right now has me on bent knees.

'the faack?

On the other hand, I'm drinking a nice (cheap, but nice - Covey Run) Riesling right now, and I can certainly remember a few nights I can't remember from back then. I've also had nothing but salmon the past two days, and back then it was nothing but subs. Progress or digress? Or neither? Who knows with these things.

Either way, the Reisling is rather lovely.

Sunday, February 10, 2008


I’m actually watching the Grammys in their entirety tonight for the first time in probably 19 years, since 1989, when Metallica played and was shut out of the first Best Hard Rock/Heavy Metal album by Jethro Tull. (What? The? Fuck? Actually I’m more disgusted that Jane’s Addiction “Nothing Shocking” lost out. To Jethro Tull. But I digress.) But I have to admit that I’m mostly watching out of a sense of schadenfreude.

It’s great to watch the spectacle of the Major Label Machine, knowing that the Major Labels are now almost totally irrelevant. The times follow and are reflected by technology, and the technology is finally such that the ARTISTS are taking the music business back. I’m thrilled by this inverse of the template: the majors did it to themselves by neglecting A&R, allowing themselves to be subsumed by multinational corporations that saw nothing but bottom lines and embarking on pathetic crusades against technology while completely ignoring the technology themselves. Good riddance.

It’s especially sweet for those of us that were weaned on the teat of indie rock in the ‘80s, those of us that worshiped bands like Sonic Youth, Black Flag, Husker Du and the Minutemen not just for the music, but for the fact that they pioneered the DIY ethos and never relied on The Machine. Those bands did the whole thing themselves: formed their own labels, financed their own albums, toured relentlessly on the cheap and built their own fanbase. And it’s happening again, thanks to the internets. I could not be happier to see the Major Label Industrial Complex die.

That said, the output from the majors isn’t all that bad. Alicia Keye’s “duet” with Sinatra to open the show was terrific. I normally loathe this kind of thing (see Cole, Natalie), but this was great. Alicia "gets" the greatness of Sinatra, and a lot of the kids at the top of the charts today also get the pioneers. (See Jones, Nora.) And I must say, Morris Day still knows what Time it is. Beyonce was and is great. Tina Turner? Eternally fabulous. And Rihana is positively luscious.

When they’re all dropped from their Major Label contracts after the latest cost-cutting shuffle from Corporate, I hope they all find further success. I might suggest doing it themselves.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Coming to Terms

Nothing will ever be as bad as Game 6 1986. But Sunday night was close. I can't remember another instance since that Saturday night/Sunday morning of October 25th/26th when I was 14 of such instantanious and sickening loss. I kind of knew all game: Brady was obviously off...hurt...and there were too many ominous moments and a general sense of nervousness and unease. Still. This one hurts. Absolutely. Perfection is indeed unachievable.

18-1. So close. Not enough.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

It's over

I'm sick, numb. Incomprehensible.


Plaxico. Shit. 35 seconds and three timeouts to get into field goal range.


Eli sacked. Last time out gone. Can't stop the clock when the Pats take over. Gulp.


Assante Samuel just about sealed the deal, but couldn't quite pull off the INT. It's a fourth out for Eli, who rises from the dead and gets the ball to Tyree to the 24. Big-time play. Shit.


Giants converted on 4th and inches. Still 60 plus yards to go, and that Pats sack won't help. Good pressure, finally.


Two minute warning. Perfect time for a Victoria's Secret commercial. I feel momentarily much better.


Giants ball on their 17. Doing the math, that would leave 83 yards to go.


TOUCHDOWN MOSS. Two possesion game, and we have all our timeouts left. Huge.


3rd & goal. Moss incomplete. Welker incomplete. Let's go.


First and goal. Here we go.


Another drive developing. Welker picks up a first down in Giants territory. Spreading the ball: Welker, Maroney, Moss, Brady is 3 for 3. Now Faulk for 4. Rhythm developing. Good signs.


A stout effort by the d forces a punt. Eli breaks out of a blitz and just overthrows Plax. Nice to see the breaks going the other way. NE ball on the 19.


Penalties, penalties, penalties. 10 yards taken off a 30 yard Maroney return. False starts. Combined with a fairly anemic output, I'm not digging the current state of affairs.

Finally Moss gets the ball for a first down. More.


Touchdown, Manning to Tyree. 10-7. That decision to go for it on 4th and 13 is looking kinda dumb now.


Um, pressure? Blitz? I don't like this drive a'tall.


Well, that's a nice breakaway play...by fucking ELI.


Thus the drive and the third quarter end. Pats will have to punt to start the 4th. No scoring since the first two drives. Weird game.



