A Randy "Duke" Cunnigham Primer



Thin Lizzy gets no respect, no airplay, and no one can pronounce Phil Lynott's last name. Jailbreak, their fifth US record, does not hold up, but there's some decent nostalgia swelling as Cowboy Song, Running Back, and the title track get a move on. The treat is Phil's solo Solo in Soho record. Indie shitbirds may recall that Mick Collins and co. took Ode to a Black Man off this disc. It's great as an original. The title track here starts out with a UK woman intoning the sage wisdom that she's, "a clapped-out whore." Jimmy Page never had the stones to put something like this on his breaks, and he was a white man robbing from the black. Put Solo in Soho on your Kwanzza list.

Your Mama's Working on the Chain Gang



The Detroit Cobra's previous effort, a collection of soul covers entitled Life, Love and Leaving, is a record that grows song by song into something kinda great. The final track, a cover of Otis Redding's Shout Bamalama, is the best cover I've heard in a while. Nagy's voice is growing on me. Does anybody remember the What Have You Been Listening To posts?

Best of 2005: Lest Any More Money Be Spent On Snark

D'yer Mak'er

Geoff Dyer's Out of Sheer Rage is an odd book purported to be concerned with the life of D.H. Lawrence. The blurbs on the back cover give away the secret that the book is instead the story of Dyer's failed attempts to write a scholarly book on Lawrence, the writer that got him writing in the first place. The joke stays fresh for 50 pages (1/4 of this quick-as-eggs read) as Dyer and his girlfriend frolic and fuck their way around Europe, full of the exile dread that supposedly kept Lawrence fresh and productive. The highpoint comes when they crash their scooter on a Greek island, resulting in this passage in the words of Dyer and D.H.:

At one point Lawrence says that the 'Italians are really rather low-bred swine nowadays'. He should have gone to Greece, should have hired and crashed a moped on Alonissos before making such an insulting generalization - insulting to the Greeks, I mean, for they pride themselves on being swine.

I'm all for a non-scholarly book on D.H., but the skimpy Rage falls flat and feels cheap. The amazingly hurried, reckless, and brief life Lawrence led does not emerge as Dyer attempts to mimic his wanderlust. The author of Sons and Lovers and The Rainbow deserves better comic treatment than Dyer can muster, and it's clear after finishing this book that no one will match the matchless wit of Harold Bloom, who in his brief essay on Lawrence in his Genius tome stated the following, presumably with a straight face:

Fashions change; the current neglect of Lawrence will not prevail. We are governed, in academic and journalistic circles these days, by feminist Puritanism. Lawrence, incorrect culturally and politically, is not acceptable to these archons. He concealed his homoeroticism, deprecated the female orgasm, and favored heterosexual anal intercourse. Yes, and also he wrote...

If Bloom decides to pen a stand-alone Lawrence bio, I'll be camped out in front of Barnes and Noble for a first copy.

Oh My, Dance All Night



The only thing I know less about than modern club d.j. music is horse fucking. That being said, there's this UK cat named Paul Oakenfold who released the lp Bunkka in 2002. He provides the beats, and guests like Ice Cube and the late Hunter S. Thompson provide the lyrics. The track that blows the doors off the crib is Starry Eyed Surprise, which might be the best single since Satisfaction. I've been accused of hyperbole in the past, but she was only 14 and unwilling to testify. Find your inner groove with this disc, and then tell me to piss off.

Motor Home Used As Strip Club at Bucs Game
By Associated Press

TAMPA, Fla. - A 40-foot motor home was converted into a strip club on wheels, offering alcohol and lap dances to football fans outside the stadium before kickoff of Sunday's Tampa Bay Buccaneers game, police said.

Six women performed lap dances inside the motor home, charging $20 to $40 depending on whether they danced topless or totally nude, police said Tuesday. The vehicle, adorned with a sign for strip club Deja Vu, was parked across the street from Raymond James Stadium.

Patrons paid a $20 cover charge and were served alcohol, said Tampa police Sgt. Bill Todd. Officers also caught a male patron smoking marijuana in the back of the vehicle.

"We determined this was the fourth game this season where they had done this," Todd said. "I don't understand what justification they think they had, bringing this to a family environment like a Bucs game."

Police charged all six dancers with being nude where alcohol is served, and with being nude in a commercial establishment, misdemeanor violations of city ordinances. Two of the strippers who police said engaged in a sex as part of the show each were charged with a misdemeanor count each of performing an unnatural and lascivious act.

