Subject:

Just wondering...

Posted:

9/16/2007 10:05:43 PM

"World Music?" As opposed to what? Music from Pluto?

Subject:

Dress for Success!

Posted:

12/12/2006 10:28:29 PM

“Oh, Mr. Tee-shirt! Mr. Tee-shirt!” shrieked the wedding planner cunt with the serious overbite, “You’re going to have to leave!”

I shrugged and went back to the microphone I was testing. Being a wedding band roadie for five years had made me nothing short of virtuosic at ignoring overexcitable assholes like this one.

“Do you hear me, Mr. Tee-shirt? The guests are arriving. And you have got to go!”

She was huffing and puffing…flapping her flabby arms like they were condor’s wings…it was getting harder and harder to ignore her every second…she was right up on top of me - so close her halitosis was wilting the little hairs on the inside of my nose. She reiterated her request that I vacate the premises…

“Now!”

She stamped her foot to show she wasn’t kidding. I wasn’t kidding either. I liked the little hairs on the inside of my nose. If I didn’t stick up for them, who would?

I turned and got right back up in her face, which reminded me of a steam shovel that had had one too many run-ins with 40-ton boulders.

“Don’t talk to me,” I said, “Talk to Syd Bush.” I pointed at the bandleader in the blue cummerbund, unpacking his saxophone from it’s beat-up plastic case. “I work for him.”

“Well, I certainly will.”

She stomped over towards Syd, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there at that moment.

“Syd, please,” whined the steam shovel. “Tell him to go. The guests are arriving. And he’s not dressed!”

She was referring to my attire, though I’m not sure why she kept calling me “Mr. Tee-shirt.” Couldn't that stupid bitch see it was a sweatshirt I was wearing? The same ratty sweatshirt I wore to all the Syd Bush set-ups - at least in winter. (In warm weather I like to wear fluorescent tank tops. That gives the wedding planner cunts a chance to complain about my armpits.)

Syd doesn’t care what we roadies chose to wear. Normally, it’s not a problem – I’m in and out before the hoity-toitys sail in with all their finery. But this set-up had taken longer than expected. The room was rapidly filling up with tuxedos and lace. And there I was, still checking microphones in my ratty old sweatshirt. I felt like Cinderella, lingering foolishly at the ball, one minute past midnight.

“What do you want me to do, Deborah?” snapped Syd, suddenly exasperated, though still with sufficient tact to pronounce the bitch’s otherwise ordinary name the way she’d taught him: with the accent placed uniquely on the precious middle syllable, so that if she was a limerick you would rhyme her with menorah.

“If I send him home now, we won’t be ready to play. I’ll send him home if you like. But then we won’t be ready. It’s up to you.”

“But he’s not dressed, Syd! It’s not professional!”

“Do I send him home? Or do I have him keep working? It’s your call, Deborah.”

Send him? Have him? What did these two insensate jugheads think I was, anyway? An ashtray? A toy soldier? A cantaloupe, maybe? It’s always sad being talked about when you’re right there to listen.

Deborah gave up on Syd and stomped back over to me…

“Mr. Tee-shirt, This is it! Get out, I implore you, before it’s too late! Somebody might see you!"

The room was awash with society swells, now, the way a toilet bowl rinses out once the shit has gone down. Only the shit hadn’t gone down in this instance, yet. (Shit going down – that was me, in my sweatshirt.)

The band members were all seated behind their music stands, tuning up. Syd - always a bundle of nerves - called the first number: Impanema. Steam shovel Deborah was wringing her hands in my face…

Luckily - just as the band glides into their first saccharine-drenched, major-seventh chord of the evening - the soundman and I finish up and I hightail it out…

Through an old-money sea of black and white lace…palm trees and waiters wearing white satin gloves…push open a door…and into a slimy kitchen where immigrants in coveralls pull dead rats out of traps by the tails…

Tall and tan and young and lovely...

The shit finally gone down, the party is free to commence...

Subject:

ALL THEM DARNED WORD$!

