Archive for January, 2015

Punxsutawney Phil: A History

January 27th, 2015

Every Groundhog Day (February 2nd), a small village in Pennsylvania pester an illiterate animal to give an inaccurate weather forecast and portent to the end of the winter. It is an exercise in whimsy, tuxedo- and top-hat wearing, and groundhog annoyance.

 

The little town of Punxsutawney has celebrated this festival of irreverent nonsense since the 1880s. However, as you might have guessed, groundhogs do not live in excess of one hundred years. They usually die out around the age of six. So there have been many a groundhog to play the part of “Phil”. Here is a partial history of the many badgered groundhogs (not badgers) who have failed to get the weather correct most of the time.

 

Punxsutawney Phil, the Elder: The first of many Phils, Phil was already in middle age by the time this practice began and died after two years in the little cubbyhole.

Punxsutawney Phil, the Junior: The second Phil had a initial run of accuracy, going 2-for-2 in his first two years. In 1891, he spoke and predicted “under a blood red sky, Sunday bloody Sunday. . . up against the wall, motherfuckers!” In fact, Phil the Junior is the first to coin the word “motherfucker”. He was put to death.

Punxsutawney Pete: The first of many Pete’s was largely inaccurate but never called for apocalypse or profanity and was allowed to live a full life.

Punxsutawney Pete ’98: This second Pete was usually introduced to wellwishers by popular TV game show host Bob Eubanks, who was a spry twenty-four years of age in 1898.

Punxsutawney Peter Criss: Like his namesake in the rock band Kiss, this groundhog wore kitty cat makeup, made a bunch of shitty solo albums and was incapable of playing drums.

Punxnotdeadtawney Philo: The first groundhog to be diagnosed with IBS, but far from the last.

Punxsutawney Philo: Responsible for the very first rock ‘n roll revival, in 1906.

Punxsutawney Kitean: Initially popular but cast out of Pennsylvania after being found in flagrante delicto with her pale reptile lover.

Punxsutawney Phil (III): From here, there were a series of Phil’s, undistinguished from another for decades. Anywhere from twelve to 140,000 groundhogs performed the duties of Phil (III) between 1909-1988.

Punxsutawnwa Brawley: A regrettable incident that divided the normally sedate and mostly Caucasian city of Punxsatawney. Did this groundhog lie about the early start to winter in order to avoid the wrath of a violent stepfather? No one but Brawley knows, and he’s in the Carolinas not talking publicly.

Punxsutawney Phil (IV): Return to normalcy.

Poochie: An unaccountable anomaly. One year only. A disastrous failure. Returned to home planet afterwards.

CM Punxsutawney Phil: Promising forecaster, initially very accurate. Died of staph infection.

Punxsutawney Phil (V): Instead of appearing in the little Pennsylvania town, this Phil would only make public appearances at Trump Plaza in Atlantic City, New Jersey. While bringing increased mainstream attention, this would backfire as Phil V suffered a very public case of IBS. Trump Enterprises cancelled their contract immediately afterward.

Punxsutawney Phil (V): Same as previous but back home in Pennsylvania with a severe drinking problem and increasingly irritable bowels.

Punxsutawney Phil Hartman: Well liked and good at impressions and wacky voices.

Punxsutawney Phil Collins: Inexplicably good drummer but terrible choices in suits and musical repetoire.

Punxsutawney Phil (VI): This is the Phil that we have to day, although in several different incarnations. One was a barely disguised robot groundhog.

Tiger Woods: A Reflection

January 26th, 2015

What a corny motherfucker he turned out to be, huh?

 

It’s been over five years since all that came out. November 2009, he got fucked up and crashed the Escalade into a tree while Elin tried to bust his teeth out with a five-iron.

 

Five years ago, I had a different feeling about this. Like maybe these girls had sold him out, dimed out and told tales for a few pieces of silver. Now I feel like one dick move leads to another, and if anybody got paid good for them.

 

"Lindz, your tits aren't big enough." "I can change!"

“Lindz, your tits aren’t big enough.”
“I can change!”

 

At least three of those girls were porn stars. Porn stars are “stars” like Subway’s employees are “artists” who happen to work on sandwiches. Porn is a hard dollar to earn. Some of them girls get power-fucked while in a full-nelson. You ever had someone work their arms under your shoulders and lock hands behind your neck raising your arms? That’s a full-nelson, and it’s a wrestling maneuver. Hurts like hell when enough pressure is applied. Now imagine taking a dick during that? That’s part of the territory in the porn biz.

 

There’s a lot of lessons to be taken from this, and I don’t know if anyone is interested in looking back now since there are so many other subjects to give a hot take to (Deflategate, #CancelWWENetwork, the size of Justin Bieber’s man-clit). Here’s a lesson: YOU CAN’T HAVE IT BOTH WAYS.