Three men connected to the club were charged with selling alcohol without a license and conspiring to violate beverage laws. One of them owned the motor home and was also charged with renting space for lewdness. All are misdemeanors.

Undercover officers raided the bus after seeing people hand out fliers advertising the party onboard, Todd said.

An attorney for the club, Luke Lirot, said he doesn't think the alleged city ordinance violations will stand up in court.

"The fact that this doesn't take place at a specific business location would render those charges inapplicable," Lirot said, likening the bus to a tailgate party where people share beverages.

He said Deja Vu managers parked the "party bus" across from the stadium to advertise their club's permanent location.

Lirot said the business should not be punished for promoting exotic dance, which he called a form of expression protected by the First Amendment. As long as partygoers exercise discretion and do not violate state statutes, "what goes on in the bus should stay on the bus," he said.

Best of 2005: Review Rewind

Shanghai Surprise

2004 was an awful year for new books. Nothing panned out, even the new Roth, which was average for him. The hype award goes to The Master, a novel about Henry James. This was supposed to be the big book of the year, but pundits forgot no one cares about Henry James and The Master properly tanked; one who endures Daisy Miller or Portrait of a Lady might binge on absinthe rather than read a bio-book. The usual suspects - Updike, Oates, Chabon, Allende, Tyler, Wolfe - launched works we will never read. In 2004 adults probably read more books by Lemonhead Snicket and JKKK Rowling than other authors, and I can't blame them. The only book that stops me cold in Green Apple is entitled Porn Star Portraits (near the comics, bottom shelf). Some pictures are worth two thousand words.

Discovering a novelist and reading his work back to back is a dicey endeavor. When I tried to binge on Sinclair Lewis it didn't take, and even old man Dickens needs space between reads. Yu Hua's To Live was a good book, and the title of his other available novel was enough to give it a go. Chronicle of a Blood Merchant was published in China in 1995 and recently released stateside.

Sanguan works in the silk industry and one day he falls for Yulan, who's tied up with another suitor. Sanguan lays it out before Yulan's old man, telling him he's the better choice, and Yulan reluctantly takes up and marries him. They raise three boys, selfish pricks all, and one day word spreads around town that Sanguan's oldest looks a lot like Yulan's former suitor. The book turns on this harsh discovery, but there's a ton of comedy here too; Yulan confesses her sexual misdeed to her three children and the kids' eyes pop out of their heads; Sanguan visits a fat former hotty whom he fucks to ease the pain of being a cuckold; Sanguan breaking balls in a restaurant after he has sold his blood.

Chronicle of a Blood Merchant, like To Live, explores China's history and its effect on one family, but Yu Hua takes his time with this better book, exposing the times and trials with greater detail and insight. When the Cultural Revolution breaks, Mao's agents come for Yulan and make her stand in the town square covered with a sign reading 'prostitute'. Sanguan, originally a spiteful ass for having spent ten year's worth of cash raising a bastard, gradually comes to life when he sacrifices his reputation and health to comfort his wife and children. His wisdom, whether post a fight or atonement, renders perfect lines like, "She's like a broken pot that's not afraid of shattering, and I'm a dead pig who no longer minds that the water's coming to a boil." I don't entirely know what that means, and I don't know if it's literature, but it's spot-on sentiment of a hot tempered family man dealing with life's harsh ebb and flow.

I hope I've missed a great novel from this past year, but it's doubtful. I understand why most readers prefer non-fiction to this imaginative nonsense, but I'm not gonna throw in the towel, not yet. 1995's Chronicle of a Blood Merchant is 2004's book of the year.

The Last Word From Whidbey



Ani DiFranco. There, I said it. I should dig this woman. We're the same age, though she's been famous for 15 years making her way as a DIY folk goddess. Thing is, I can't get the music. Girls love this girl, and that's sometimes a good sign and other times horror. There are some fine tracks on Out of Range, but the rest sounds too DIY, and should have been worked over/through. Still, she's cute, green, and possibly damaged. My kinda gal.

It's a Shame About Ray...



...Charles, that is. Ray LaMontagne, a middle age hippy kinda guy, put out the record Trouble this year, a 10 song knockout freshman effort. Who says you can't be sensitive and good and old? He recorded the guitar and voice at the same time, and then had pros lay down the beats and other instruments. After a healthy dose of Hazelwood and Kristofersson, this guy's got the goods. I'm pleasantly surprised for perhaps the second time this year.