Posted:

11/30/2006 6:26:59 PM

...today at work...in some hunchbacked lady's cubicle...I spied one of those Suze Orman tutorials on how to get in the fast lane to joining the fabulously well-to-do. Naturally, I'm a skeptic...so I inquired politely about the book...

"Oh, I own every book she's ever written," enthused the inhabitant of the cubicle. Suze's so brilliant...a financial self-help magician. She's helped tons of people."

You know Suze Orman? The financial guru-laureate of Planet Amerika-the Beautiful? She of Mt. Rushmore chiseled chin and Lady Di hair? Come on, ya know who I'm talkin' 'bout. That scamming, talk-show A-list bitch that Oprah likes so much? Yeah, her...

Anyway, this book had the rather provacative title of "The Courage to be Rich," implying, apparently, that the only thing standing between me (and you, and the people across the hall, and the bum lying semi-comatose in his own piss behind your garage) and Donald-Fucking-Trumpdom, is a lack of guts. What unmitigated cheek! Of course I wasn't about to let it go unchallenged...so I probed a little deeper...asked for clarification on what get-rich panaceas, exactly, miracle-working Doctor Suze prescribes for chickenshit hobos like me...

"What does it say in the book?" I asked my hunchbacked host.

"Oh, well...I haven't actually read it," said she, "Not yet, anyway." And then (perhaps noticing the way my eyebrows shot up nearly through the acoustical tiles overhead) she quickly added: "But I know that just by having it, I've already been helped a lot. Like I said, Suze's a real magician...I'm getting richer every day, I know I am."

This particular lady is known for buying hundreds of dollars of lottery tickets every week...something to fall back on, I guess...just in case Suze's magic doesn't quite rub off on her...at least with the lottery tickets there's not so much to read...

Subject:

1950's eloquence...

Posted:

10/5/2006 1:57:08 AM

wop bopbaloopa a wop bam boom!!!

Subject:

I love a parade!

Posted:

9/17/2006 9:09:33 PM

The Syd Bush job the other night was a benefit for some kid’s music academy…what the patrons are fond of calling a “school for the arts”…

Some of the kids from the school performed during dinner…of course, we roadies weren’t there to see the actual show…but they were rehearsing on the dance floor while we were setting up…so we watched…

Some shitty violinists sawed away on light classics…one of the girls in the back row was really hot…she’s wasting her time on that fiddle, if you ask me…

The star attraction was this little black kid named Major, who knew a lot of show tunes - Irving Berlin…Gershwin…George M. Cohan - he sang and danced like Mickey Rooney…I think he was about 11, but he was small for his age…kind of chubby, but dwarf-sized…with a round baby face…he looked like 6 or 7…he wore a double-breasted blazer, patent leather shoes and flashy gold rings…

“He must really be a social basket case,” I thought, “Getting the shit kicked out of him every day at the bus stop.”

His parents probably pushed him into the show tune thing…to give him some direction…and hopefully to make his life a little less lonely…but it backfired, miserably…anyone can see...why the hell didn’t they push him into firearms, instead? Those Columbine punks, at least, had other kids in trench coats to talk to. But when your whole world revolves around show tunes it's a long and lonely path...

The other students, the instructors and the fat, bejeweled bitches from the executive board were all cooing and gushing over little Major, their prize pupil...he sang and tap-danced his way through “Swanee” without flaw…followed by some poignant love ballad…by Sondheim, I think…he had a cane and a tophat...

There’s something really sad about kids who sing about adult things without any clue of what the words actually mean…you want to smack them in the face and say: “Look, squirt! There’s a sandbox. Why don’t you run and make some castles before it’s too late?”

All the same, it must have taken a lot of practice to memorize all those tunes…Major’s mom and dad must have had lots of patience…and plenty of second thoughts, I’ll bet…it can’t be any picnic living with a nonstop Jolson impersonation…

Swanee - how I love ya, how I love ya, my dear old Swanee!!!

