Sandwich God

Say it loud, say it plowed. So sayeth the two-day bachelor. My head hurts and Racer 5 ain't healing, but Fran Lebowitz is. Scorcese directs Franny in an HBO special and this place ain't so lonely, cuz Public Speaking tells it like it done is. No democracy in the arts and stop oozing self-esteem because you draw breath and second-hand smoke as killer is a lie. Let the Jewish woman speak. I don't know why an androgynous 60-year old crone speaks more truth to me than all the white men in Piedmont, but there it be. Drake's Jolly Roger is an 8% monster to seek in local pubs, friend, so get out of that musty, ironically named living room and enter the ether. Buy local and get plastered on your neighbors' righteous brew. I sold sixty records to the local shop for 250 buckos and 16 more to Amoeba for 12 solid in trade. I wandered around the hallowed rows of the Telegraph staple and felt the emptiness swell inside, quelled barely by two Raleigh's Green Flashes and a bacon cheese chicken sandwich, so named as such. Bartenders so svelte and young and dumb the cold sore on my lip almost cracked their toothy grins. Doesn't a used Gene Clark record count for anything in this town? I scared off a potential mugger with a growl- can't I get an amen old man for that? Two days ago I left the gentle confines of Oaktown, CA through the Webster tube to purchase a turntable from new bud Michael V from craigslist, whose home address was really a Subway sandwich shop (oh sandwich motif I need you doctor) and I reparked the car and opened the door and boom that door got smacked because city planning is an art in which Alameda city planners are not versed and now both our vehicles are shop bound and after two middle-aged dudes are trying their civil best not to throw down on the street corner I'm handing five twenties to a nervous Chinese guy in the Subway sandwich shop parking lot for a turntable that comes so he tells me with manual and I'm driving home with the wind tickling my side through the hole in my door and wondering whether dignity is just another fabricated notion like god.

The Last Sucker

I gave up on Ministry after Filth Pig, as Jesus clearly did not build that hot rod. Kinda forgot about ole Al until I accidentally downloaded their supposed swan song, The Last Sucker, many months ago and promptly forgot about it. Until today- with tedious computer work to accomplish and the pain in my back shooting fire down my leg, maybe a little industrial fire would move up the cocktail hour to a respectable 3:00. Well, I don't know what the first song is called, but it's the biggest riff I've heard from Al since NWO, a fucking monster of aggro and punker than anything I've heard lately. Yes, the man is obsessed with the crimes of George W., and so we're treated to plenty of samples from "I'm the Decider" to "They're in the last throes," but don't let the politics get in the way of your good time frustration release. I know this is an easy band to mock, but I've always had a soft spot for the whole thang, and who cares if it took three years to realize that Al could channel middle-aged political hate into this kinda power. And given the midterms, maybe Boehner will get him outta the barcalounger, back on the meth and dug into the studio.

Big Pop Hit Alert

Hey, here's a good ole time at the stereo, the White Wires record. Nine songs of adhesive catchiness covering the full gamut of rock n roll history- they even cop the licks to "For Your Love" and "Summertime Blues" on two tunes and still make those songs theirs. I don't know, but I'm guessing serious music fans filtering their extensive record collections through a 1981 LA power-pop sensibility and we will have none of that reverb you've heard so much about. One-note solos done clean through what sound like well-maintained tube amps, and new wave ain't two naughty words. Apparently, this is a Canadian trio who originally put this out in small numbers and Douchemaster jumped on it, a wise move. Big hooks here, and singalong choruses for the summer that just passed. A convertible soundtrack to post-parade viewing number 13. For the love of Paul Collins, jump.

Zoolander on a Trolley

OK, my photography skills suck, but if you click on the picture you get a better view of the kind of day Aubrey Huff had, which was pretty much the kind of day most folks at the parade had. Glorious. Never seen a million ecstatic people before, and it wasn't just because all of Market St. was pungent with the smell of dope. It wasn't just the breakfast to-go cups. It was lovefest Frisco style, which means grown men hanging out of trolleys waving thongs and pounding beers from a cooler while adoring women scream sexual offers ain't close to the weirdest thing on the street. I saw middle-aged men crying in trees, fat chicks with orange wigs offering their wombs for Buster's baby or else they could not go on. It was like a Beatles concert, only during the Summer of Love and Kesey'd spiked the punch with ecstasy.

In other words, it was a beautiful day.

Enjoy

Tonight, Let It All Hang Out