Still Diggin



The new box set Children of Nuggets is a good primer on the psych scene 1976-1996. The problem with this set, like all compilations, is there isn't enough of what ya wanna hear. It's a fair encyclopedia, but damn if I aint having the hardest time finding whole albums by the Church, Rain Parade, and Opal. Most of the best was released on 7" and EPs, and the record industry, that wonderful business, is busy pressing copies of Hotel California and ignoring this bliss. Soulseek, work your magic.

Shoulda stayed for the set...



Baby, the Detroit Cobras latest, is a decent listen. Specially good is the Irma Thomas cover, but they're all good. Inspired no doubt by the Dirtbombs Ultraglide record, Baby is a kind kick to neglected classics. The girl has a lazy but interesting voice. Are low-key cover bands the new thing? Where's Bud E Luv in all this?

John Banville just won the Booker for the first time, and if you believe the folks who scribble about this kind of stuff, he was really awarded for his body of work. The Sea, which won, has been called by just about every critic I've come across a "slight" Banville effort. It's like those cumulative Oscars, when they panic and give it to the old guy not for his cloying performance in this year's overwrought Movie A, but because they now realize he may die and should have won one along the way. Banville ain't that old, but you catch my drift. So I've had Banville's 1997 novel, The Untouchable, staring at me from the shelf for a few years now, taunting as only the unread can. Happily, I can announce that this is not a lesser effort, and I'm going to guess blindly that it kicks dust in The Sea's face. It's a fictionalized, first-person faux journal from one of the Cambridge spies who was exposed for spying on merry olde England for the Soviets during WWII, and all the old Banville themes are here- the transforming power of art, the authentic life, appearances vs. reality, and booze. I won't bore you with plot summaries, but I will say that this is my second favorite Banville book (after The Book of Evidence), and if you haven't delved into this fine Irishman's work this would be a fine place to start. He's famous for his lyrical desriptions and sometimes opaque plot lines, but he eschews the latter here for a gay-sex-and- all spy thriller. Even the double lives have double lives. I'm giving The Untouchable a big fat thumbs up for the literary fiction crowd (how are you two anyway?), and I'm betting on a Canadian for next year's Booker. Atwood again? 3:1?

Please Kill Me...

Something about the holidays makes me wish I could put the big knife at the world's throat.

Best of 2005: Things I Forgot To Post #1

Marked Men

I met Bill Sykes on the steps of St. Dominic’s last night at 5:30. Bill had a cigarette going and when he saw me crossing the street removed a flask from his jacket and waved it in my direction. Not much has changed since our parents dragged us to mass twenty five years ago; we still can’t stand the ritual, the nonsense, the pious people acting and looking better than we do. Ash Wednesday is something else. It’s the one service I hit every year, for varied reasons.

First, it’s a day to proclaim who you are. All the spotted foreheads around town are talking to one another; we’re o.k., we follow an old polack in Rome, we’re fans of Mel Gibson. The second reason to go is that the Imposition of the Ashes comes well before the Eucharist and Communion ceremonies, a pair of rites that should I partake would bring a lighting bolt through the cathedral roof and fry me on the spot. Lastly, one goes to mass to watch girls. I can’t say this enough, but church is the best place ever to meet women. They are dressed sharp, humble, and appreciative of a little nerve on the part of high holy men like Bill and myself. Last night there were so many stunners we lost count.

The Gospel reading last night was Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-18. If you haven’t read it, ya should. It’s basically the church’s dig at flawed believers like myself and the uppity core of blue America. Anyway, it was powerful enough that Bill and I rubbed our scalps clean once outside, as we’re a pretty sad pair of hypocrites. For a Lenten abstention we decided on red meat, which I don’t think either of us eat any more. We decided this well into the flask, cokes supplied by the lugs at Frankie’s Bohemian. Ah the perils of pennance.

Best of 2005: The Posts That Made You Angry

Someone wanted more prep-school novel reviews here?

The best scence in the overpraised and banal film Sideways comes near the end when the fat nerveless alcoholic schoolteacher is shown in front of his class as a student reads aloud. The student is reading from John Knowles’ A Separate Peace, a book often read by parochial schoolkids and one that might have been a better choice of material for the Sideways adapters.