A drive is developing. 19 yard pickup by Welker into midfield. Little breakaways that take a drive from a 2nd & 15 on the five to here. This is promising.


It seems like ages since the Giants last punted. Nice to revisit the past. Pats ball on the 10.


Giants have been converting: Pats have not been. That's the difference so far, in spite of the NE lead. We need a few breakout plays.


SHIT! Brady sacked. Going for it on 4th & 13. Balls. Nothing. Un. Believable. Giants take over on downs.


FINALLY a retun on opportunities given. Huge first down for Faulk on a 3rd and 13. More.


Yes! Just got the call. First down by penalty and no time-out lost. Good omen. Let's capitalize.


12 men on the field challenge. Looks close. Hope.


Shit. 3 and out again. But some signs of life on the ground in the third. More Welker, please. Strayhan and Umenyiora on the outside are very very good.


A bit of a running game to open up the second half! I like!

XLII Halftime

Tom Petty? Who cares.


Held the lead going into the half. The hail mary failed. Strange game. The NY defense is so good that an equally great NE offense has been somewhat neutered. Negative yardage in the first half? Moss doesn't touch the ball until 20 seconds left in the first half? Maroney is contained? No way. Yeah, so it is. Hopefully the Pats defense won't be totally gassed in the second half. It's going to be a grind...


Good drive developing. Welker finally getting the ball. 28 seconds left...


HUGE conversion on a 3rd & 13. Keep the drive alive...


2nd & 10 in the final drive of the first half. Must not turn it over.


Brady gets nailed twice. Not good. NY ball at midfield.


J'nts return the favor with a 3 and out. Pats got rooked on that turnover.


Shit. The first punt goes to NY. J'nts ball on the 36.


Interception Hobbs! Another great drive killed with a pick. Brady returns...


Touchdown Maroney! Two great drives, the last one resulting in 7. Bring on the rest of the second quarter.


Guh. Good opening drive by Eli and the New York Football Giants. 3-3 on 3rd and longs, without any major breakaway plays. Yeomanlike work. Let's see how Tom Terrific responds.

The beer brats with steak fries and queso were supurb. I'll probably regret it by the third quarter, but oh well...

Saturday, February 02, 2008

Fabulous Disasters

It's humbling and terrifying that I'm neigh on eighteen years removed from this indignity, but so it is, and so it must be told. Fuck You Lisbon High School 1990, Fuck You.

Fabulous Disasters

Yes, I was in a metal band in high school, during my mullet days. Even back then, I instinctively knew that metal was a pitiful cartoon and I could feel my R.E.M., Smiths and Smithereens influences taking over. But my band, Rampage, needed one final talent show salvo. And so came the 1990 Spring Fling.

We auditioned with one of the Metallica songs in our repertoire, Master of Puppets. Extremely difficult song to play for a bunch of high schoolers, and the faculty brass on the panel, although suitably impressed, still gave us shit about being too loud and etc. But they let us on the bill. Three songs, and we could keep playing while the crowd left and the janitors cleaned up. Fine.

Cue up a snowy night in March 1990, Lisbon, ME. Cue up the same high school gym that inspired Carrie. Because that’s where we were playing.

Throughout the entire talent show, which consisted of bell ringers, clog dancers and a father and son team that, for no discernable reason, danced a duet in matching mouse costumes, the doors to the gym were locked. (Fire hazard? Huh?) Rampage was scheduled dead last, but we dug being the underdogs. First song: “You Will Never Be Forgotten.” Our drummer wrote the lyrics about a ‘nam vet from our school. I wrote the music and totally and completely ripped off the bass line from the Smithereens “Blood and Roses”. My brother, the bass player, forgot the bass line and we had to start over again. Not a good sign.

Midway through our second song (the years have erased what we played from my memory bank), I noticed that the gym was becoming slowly but noticeably brighter. Toward the end of said song, I noticed that the gym doors, which oh-by-the-way had been hitherto locked, were open, and a steady stream of the gym populace was exiting through those doors.

By the third song, “Stand Our Ground”, which was, ironically enough, written as a fuck-you to the faculty brass that gave us shit about being too loud and etc., the head janitor, practically the only soul left in the gym, parked himself in front of the stage, waved a huge “cut it!” arc and yelled “That’s it!”.

Thus we were lied to by the 1990 faculty of Lisbon ME High School, and had to hump the gear out and shuffle home in defeat. My bro walked the entire four miles home in disgust. I went to an after-party to try to get laid, and failed miserably.

Eighteen years after the fact, I'm still a wee bit unsettled.