That old man river, he just keeps rollin'…when their favorite TV show is on…when they’re trying to read the paper…even at the dinner table…it’s probably like having a parrot that won’t stop reciting the Gettysburg address…

Subject:

those sensitive rich

Posted:

9/17/2006 9:06:10 PM

I should probably explain about this Syd Bush thing…the wedding band I work for…Syd Bush and the Berries, remember? We set up the equipment before the band plays…and then schlep our butts back late at night to tear the whole mess down again…Syd calls us “roadies”, but it’s kind of a misnomer…the farthest we ever go is Lake Geneva…maybe Downers Grove…and that’s not really the road…anyone will tell ya that….

As a “roadie” I feel a lot like a ghost or a cockroach…the guests in their tuxedos are filtering in while we’re finishing setting up…we’re always being asked to make ourselves invisible…

“David, wear long sleeves so the guests won’t see your armpit hair!”

“David, find a rear exit and make yourself scarce!”

It sounds like nitpicking…armpit hair, right? But these are high society parties that Syd Bush plays for…all amenities expected…a different caliber of flesh, altogether, than I'm used to...

When you’re a fat rich prick from Kenilworth with champagne in your hand the last thing you want to have to look at is some punk with no sleeves and untamed hair under his arms…it can spoil the whole party…the rich are so sensitive…they’ve earned it…

Subject:

"Did you see that big accident?"

Posted:

9/4/2006 9:38:10 AM

...gaper slime...bastards in the other lanes who slow down to get a good eyeful of someone else's tragedy...the blood and the gore...the twisted flesh...flaming metal...the ambulance lights...what a fillip!!! then they go speeding off to work so they can regurgitate the whole thing for their officemates over coffee and doughnuts...

...and they always try to rationalize their disgusting fascination for the macabre by claiming to have been "concerned" about the "poor people" in that "terrible, tragic accident." Sure, THAT'S why they slowed down...because they were "concerned." BALLS! They were diggin' the blood and guts and that's all there is to it...

...the next time you get a notion to slow down and look, just try to imagine what it would feel like if YOU were the one in the accident...lying there dying on the highway...blood gushing from your neck...the EMTs rushing all around you, saying things like: "We're losing him!" and: "I can't get a pulse!"

...and the last thing on planet earth that you get to see is...some fat piece of shit in an SUV with a hot dog in his mouth, slowing down to stare at your dying breath...

...i personally would be happy to pay extra taxes so the state could hire "gaper patrols" - uniformed thugs who would forcibly pull over any offenders and beat the living shit out of them right there on the shoulder...teach them some good manners...beat their ill-bred tendencies right out of them, so to speak...and if anyone slows down to watch, they'd pull THEM over and beat the shit out of them, too!

Fair is fair, am I right?

Subject:

civics 101

Posted:

9/3/2006 9:04:12 PM

...i went for jury duty last week...downtown...the daley center...i was all set to get myself tossed, by standing up and ranting about ambulance-chasing scum...like i did to get myself tossed the last time i went for jury duty...

...we were sitting there in that big room...the jury pool...they had the fucking tv on...i hate tv...the useless local news...those tawdry features about what's new in women's fashion...the fashion advice bitches who come on with their trunks full of samples...and the anchor women cunts who serve as de facto fashion pimps...

ANCHOR CUNT: "Well, what about those of our viewers who may have a few extra pounds around the middle? Can they wear something like this, too?"
FASHION GURU BITCH: "Why, of course!"
ANCHOR CUNT: "Marvelous! Remember, ladies, you can only buy it at Nieman Marcus. See the address at the bottom of the screen?"

...i had panel number 42...when they finally called my number, they took us down and put us on a big cook county bus...a deputy got on and drove us down to harrison street..."Domestic Violence Court" said the sign out front...

...i'm thinking: "oh, shit. a criminal case." i had to alter my game plan some...forget ambulance-chasing scum...now i'd have to get up and rant about our illustrious state's attorney, Dickhead Devine, the corrupt weasel who sweeps police torture under the rug...and then throws the book at some poor iraqi slob for having a penis pump in his luggage at o'hare...