I reread A Separate Peace over the weekend and was surprised by its resonance. It moves quicker than Gatsby. Knowles’ book ostensibly concerns two young men, Gene and Phineas, and their life and times at Devon, a lush boarding school modled after Knowles’ own alma mater Phillips Exeter. Gene and Finny have the run of the school, and are leaders in both study and recreation. An incident high on a tree branch injures Finny, and the circumstances of the incident that caused his fall unfolds before the school, with the boys both involved and unconcerned with perceptions and resulting actions.

The true main character of A Separate Peace is WWII. It is 1942 when the book kicks off and the boys are 16 years old and damn nervous about their upcoming conscriptions. They release their anxieties by cutting school and smoking in the basement of their dorm, but the fear that they will die while young never abates. Knowles however does not preach nor proselytize about fate. His prose is laconic and romantic, factual yet lyrical, and fear is portrayed as it truly is for the young; distant, avoidable, and possibly exhilerating.

Two thoughts bounced around while I reexperienced Knowles’ book. One had to do with that most recent prep school golden boy we were all abuzz about six short months ago. That John Kerry evolved from a great man in his younger years into the droll cunt he became while praising abortion adicts and homosexuals reminded me that the young Kerry is still the one we must keep in mind. The other thought concerned another John, this one called Updike. I kept wanting that he should be the one splayed on his kitchen floor; self inflicted, sure, or perhaps done in by a drunken William Styron. I still miss Hunter, who thankfully never cared to grow up.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

NOVEL, n. A short story padded. A species of composition bearing the
same relation to literature that the panorama bears to art. As it is
too long to be read at a sitting the impressions made by its
successive parts are successively effaced, as in the panorama. Unity,
totality of effect, is impossible; for besides the few pages last read
all that is carried in mind is the mere plot of what has gone before.
To the romance the novel is what photography is to painting. Its
distinguishing principle, probability, corresponds to the literal
actuality of the photograph and puts it distinctly into the category
of reporting; whereas the free wing of the romancer enables him to
mount to such altitudes of imagination as he may be fitted to attain;
and the first three essentials of the literary art are imagination,
imagination and imagination. The art of writing novels, such as it
was, is long dead everywhere except in Russia, where it is new. Peace
to its ashes -- some of which have a large sale.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

I'm done with prep school novels. If the glaring similarity of themes that runs through these books is the tell, the genre has been exhausted. Richard Yates' A Good School is not a bad effort, but it's a pedestrian one. Let's check our list: WWII backdrop, homoerotic bullying, deep yearning for hot teacher's daughter, socially awkward narrator redeemed by writing, school stud first to die at war, awkward first couplings, awkward first proclamations of "I Love You," awkward, embarrassing and deeply guilt-ridden masturbation, faculty adultery, one good man. Sound familiar? Well, you can read it in an afternoon, and maybe this generation was so profoundly affected by its lack of access to female flesh at a time of life when no desire would ever be more powerful again and the ultimate satisfaction of their lust was so all-consuming that nothing would ever live up to it. Now in their 40s and 50s, either in wistful longing or in a desperate attempt to feel anything in their middle aged numb, these writers return to what they now know was their time of deepest feeling. As a therapeutic exercise, I hope it helped them. As a reader, however, it's become an oft told tale as stock as today's daddy abuse and rehab fables. Put Yates back in the kitchen with a couple arguing over tall glasses of Canadian Mist and I'll get up at dawn to read him. Just keep him out of the dorm room. There's just too much wanking going on in there.

The King and I

Friday night was a highline evening, kicking off in the early afternoon in the Bruno, and angling to Amoeba for respite. The fearsome French then congregrated in David's apartment for cigarettes and beer, and the girls danced. Outtasight. Next stop was Goemon, which is possibly the worst sushi in the world, but if yer gonna eat bait for dinner, best it's in a festive environment with cute shy-of-age waitresses. We were seated 8 at a low shoes-off table, and we slid aside the shoji screen to smoke. Sake, Sapporo, and two hours in I was gassed. I also had an appointment at 4th and Market. I sobered up with cigarettes.

We arrived mid band 2, which is the best time to arrive, becuase who the fuck cares about warm up acts when the Flakes and King Khan and BBQ are on tap. Out back with the boys and the tattoed girls, the scene exploded. I haven't been happy at the Parkside since Dexter went fuck all for the five of us front and center. Last Friday was special, and it felt like 2003 all over again. Olys were drained, the Flakes ripped it up, and tobacco was constant. Banter was tight and I can't remember a goddam thing, but everyone had a good time, of this I am sure.

