Travels in Oakland
LaSalle Smoke Shop, a rare breath of sin in the fun-free zone of downtown Montclair, was closed down by neighbors complaining about the smell of smoke. I hope each complainer gets hit by a bus and I'm there to finish off any scraps and light a fat one over their remains.

Recently, I wandered into Egbert Souse's to revisit past glories, and the place was packed- with brothers. We all had one of those freezeframe moments before I skipped out and they resumed the party.

Piedmont Avenue has the most depressing bar scene in this universe. I had an aging blonde legal secretary drape herself all over me and mumble, "I'm hammered and I hope you're having yourself a time." I was bellied up alone, Jackson Browne was on the jukebox, and her date just stood there. I plead silently for the annihilation of the human race and then left.

Hey, I had my best day at Amoeba in years. All of these were under-5-buck vinyl, and I had to halve my stack before paying. Somebody must have given up rock 'n' roll for God.

A-Frames- Black Forest
Cows- Orphan's Tragedy
Cows- Sexy Pee Story
Cows- Cunning Stunts
Cows- Daddy Has a Tail!
Drag the River- Live
The No-Talents- ...Want Some More
Gasoline- S/T
New Race- The First and the Last
The Rolling Stones- Goats Head Soup
The Swindlers- First Issue
The Lamps- S/T
The Fuse!- The Fisherman's Wife
Death of Samantha- Laughing in the Face of a Dead Man

Speaking of Hate (a Zisk production)...

“Beat LA! Beat LA!” chant the haters at PacBellCingularAT&TGoScrewYourself Park, and, while this is not uncommonly heard in the confines of these corporately sacred grounds, the expression of hate is a rare thing in the Bay Area, given how we hover above the earth on angelic clouds of enlightened tolerance and understanding for all things living. Except for Republicans, smokers and the Los Angeles Dodgers, we embrace the glory of all Gaia’s creation. But, like our progressively broad-minded European cousins who throw bananas at black soccer stars and give the boot to old commies dying on the public square, occasionally, we need an outlet for our primal desire to target an enemy and yell obscene things at him from the safety of luxury boxes. Here in the Bay Area, we’ve chosen young men in blue uniforms.

Ironically, while Northern Californians look down upon SoCal for its lack of aesthetic landscaping, troubled lack of appreciation for clean air, failure to embrace the bicycle as a symbol of smug self-righteousness, and celebration of superficial norms of objectified female beauty, southlanders rarely acknowledge our existence. It’s not so much that our ugly southern stepsisters ignore us; they don’t care that we exist. And that makes your average Bay Arean irate, like when you flip off the dude in the Hummer, and he does not deign to look over and acknowledge your superior and forward-thinking Prius. Because the Southern Californian refuses to recognize the better command we northerners have of the art of living, we need public rituals to show him who his betters are. Thus, at MamaBell Park, it’s quite common to see middle-aged, middle-management bankers buying their children Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream sandwiches, attired in Fuck LA t-shirts. No one bats an unadorned eyelash.

So, despite all pre-season predictions putting this year’s Giants squad on a par with a Jennie Finch U of A squad in a down year, I loaded my sons onto our low emission hovercraft and we floated across the bay Friday night to vent spleen. The Giants stunk up the sanctified grounds of Phone Park in their opening series against the Padres, but no matter. There is nothing like initiating your boys into the brotherhood, so I placed my framed Tommy Lasorda Weight Watchers photo on the rearview mirror of our craft, so we could meditate on his human failures as we zipped inches above the heads of the dancing dolphins in McCovey Cove. We parked our vessel and I turned to my eldest:

“Are you ready?”

“We will crush them like bugs. We are better men.”

“You are correct, young sir. Let’s proceed.”

We made our way through the throngs in search of strong drink- a couple of lemonades for them, an $8.25 organic Lagunitas IPA for me. Hate needs lubrication. We threw back some free range dogs and proceeded to our seats, bundling up against the heavy fog that was settling overhead and leaving drops of portent upon our brows. What was that eerily putrid smell emanating from the swirling fog?

“Batting third, and playing second base for the Dodgers, Jeff Kent.” Of course! What better sulfurous example of botched human enterprise than that wannabe cowboy with the cop moustache. Here was a traitorous villain who chose Satan’s own blue boys over good and strong men of honor and decency like Armando Benitez and Barry Bonds. Here was the perfect example of all I did not want my sons to be.