...luckily, they put me in the juror #1 chair...which meant it wouldn't take me two whole days to get tossed like it did last time...i'd be first up in the voir dire...on my way home in nothing flat...come and get me you dirty rats!

...the judge is a blowdry pretty boy...he's got an orangey tan that looks like he got it lying down inside a toaster oven...he gives us the facts...some petty battery charge against a hooker who supposedly assaulted some cops...

...blowdry introduces the parties...the hooker is tall and black...she's dressed to the nines...she looks hot...Dick Devine's errand boys, the two eager young assistant state's attorneys (katzenbaum and fegenstein, or something) are wearing matching checked suits...maybe their moms dressed them this morning...they smile at the jury box like a pair of toy monkeys...blowdry says the case will take two days to hear...two days of sitting here listening to someone else’s problem…

"Yep," I say to myself, "gonna have to do some ranting about old Dickhead..."

"There will be uniformed officers testifying in this case," says blowdry judge, "Is there anyone who may be prejudiced against the testimony of chicago police officers?" My hand shoots up. "Yeah," I say, "I would."

Blowdry tells me to stand and explain...

"What is the reason for your prejudice, Mr. Kemper?"

"John Burge."

"What about John Burge?"

I go into my rant...the cops...secret societies...torture...john burge...dick devine...corruption...the code of silence...thin blue lines...the whole dirty business…blah blah blah...froth begins appearing at the corners of my mouth...

...blowdry seems annoyed...he's rubbing his temples, where the veins are starting to pop out like fat sewage pipes...katzenbrenner and steinfegen grin and shake their heads at my lunatic performance...i don't give a shit...at least my mom doesn't tell me what to wear...

"Because of John Burge you won't be able to keep an open mind?" asks blowdry, incredulously.

"Yeah."

…there’s silence in the courtroom…everyone is staring at me…the clerk…the stenographer…katzenfegen and felsherstein…my fellow potential jurors who haven’t said boo…

“…and, um, other things i’ve read, too,” I add, feeling the need to pad my excuses. “…about cops, i mean, your honor…corruption…torture…it’s a cumulative effect.”

…blowdry writes something on my summons…i sneak a peek at Venetta, the hot whore, who’s staring at me, too…I may be imagining, but I think I detect a note of admiration in her eyes…for my heroic stand…I, great white hope…standing up against evil torturing racist pigs…maybe she even knows someone who got tortured by john burge…an uncle, maybe…she might want to take me in her arms and reward me just a little…I make a mental note to try to find her number in the phonebook when I get home…

"Would you at least TRY to be objective?" blowdry is asking…

I know what he's up to...he's trying to knock me down...to block off my escape route...to make me sit in this damn box for two whole days...it's easiest for him if i do...i do my best to slip out of his hold...

"I'd TRY to be impartial, your honor...but damn...police torture!"

…my fellow potential jurors are glaring at me now…the selfish asshole who’ll do anything to shirk his civic duty…

"Would you rather go back to the Daley Center and hear a civil case?" asks blowdry…not at all what i had in mind...i want to go HOME…but i can't say so...blowdry could always cite me for contempt of court...if he thinks i'm faking it...i'm good at walking tightropes...

"Uh...well...okay, your honor...i guess…but, honestly, I don't like PI attorneys any better than cops." (My way of warning him I'm determined to shirk my civic duty one way or another.)

…blowdry writes some more on my summons and hands it to the clerk…he tells me i’m excused…but not to go home…i have to go back to daley…to sit around and wait to be called again…my punishment for making his day two minutes longer than it would’ve been if i’d shut up like the other eleven and let him shanghai me into his jury box…

…it sounds petty…two minutes longer…but think about it…why, if all the others in the box were to suddenly follow my example…to stand up and shirk like me…blowdry would be nearly a half an hour late for the rendezvous he’s scheduled with his mistress at 5:30…judge…brain surgeon…president of America…don’t let the highfalutin titles fool ya…no matter the job, they’re all gunning for the same thing…the fastest shortcut home and the end of the workday…

…i stride confidently from the courtroom…past fegenbrenner and katzenfelsher…still grinning like monkeys…my fellow almost-jurors…so long, suckers!!!