Then the dynamic duo took the stage. It was dumb to have expectations. I know it is. One should plan on misery and be surprised when the wheel turns right, but damn if we weren't opitimists for those early hours. Then the mic blew, the PA shut off, King played the 'another one bites the dust' riff, and tempers turned. It was messy when bad and good when good. The night peaked early, and the spirit waned in the morning breakdown hours.

Regrets, I have a few. But if yer asking was Friday night worth it, the answer is damn right. $8 to feel part of the better part of the human race is a small price to pay. The rest of you who were huddled at home under down quilts worrying about your IRA and your war and your acne can eat me. Rock and Roll makes good good sense...

I don't know what perfection is (10 out of 10?), and I'm prone to histrionics. Waves pass through me and I can't put on the decency breaks. What is perfection in art? It is the King Khan and BBQ Show album. Nothing can be improved. No opportunities for enhancement. 12 out of 12. Sing at top of lungs. Each time. Perfection is of course subjective, but not this time. 100% mastery. Believe the hype. Sing along. The Zen masters of R&B, but with chaos.

Edward P. Jones has come out firing, scoring two NBA nominations for his first two books, and garnering praise from the big boys, with Jonathan Yardley doing the big slobber even more than most. I read one of Jones' stories in The New Yorker and loved it, a gritty, Wiresque tale from the mean streets of DC that did what Pelacanos only dreams of. So I was looking forward to Jones' novel, The Known World, but I was wary. Any book about slavery is treated gently, and the word "important" gets thrown around too easily and too often. Can you rip it without being called a racist? Well, there's no reason to rip, but it's a difficult read, and I don't mean that in terms of language. The novel has dozens of characters and as many time shifts, and even the most focused readers are going to struggle to keep it all straight. I ain't proud- I could have used a family tree as cheat sheet. This is one of those books that you appreciate much more than you enjoy. Right as you begin to care about a group of characters Jones introduces a new set, and he's still introducing 'em on page 340 of a 388 page book. Yes, Jones captures a wide variety of ways in which slavery degrades and destroys both masters and slaves, and his characters have fascinating potential. Unfortunately, we don't get to stay with any one long enough to see all his/her sides, and when the inevitable terrible things start happening to folks, I found it hard to care. Maybe the short story is Jones' best form, as in some ways, this reads like interwoven stories centered around a single plantation with the singular premise of a black master. I'll check out his collection of modern DC tales, and I'm betting that'll be more my ticket.

Hats off to Big Bill!



I'm not gonna read Mason & Dixon this year, but I've got NBA winner Europe Central reserved and gonna do it. Sacramento rules, and it's more than a crystal meth burg. It's a happening literary scene!

Self-Portrait- 3rd Week of Sinus Infection
Someone Please Kill Me

Crystal Gazing Into The Void

If crab season is on hold, will herpes simplex be delayed too?
Has every day ever been like Sunday?
When will the Sonoma County Sheriff arrest the cunt who killed the campers in Jenner?
Did someone really once say Johnny Marr made the Smiths?
If Joel Selvin cares about music and popular culture, why isn't he thin?
Can one auction debt on eBay?
Who's up for USF-Stanford next week?
What's the furthest you've traveled for a cup of coffee?
May I be the first to say The New Yorker gets worse as I age?
What's left to read?
Are Matier & Ross queer?
Is November 30 really two weeks away?
Will east bay women dress better now that the weather's turning?
When are we going to the lake?
Will ya give me a new night club for me and the Frenchman to get pissed?
Will kids dance Friday night?
What's the big game spread?
Will Condi save the middle east?
Does Terrell Owens know he's being manipulated by a jew?
Does Mayor Newsom's ex Kimberly Gargoyle look like a dead bed fish?
Why do I hate it when friends are successful?
Why the complete absence of hard narcotics in my life?
Have you forgotten the tsunami, katrina, the earthquake and the war?
Anything beat that first morning cigarette?
Is this Kings basketball as shit gonna stand?
What happened to my memory?
Will someone please tell Hilary Clinton not to run in 2008?
Anyone prettier than the new Calvin Klein girl?
Fed Africa today?