“Hey Kent, you suck!” I screeched, allowing my proud lads to marvel at these two models of manhood- that scum sucking Benedict Arnold smiling smugly from the dugout steps and their old man spilling 7% brew on his Cargo pants- when I was shockingly interrupted.

“How can you boo Jeff Kent?” came the shrill cry from behind me. “The man is a warrior, a Spartan- he’ll bleed for you.”

I paused to gather myself and to maximize the dramatic effect, then turned my head slowly to face pure ignorance.

“Excuse me, sir, but you are confused. He left the Giants for the Dodgers. I think we’re done here.” I smiled and turned back around, patting my boy’s thigh with a conqueror’s assurance.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The man certainly could bellow. “They offered him big dollars. What’s he supposed to do, stick around for less pay on a team he can see is on its way down?”

This blasphemy severed my left shoulder blade and sent shivering waves of incomprehensibility tingling through my lean, temple of a frame. I could smell his MGD breath around the back of my neck, and it was now clear that the devil often comes in disguise. I was on my own, with only my decency to protect me.

“Dad, why is that man angry at you?”

“Because he’s ignorant, son,” I whispered.

“Hey buddy, can you speak up?”

I was in a pinch. I did not want to embarrass my young lads, and clearly this intoxicated buffoon could not see reason if it were handed to him in a crystal PBR mug. I had to think fast.

“Sir, I appreciate that everyone has his opinion, and diversity does indeed make the world go around. But do you really mean to suggest that Jeff Kent does not deserve opprobrium brought down upon him?”

“What are you talking about? Look, Kent was a great Giant. The team nearly won the Series when he was one of its leaders. They haven’t been as good since he left. If numbers matter, he’s one of the greatest hitting power-hitting second basemen in the history of the game and belongs in the Hall of Fame. The Giants suck for not keeping him.”

Mention of the World Series That Shall Not Be Mentioned (oh dear Gaia where were you in 2002?), sent hot, oddly menopausal flashes through my solar plexus. Coupled with the mention of Kent and Hall in the same beery breath, his foul mutterings almost rendered me unconscious. But, like the mother who lifts the Monster Truck from the breast of her child after she’s fallen onto the dirt track at Anaheim Stadium, I conjured up all my parental powers to defend the true and the good.

“Jeff Kent is a Dodger, sir, ipso facto. He fell off a car wash. He wears a moustache. He speaks in a fake drawl. He raises beautiful cattle for food. He left the Giants for the Dodgers, can’t you see. He is wrong, wrong, all wrong.” Suddenly I collapsed in tears. The menace behind me had wriggled free the tight binds of my repressive chains, and something was wriggling its ways from the dark recesses of my unconscious. Just then, as I was mentally calculating the costs of doubling my therapy sessions and canceling Junior’s piano lessons, a roar exploded from the crowd.

“They’re fighting! They’re fighting!”

I shook my head as a dog shakes his fur after a swim in the sea, and my eyes followed those of others to ten rows above the third-base dugout. Could it be? Yes, under the Halloween orange of the Kragen Auto sign, two grown men were brawling. I wobbled my head slowly this time, closed my lids tightly and then reopened them. A thirtysomething man in a black and orange Giants jersey was pummeling a prone body on the steps. Blow after blow came down, and the crowd erupted with each strike. The scrapper seemed exhausted but still his fists came down. Where was security? Why didn’t someone stop it? Had we been reduced to this?

“What’s happening, daddy?”

“Oh, just some disturbance. Someone probably spilled his popcorn. Have some veggie bootie.”

I patted both boys lovingly on the tops of their heads, and focused intently again on the beating. Would the blows never cease? Were we descending into chaos? Fatigue appeared to be slowing down the ferocity of the attack, and finally, to boos everywhere, security personnel arrived and I could glimpse patches of orange and black being whisked up the stairs. I was relieved. Civilization was restored. I turned toward my sons, grateful that common sense and decency had prevailed, when suddenly, I spotted it. Emerging from the sea of black in the masses surrounding the area of battle, a flash of white. Then blue. Could it be? Yes, the pummeled man was wearing a Dodger jersey. His number was 12. As they carted his slumping form away, I felt a surge of boozy triumph surge up my esophagus, like the reflux of a 14 year old finishing a fifth round of upside-down margaritas.