 

Honestly, who wouldn’t want to bang hookers, strippers, “models”, porn stars and trashy waitresses? That’s the American dream, we all want that. But you can’t root around in the land of promiscuity while trying to be a family man. You certainly can’t do that and allow yourself to be presented as something else. Jon Jones is trying to do the same thing right now. He wants the public to believe he’s a hard-working, decent Christian man who loves his family. But he’s not. As I type this, he’s got a line of coke on his hard dick and probably two or three ethnic women’s titties in his face. Don’t be a hypocrite. Don’t lie to the people. Don’t lie to your loved ones. You can’t have it both ways.

 

Jon Jones' favorite Ween song? "Fat Lenny".

Jon Jones’ favorite Ween song? “Fat Lenny”.

 

Also, fuck buddies need to have their situation straight. A mutual understanding. Are you casual? Is there potential for more beyond casual sex? The lines have to be drawn and understood by both parties. Part of that is not stringing people along, especially if you’re the one in control. If you have everything and they have nothing and you shut them down and dump them, what the fuck do you expect? If you’re going to be like that, just stick with escorts where there is an obvious “work-for-hire” relationship.

 

You broke-knee bitch-made motherfucker. Your soul is sick and you suck at golf. You still have that hangdog look on your face because you learned the big lesson that you can have the world and it still isn’t enough. Don’t like that medicine, do you?

Drinking Baking Soda

January 23rd, 2015

This may come as no surprise to anyone who knows me (or anyone who has ever seen a picture of me) but I don’t have any understanding of my own basic health and wellness. I have a tummyache after eating some instant rice but I imagine that I have a tumor in my stomach. Not just a tumor but a really large one. Like at least two pounds. I don’t want to end up losing in a pissing contest about a tumor that I don’t have just because someone I’m imagining has or had a bigger one.

 

It’s possible that I just need to drink some prune juice and clean out the bowels. Whatever I do, I won’t take a teaspoon of baking soda in a cup of warm water. My sweet Lord. In 1997, I had such a terrible stomachache that my grandfather gave me that concoction. A cup of warm water with a teaspoon of baking soda in it. It calmed my stomach pain and I was finally able to sleep. Then I woke up later and spent a inordinately long time in the bathroom. An hour? Two hours? For all I know, I’m still in there. It was violent and I see how some people can get stuck on the toilet and need firemen to come rescue them like you read about in newspapers.

 

About an hour after that, I vomited in the kitchen sink. I don’t even remember how I got from my bed to the kitchen sink. That chain of events is now lost to the ages. I know that the entire debacle ended with me drinking Sprite to calm my stomach down. From then on, I decided that Sprite was the ultimate stomach settler and I would drink it to prevent myself from vomiting. So far, I have been successful and not vomited in nearly eighteen years. That may be my proudest achievement on this Earth.

 

I guess what I’m saying is don’t drink baking soda. But if you do, do it fast and expect to vomit later. Don’t do it if you have plans to leave the house or are having friends over later. Probably should just drink prune juice OH MY GOD I AM A MIDDLE AGED MAN HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

King Of The Night Time World

January 16th, 2015

It was 2:30 in the morning, just outside of Louisville. I was on my way home from my first solo gig in 8 months? 10 months? It’s been so long, who can recall?

I drove home, eating gas station chicken and I thought to myself: “I didn’t choose the rock ‘n roll life. It chose me.”

Who am I? I’m the King of the Night Time World.

 

 

 

It’s Hard To Write These Days

January 13th, 2015

I took the long view. I’ve seen how it has gone down. It has sucked. Not my life. Just the world. Although my life has sucked, too. But this isn’t about me.

 

Guns have more rights than certain people. “Freedom Of Speech” is a smokescreen for verbal and physical attacks on certain kinds of people. “I’m all for freedom of speech, but” is the beginning of a sentence that instantly contradicts itself.

 

Loneliness and isolation are on the rise, as are fascism. These are vague concepts that you can’t shoot bullets at or treat with medicine so we ignore them or we give them a passing glance and then ignore them.

 

The world doesn’t make any sense. When the French cartoonists from Charlie Hebdo were gunned down by terrorists we look at it as a freedom of speech issue, but when people apply freedom of speech in their own country, it doesn’t work well. In the United States, corporate pressure applied to people who say unpopular things. People get suspended, sometimes fired. In other countries, they get jailed. Criticize the government, go to prison. In principle, people like free speech but they can’t wait to fuck shit up when it goes against them.

 

Life doesn’t make sense anymore. I keep living. I see things getting better and worse at the same time. Good news for me that I live in a civilization where I can’t be killed by bears just by leaving the house but the bad news is that as we get smarter and that we evolve we go against our better nature.

 

So, what’s the point? Why do it? Why put anything else out there? Why put any part of yourself, your thoughts, feelings and theories out in the world? Why build something that will be pissed on and painted on with graffiti overnight? Does anybody have any answers?