Sad Silver


Somewhat interesting article on the dude I'd like to be if I wasn't so busy being myself. Gimme a ring, Ali.

friday nov. 18th @ the parkside
the flakes
king khan and bbq show
the riff randells
the mothballs

5 or 6 bucks, 21+, starts at 9 (which means 11)

Because we never hear from Tampa on this blog...

A Bus Rider's Lament: Gimme Shelter
Special to The Tampa Tribune

Why should anyone in his right mind ride the bus here when there are only a handful of covered bus stops?

You have seen those poor adventurous souls baking under the glare of the Florida sun or braving the afternoon rainstorms with no semblance of shelter. I see older ladies in West Tampa, and I am ashamed that they are forced to move about our community in such conditions. I keep expecting them to have a sunstroke before my eyes.

The bus stop symbolizes our community's historical problems with public transportation. Some bus stops have shelters. Some, like the downtown bus center and trolley, even have elaborate shelters. But most have none. This is unacceptable for a city and a county of our size, wealth and projected population growth. It also speaks volumes about the health and well-being of our public transportation system.

Supposedly shelters can run between $15,000 and $50,000 apiece. I think my engineer, architect and contractor friends could build a sturdy structure that would do the trick for substantially less, but I am not sure it would meet whatever demands HARTline has for design specifications.

One way to offset some operating costs is to permit HARTline to allow advertising on bus stop shelters -- a common practice throughout the Western world. Besides covering construction costs, it would enhance ridership and rider safety.

To be clear, public transportation rarely operate in the black, so we should not anticipate that HARTline will either -- no matter how much some county commissioners want to keep dreaming it may, perhaps in an unscrupulous effort to undermine its effectiveness. Neither is privatization an option with public support in our community.

Public transportation plays an important role in the daily life and commerce of a city. It creates jobs, gets people to and from work, reduces traffic congestion and increases our economic competitiveness and quality of life.

Thankfully, Ray Miller, the bus agency's new director, has the experience and common sense the agency needs to make HARTline work.

Establishing bus stop shelters is a goal that could deliver tangible service to the bus-riding taxpayer, and their design could even be a defining architectural symbol.

If we want people to ride the bus, then for starters, riders need protection from the elements. Add to that realistic schedules and routes, and more people will ride the bus to save money, protect the environment and even promote public transportation as a civic virtue.

The easier and more affordable and efficient our community makes riding the bus, the more people from all walks of life will elect to do so.

It took three and a half hours in three sittings, but I finally finished Kurosawa's Seven Samurai. I was expecting a long sludge through a cultural literacy exercise, but got instead one of the best movies I've ever seen. It is beautifully shot, powerfully moving, charmingly funny and thoughtfully told. It is an epic that never drags, and if you told me I was going to be riveted by a 3 1/2 hour 16th century samurai film I would have scoffed. Now that I've certified Kurosawa's mastery with my own eyes, where do I go next?

I like Jim Harrison's essays better than his novels and his appetite better than his essays. I now like all three better than his memoir, Off to the Side, which is a jumbled mess and filled with more dropped names than a dumped postal bag. Things move along swimmingly while Harrison is a poor, starving poet and novelist, but as soon as he finds success in Hollywood, the aggressive boasting begins and really never lets up. Seemingly every major actor and director wanted to stay up all night with Jim drinking troughs of brandy and snorting bushels of blow. Scantily clad starlets are always the scenery. Jim charms everyone, but finally comes to loathe the collaborative nature of film that forces his loss of control over the initial vision of the screenplay. He still tells us the hundreds of thousands of dollars he's paid for the failures, and his inability to keep any of it is supposed to read as proof of his spiritual nature.

That meanness out of the way, the first half is Harrison at his best, which generally means full-breasted prose delivering the man's limitless appetite for food, drugs and booze. In between, he offers an old drunk's wisdom. Nothing shockingly new, but sagacious reminders-

Life is more than a self-improvement plan.

You can't quit anything until it gets in your way (actually, this one's from his long-time buddy Thomas McGuane).

The reason to moderate is to avoid having to quit.

You can build a conceivably perfect life and then one day notice that it's suffocating you.

Everything could have been otherwise.