...out in the hallway, suddenly surrounded by cook county sheriff’s deputies, i get a little less cocky…they’ve all got big guns…they tell me where to go…point me here and there…like i was a prisoner…i wonder if they heard my nasty rant about cops…?…maybe I should’ve gone a little softer on the vitriol…?

…the deputy who drove us down has to take me back to daley…just me, all alone in that bigass long bus…bet he’s not too happy about that…he tells me to wait on a bench in the lobby…

…a young black kid and his elderly lawyer are having an exhausting discussion on the next bench…the old guy is trying to get the young gun to stop being violent…to see the error of his ways…get out of gangs…go back to school…treat his mother better…he seems to know the futility of his effort…the kid is placating him…talking very proper…trying to assure the old guy that he’s on the right track now…that he’ll really buckle down…he mentions auto mechanic school ($29 an hour starting pay after certification!)…but the old man seems leery…finally, he leaves the kid on the bench and walks out with an exhausted sigh…the kid turns to me and snarls: “Man, I’m tired a alla dese bowshit presentations!” He pops his iPod in his ears and struts out, gansta style…

…deputy driver breezes through the lobby towards the door…he motions me to follow: “Let’s go, guy!”

…we get on the bus…snake our way back over to daley…there’s room to stretch out…i’ve got the whole bus to myself…i’m way in back…the very last seat like where i always sat in high school…always the troublemaker…

…we ride in silence through soft summer rain…the office workers are spilling out of their buildings…with and without umbrellas…hustling through traffic…blurred reflections on wet pavement…they seem happy…it’s lunchtime…

Subject:

Q: Why did the black berry fall out of the blue bush?

Posted:

8/4/2006 9:00:22 PM

...so i've got this weekend job, see? a cash deal, understand?...setting up equipment for a band that plays weddings, called Syd Bush and the Berries...only don't call them a "wedding band"...'cause they're not...at least according to Syd Bush...

...what they ARE (according to Syd Bush) is a "society orchestra"...the distinguishing factor apparently being that Syd Bush refuses at this point in his career to play bar mitzvahs...he always sounds so proud when he says that, too ("Oh, we don't do bar mitzvahs anymore!")...

...in the jobbing band world, i suppose that's what sends the cream rising to the top of the scumpond: retiring your beat up old copy of "The Fiddler on the Roof Fakebook"...big milestone, right?..."you've come a long way, baby," and all that...

...only, i don't know...i gotta believe that if you were to make Syd a really juicy offer...that he'd relent...make an exception..."oh, maybe just this once!"...tickle them old ivories to "Sunrise, Sunset," once again...let the little brats hurl their uneaten chicken kievs at the back of his head while he serenades them with a "snowball" dance...

...yeah, i think ol' Syd would do it...if the price was right, i mean ('cause they definitely don't do bar mitzvahs, anymore)...business is business, after all...

Syd Bush wears an electric blue bowtie and matching cummerbund to every job...his band, the Berries, all wear plain black bowties and cummerbunds...which is kinda funny, no? I mean, berries are often blue...whereas a bush is much more likely to be black than blue, dontcha think?...

How many of you have ever seen a blue bush? (Show of hands, please...)

I swear, it's got me stumped...

Subject:

the punk revolution revisted

Posted:

7/6/2006 8:19:20 AM

...I read somewhere that Steve Jones, guitar player (ahem!) for the Sex Pistols, has admitted that the Pistols were "crap," that he was never really into "punk" and that he dared not divulge to his bandmates his TRUE musical leanings, for fear of receiving a drubbing. His TRUE musical leanings? Why, none other than the big three of go-for-broke anarchist rebellion: Boston, Queen and Slade! Thank you, Mr. Jones, for sticking a big, gnarly, middle finger square in the eye of all those chuckleheads who fell, swooning, for the so-called punk revolution..."THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES HAVE LEFT THE BUILDING!!!"

