8 more years?

Goddam The Circumstance

Help me figure this out; how does my man Edwards get the nod? The eloquent black gentlemen looks ready to steamroll, and the broad is set to implode. There are no black people in NH as far as I can remember (last visit was 1994). I don't know what B.Ob's health plan is, but I doubt it's as comprehensive and universal as Edwards'. How does Johnny win? South Carolina? Nevada is Richardson, right? I'm not paying attention.

On the other side, I don't know anything at all, but I think it's great they're afraid of Huckabee, who is nuts but also cares more about those in the 30-50k HHI range than any candidate. Onward Xian soldiers.

It's the first big storm of the season, and my newly raked grass looks like a suburban New England street shot- that glance out the back window almost sent me to google for leaf blowers. It's an afternoon for fireplaces and Gram Parsons and Modern Drunkard, and maybe later an imported porter to block out the knowledge of my leaky windshield. It is winter in California, and I still don't own gloves. Can't stand skiing, and couldn't find romance in a lodge if you spotted me two Swiss blondes and a room key.

I always assumed the appeal of winter came from giving you a cheap excuse to do nothing indoors, and nobody could tell you to go out and enjoy the beautiful weather. I live in fucking California- I can enjoy it any time I want, so shut up already. Rain is one of the few guilt erasers here in purpose-land- unless somebody drops a "let's clean up the garage" on ya, you're free to watch afternoon tv or read magazines that list the top ten best reasons for getting drunk with far less eye-raising. The flip side is that you can't march the littl'uns out the front door to get 'em out of your hair. Thus, your cozy couch drunkard reading gets interrupted every two minutes with demands of other varieties, most of which involve stickiness. The sounds of Teletubbies are your soundtrack, and even sticking it to Jerry Falwell in the grave is little consolation. So I'm off to play another game of Battleship after I change another diaper. The wind is shaking the shutters, and I'm counting down til the cocktail hour. That's about as close as it comes to a winter wonderland in Piedmont, CA.

I went to see X the other night at Slim's, as another couple had tickets and wanted to revisit their youth. I'm not a big reunion guy, but I took the bullet for the team and went to the bank for babysitter money. We were supposed to meet at a bar called Wish south of market, a district with its own nostaligic value that has closed the great haunts of my youth- 20 Tank, Paradise, Hamburger Mary's. So we follow the street numbers and it becomes clear we're headed to the changed name of an old standby- El Bobo. I lost my t-shirt but retain the memories. Good times. The place is browner now, in decor, and the music guitarless dance. The bartender had the requisite naify chic, and my drink was served with the proper disdain. We made our chitchat and headed over, the line outside for ticketholders a block down 11th. The girls went for smokes and I tried to recall the few shows I'd attended at Boz's place- Monoshock opening for Mudhoney, Jack Logan, the Dragons, Uncle Tupelo- a shaky list at best, which did not bode well for the next hour. We snaked our way in, and it was packed tighter than my lower back. Two minutes after getting our drinks, they raised the video screen and all four original members of your early LA punk heroes appeared looking remarkably spright. John Doe seemed to have come directly from makeup at a movie set. Billy Zoom's hairline had taken some sliding steps back, but his impish smirk delivered all of its intended contempt. DJ Bonebrake was grey and hatted and Exene wore the appropriate ridiculous getup, a hairdo that matches my two-year old daughter's who can't sit still in a barber's chair, and 50's lady girth. And they sounded exactly like they did when I saw them all those other times 20-25 years ago, and again I was bored. I appreciate the dueling harmonic vocals, but I don't love 'em, and the songs never hit past the eardrum. I can see why folks dig these guys, and I can see why they would hold a particular place in people's memories if they grew up in that time and place. They just never made their way inside my shriveled heart. But hey, let's face it- there ain't a lot of room in there.

It seems only fitting that on this day 74 years ago, the 21st Amendment was ratified and Prohibition ended. Today we announce the sale of the first domestically produced absinthe since the ban in 1912, St. George Spirits Absinthe Verte!

St. George Spirits Absinthe Verte is made with fine brandy, star anise, mint, wormwood, lemon balm, hyssop, meadowsweet, basil, fennel, tarragon and stinging nettles. This infamous liquor reveals seductive flavors of anise complimented with sweet grassy tones, light citrus, white pepper, and light menthol notes.

It will be available for sale in the distillery store starting December 21st for $75 for a 750ml bottle.

Not to brag, but here it goes. Scored 4 great records in great condition in the Cruz over the weekend, for under $20 total. Free's Tons of Sobs, CCR's Green River, Neil Young's On the Beach ($4.50! I love stupid hippies), and Guy Clark's first record, Old No. 1. This is the best Clark record based on the 3 others I've heard. Emmylou is singing on most tracks, and there's none of the reved up bouncy jangle shit tunes that hinder some of his other records. It's all quality here. Also got a burn of the rare X-Mas record by the Sonics, Wailers and Galaxies. Who knew Christmas tunes could sound good without Nat King Cole singing?