He's especially good on the battle of regret over the contingencies of the past as you look back on that unbearable lightness of being. He's also knowing and poetic on the necessity of breaking routine and the mentally invigorating act of getting out on the road with no apparent destination. And he writes better than anybody at Modern Drunkard about the body-Nazis and their victory over the pleasures of ingestion. That said, the whole thing has obviously been stitched and tied together with string by an editor with no thumbs, and you have to wade through a wedding list of celebrity names in the second half before you come to any nuggets worth writing in your little black book. Let Jim write 1000 words on the right sauce for venison, but no more literary excursions through the sordid days of Hollywood past. Just stick with the gastric and we can still be friends.

“If Al Qaeda comes in here and blows you up, we're not going to do anything about it,” he continued. “We're going to say, ‘look, every other place in America is off limits to you, except San Francisco. You want to blow up the Coit Tower? Go ahead."

Some Thoughts After Rereading Martin Amis's Money
It's too long. Perhaps that's an attempt to mirror the bloated excess of the capitalist gimmegimmes, but I'll take my art in the language, not in the symbolic structure.

The metafictional assertion of character Martin Amis into the story is distracting. The character is wise, judicious, sensitive, and many other adjectives normally connected with The Enlightened. Perhaps John Self is author Amis's id and character Amis author Amis's ego, but I was told there'd be no Freudian readings around these cyberparts. Is Amis making sure that no one confuses him with John Self? Is he looking for a device that illustrates his erudition and equanimity? I don't know, but that I'm wondering about it is a distraction from the booze and drugs and sex. That is not a good thing.

John Self is a fun guy to hang out with for 7 hours. He's charming in a babyhueyrogue kinda way, and he takes his abominable social behavior to the Nth degree so you can feel better about your relatively minor crimes. Do not underestimate this service. It is one of art's most necessary functions.

Amis delivers linguistic gems on every other page.

Lorne Guyland is one of the funniest caricatures of The Macho, and I'm guessing Jack Palance either loved him or sued Amis.

It's well worth rereading, but by the time I consider rereading it again, can I possibly have the gargantuan appetite necessary for fully enjoying it? One can only hope.

After a steady dose of Lee Hazelwood, Jane Birkin, Francois Hardy and the new Neil Young record (the man obviously has bills to pay- "if you follow every dream"- treacle), I've finally reached my schlock bottom with Neil Diamond. Even the homosexual in me desperately clawing his way to the surface couldn't get on board for 22 of the rhinestoned ones' overblown paeans to melodrama. Now excuse me while I go and listen to that Pissed Jeans' record.

Just Cuz

Lee-World
I’ve been listening to Lee Hazelwood relentlessly, with rapt attention and without irony. I haven’t even been smoking dope. Even when his music isn’t playing, I find myself drifting into Lee-world, strumming the acoustic on a Baja beach, nursing a bottle of Mescal and losing myself in a Brigitte Bardot reverie. I’m thinking about growing a big bushy mustache. Somehow, the water is always cool and mild in Lee-world, and the sand is wet and soft. The wind blows gently, and the sun is always setting on an orange sky. The bartender’s name is Old Jim, and he’s an attentive listener and an even better dispenser of crooked wisdom. We share tales of loves won and lost, and we both stare wistfully out the open window, hoping for a better tomorrow. The hangover has a touch of sadness, but by noon, after the first two drinks are down, hope slips through the backdoor of my defeat and offers itself in small waves to the afternoon. I drift back into the past for a daydream of regret, but the sucker’s game of yesterday yields to the cool tequila glass of today, when every lonely barfly’s name is Sand.

Why T-Rex is the Grooviest Band Ever
Spaceball Ricochet
by T-Rex

I'm just a man
I understand the wind
And all the things
That make the children cry

With my Les Paul
I know I'm small
But I enjoy living
Anyway

Book after book
I get hooked
Everytime the writer
Talks to me like a friend

What can I do
We just live in a zoo
All I do is play
The spaceball ricochet

Deep in my heart
Three¹s a house
That can hold
Almost all of you

I brought a car
It was old but kind
I gave it my mind
And it disappeared

I love a girl
She is a changeless angel
She's a city it's a pity
That I'm like me

I said how can I lay
When all I do is play
The spaceball ricochet

Friday Lunch- join me?

Serge Gainsburgh Takes His Revenge on God

I can't stop listening to Francois Hardy, Serge Gainsburgh and Morrissey.
Should my wife be concerned?

The Best Defense is a Smile and a Jowl: Why the Republican Leadership is so sexy when they're down