Subject:

MY FIRST BLOG ENTRY - OR: RANDOM RUMINATIONS ON A MISNOMER KNOWN AS “INDIE”

Posted:

6/6/2006 5:14:13 AM

“Check out this dope-ass new indie punk band,” enthuses Puddin’ Pop to her best friend, Angel, waving the eponymous debut from Gook Parade in the air.

“Oh, I read about them on Pitchfork. They get totally trashed. And they do live séances with snakes.”

Together they stare fixedly at the picture for a moment.

“Indie is so dope-ass,” they finally conclude.

Confused, I wonder if maybe Puddin’ Pop and I have different editions of Webster’s. 'Cause I was under the impression indie was shortcut-speak for the more heroic sounding, independent. And that sure doesn’t sound like some of the “indie” labels I know, which are less the upstart Davids they’d like you to think than the same corporate Goliaths they purport to be reacting against.

The rails are greased. They’ve got a good thing going, selling crap to morons. They’ve become successful and well-connected…central air conditioning…receptionists at the front desk. Just like any white-collar business…IBM or Allstate…decidedly un-indie…decidedly corporate.

Maybe what Puddin’ Pop and Angel meant to say was: “Corporate is so dope-ass.” Maybe that’s what they meant. Maybe they misspoke. I ask them.

No, they tell me, “indie” is what they said, and “indie” is what they meant. It’s indie that’s dope-ass, not corporate. Corporate is yuck. Corporate is mom and dad. Corporate is big business; everyone knows that. And since indie is so dope-ass, it can’t possibly be corporate. Right?

Dopito ergo sum. I dope therefore I am.

Okay, girls. How about a little experiment? Why don’t we trace the chain of events that put that dope-ass “indie” CD in your hands? Then you tell me if what you bought today at Virgin is “indie” or “corporate.” Okay?

(They shrug and pop their bubbles, sharing an exasperated look that could only be translated as: “Like, does this dude suck with his boring-ass questions, or what?”)

At the risk of being boring-ass, here goes...

I’ll skip the first part, where Magnet and Pitchfork cut deals with Gook Parade’s label – promising lots of dope-ass editorial coverage in exchange for beaucoup bucks in advertising contracts. I’ll pick up the thread where the CD is actually birthed…

Manufactured by the thousands in a bigass factory, it is shrink-wrapped and labeled by bigass machines. A bigass truck picks it up and delivers it to a bigass glitzy store, where it gets entered alphabetically into a computerized catalogue, rotated weekly on the listening stations (the same listening stations, incidentally, that play Kelly Clarkson).

This is where you come in, Puddin’ Pop…

Surrendering your babysitting money to the bigass cash register, it is funneled into bank accounts, combined with the babysitting monies of armies of Puddin’ Pops, assiduously tallied by Rubenstein & Rubenstein (the bigass accounting firm hired by the label). The two Rubensteins cut the checks and kick them back to the label, which uses the cash to buy leather furniture for the new reception area, and a water cooler, too.

It’s only R&R but I like it!

Indie? I dunno, girls. If you perused it in Pitchfork, if you found it on Virgin’s computer, do you think it qualifies as indie? I mean, if it were really and truly “indie,” you wouldn’t even know about it, much less be drooling over the 3D pictures on the cover right now.

Puddin’ Pop ignores me, pops another bubble. She and Angel tear the plastic with their artificial nails. They yank out the disc and drop it in the tray. Gook Parade launches into its opening séance. I see what Angel means about the “totally trashed” part. But, I’m sorry, call me “Scrooge” - those snakes are so low in the mix they may as well have slept in…

“Indie is so dope-ass!” the girls shriek, giving me their best nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah faces.

Fine, Puddin’ Pop. Indie is so dope-ass. But just tell me this: If it was really “indie,” do you think it ‘d be shrink-wrapped?