 

I don’t. The world terrifies and offends me. Why be a part of it?

Struggling With Bob Dylan

January 9th, 2015

When I was about about twenty-one years old, I wrote a one-act play called “BOB DYLAN SUCKS”. Bob Dylan is the lead character, with support by Missy Elliot, LL Cool J and Art from Everclear who try to convince him to sell his soul and appear in a TV commercial for GAP clothes. I haven’t gone back to see what I wrote but I remember the end, a group song-and-dance number where Dylan overcomes any sense of self and throws in with the GAP people, culminating in a climax of the jingle “Fall into the GAP” followed by the cruel line “The times, they are a-changin’!” And scene.

 

I feel the same way about Bob Dylan the way old white guys feel about rap music. I did not listen to a complete Bob Dylan album until last year. That album? Self-Portrait, which is largely regarded as his worst album. Blonde On Blonde, Bringing It All Back Home, Desire, Blood On The Tracks? Nope times four. And it’s not like I hate the guy or his music. I just. . . don’t understand the appeal?

 

We got done playing and suddenly it was like a lockdown. They rushed you offstage. “You gotta get your equipment off, you gotta clear the area.” We looked out and saw this line of big, black Hummer limousines. Probably six or seven of them in a row. And we thought, dude, fucking Michael Jackson is here. They pull right up to the stage and it’s just Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan is in one. Two guys are in another one. They walk up to the stage. They play. They walk right back down to the limousines as soon as they’re done. The truth of it is, you believe Michael Jackson would have a ridiculous entourage because it seems believable. You would think Bob Dylan would just back amongst all the trailers jamming his acoustic guitar trying to keep warm with us. That’s the story, but that’s not the way it is. It’s weird and that’s the truth. What can you do?

 

That’s Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips on playing a festival with Bob Dylan. And again, I’m not a Dylan fan, but what does this guy think is gonna happen? “Hey, Bob, I write songs too.” What do you think is gonna happen? Some sort of hootenanny? Bob Dylan was being worshiped as a musical God before Wayne Coyne dropped LSD in his eyeballs for the first time at age eight. I tell you what would have happened: Bob shows up to the party and everybody starts acting weird around him. Then people walk up to him and thank him for all he’s done and he starts feeling weird. Every party feels like a lifetime achievement award ceremony when you’re Bob Dylan. I’d rather hang out in the limo if I had the choice.

 


In my ripe middle age, I’m going to give Bob a chance. I’ve avoided him all this time. The Colonel recommended Time Out Of Mind to me, so that’s the first Bob record I’m listening to that’s supposed to be good. I’m working on it. Watch this space.

 

One last thought. Terry Richardson (photographer) once had an exhibition called SON OF BOB, because his father was Bob Richardson, the famous photographer. Jakob Dylan never used SON OF BOB as an album title, which I consider a lost opportunity.

Cheeto Dust, Self-Loathing, New Japan

January 7th, 2015

A week into 2015. My sleep schedule is all over the place.

 

I will run down a few things for you. TVH played a show at the Manor. It’s a run-down mansion in Bowling Green. We played in the basement about one in the morning on New Years’ Day. A reasonably fun time was had by all.

 

I won my 2014 death pool. I have entered into a new pool for 2015 and I’m playing against two of the best death prognosticators. One of them had 14 kills in 2014. I had 5. He was in a different pool. The other guy was the high scorer for 2013. So I’m in a pool with the highest scorers of the last two years. Wonderful. I’m still researching my picks. Some very good choices when the game begins officially on January 15th.

 

Speaking of, January 15th. I have a show that night at the Mag Bar in Louisville. Attendance is suggested and there will be no cover. You should attend if you can. I will be performing by myself. Well worth your time and money. I get paid off bar sales. Please show up.

 

January 4th was the day of New Japan Pro Wrestling’s Wrestle Kingdom 9. It is their annual Tokyo Dome show. Every January 4th they have a big show at the Tokyo Dome and this was one of the best shows NJPW has put on yet. Ten matches on the main show. The double main event of Nakamura-Ibushi and Tanahashi-Okada was great but no slouch to the brawl between Ishii and Makabe, the win-by-ko-or-submission match between Minoru Suzuki and “Gracie Hunter” Kazuchi Sakuraba, and the violent killbomb finish to the match between AJ Styles and Tetsuya Naito. Definite recommend. 10 matches, and seven of them were incredible. You MUST WATCH if you are a wrestling fan.

 

If you enjoy wrestling, avoid WWE. It sucks so bad. It is an industrial vacuum cleaner of horrible. WWE can be counted on for four or five good episodes of Monday Night RAW a year. Unfortunately, they produce fifty-two. NJPW stimulates the imagination,  while WWE lies on the couch covered in cheeto dust and self-loathing. And I know a lot about that.