I whipped around like the third turn on a Scott Hamilton triple axel and delivered the final blow to my nemesis: “Oh, you really suck, haha! There goes your boy, defeated. Look at them carrying him like a bloodied Spartan homo. We defeat you. We are winners. You can only taste our dust in this…”

After I washed the foul swill from my face and settled down my confused children, the game progressed. It was, of course, anti-climactic after our glorious victory under the Kragen sign. Yes, Pedro Feliz fielded a grounder with a man on third in a scoreless tie, froze, looked around for mama, and then threw hurriedly to the plate while some devil scored easily. Yes, the real Jeff Kent ripped an RBI single to right to drive in the winning run in a 2-1 victory for the Dodgers. These are mere details.

What matters is this- NorCal kicked SoCal ass, and Section 12B has the bloodstains to prove it. Sure, the Dodgers may slime their way ahead of the Giants in the official “standings,” but we know who won the real battle. And so do my boys. The day after the game, they begged me to sign them up for Taekwondo classes, and I readily agreed. Now, I’m assured that when they take their kids to WirelessEternallyConnectedDotDeath Park, they’ll carry on the tradition of sticking it to the men in blue, preferably from foot to mouth. We are a humble and gentle breed, we privileged searchers of higher realms of consciousness, but Giant fans still know how to take care of business. Keep that in mind if you dare enter our heavily leveraged crib.

It's been nine fucking years since the last one, and that one was pretty damn bad. Hell, nine years ago was two houses, three kids and two pant sizes ago. It's been a long time since the Beasts of Bourbon have graced us with a record, but here it is, Little Animals, on this blank cdr without cover art. Hey, in the diminished pleasure of the middle years, I'll take what I can get.

Which is pretty damn good, all things considered. I'm still digesting, but after five listens I'm gonna say not Axeman's Jazz or Sour Mash or In the Belly of the Beast, but solid butt rock, and for a few moments even great. I read an interview with Tex Perkins where he said they were going for a 70's hard rock vibe, which is pretty much what they got, with some minor exceptions. The opening track is the obvious single, with huge chunky riffs backing Tex's hatespew refrain, "I Don't Care About Nothing Anymore." Please don't watch the video, though, cuz those Aussie cock rock poses (these are men of 40+) are purty hard to take. That said, the riffs keep on coming, if occasionally light on the hooks, but I sure could do without the title track, a ballad about, well, either endangered species or a metaphor for the endangered rock man that is Tex Perkins. It ain't quite clear.


Look, I've loved these guys well beyond what their albums merited, but Sour Mash remains one of the all-time great hatefuck records, even if half of it is pretty mediocre. In the Belly of the Beast may be the greatest live record I own and arguably the best document of what these guys could do. The new one is as good as one could hope for, I suppose, but I would have preferred some more humor and more diversity. Whatever. If you're looking for driving music this summer, get on my Soulseek, mate. The Beasts are hatin' just fine.

RIP Rod Beck, one of the good guys...

Now that I've returned to Piedmont Ave., I'm finding myself tripping down memory lane. The Westall Sessions? Alfred Brown Mortuary? The Scerry House? Hell, I even had a dream about the King from Cafe Valerian last night. He looked fit. So I was lounging on the couch yesterday afternoon, perusing the new Modern Drunkard, when the synchronicity switch flipped and one of the great mysteries of that time done got solved- the identity of one Egbert Souse. On a street with horrible bars, Egbert Souse's was clearly the loser's champ. Walking into the Souse was like visiting your dying grandfather in a pub. You could feel the last semblance of spirit being sucked out of you the moment you opened those doors. If you couldn't buy a plane ticket to Florida, it was the next best place to go and die.

Anyway, I'm reading MDM's overview of the films of W.C. Fields, and there it is- Egbert Souse. Seems that was Fields' character's name in what the piece calls his best film, The Bank Dick. Souse is a small town layabout who "spends his happiest hours downing cocktails at the Black Pussy Cafe." Much drunken shenanigans ensues, including a sequence in which a hammered Souse slips a bank examiner a Mickey with the help of the Black Pussy's bartender, played by Stooge Shemp Howard. Wasted scoundrels, mucho misanthropy, and children kicking- I blame Disney and the Boomers, naturally, for the death of fun at the theater. And I'm gonna hit the Souse this afternoon and raise one to the Bank Dick. Here's to the Black Pussy Cafe.