Lee's Steez

Q is for Quarterflash

2012-01-07T21:43:00.002-05:00

Yes I own this on CD.

The story of Quarterflash is one of the strangest and most tragic in rock history. The Portland, OR outfit was big locally in the late 70s under their original Seafood Mama moniker, and became Quarterflash in 1980. Led by Rindy Ross (vocals, saxophone) and her husband, Marv (guitar), the band went nationwide with a newly recorded version of "Harden My Heart" (a Seafood Mama staple) and their self-titled LP on Geffen. "Heart" went to #8, the follow-up "Find Another Fool" hit #16, and the group's alliteration-fueled fortunes seemed destined for the top of the charts.

Unfortunately, this #1 came with a bullet. Rindy Ross was mysteriously found dead in the garage of her band's road manager and accountant, Anthony Muskie. No murder weapon was ever recovered, although stories swirled involving Muskie and husband Marv Ross as co-conspirators. Her 1982 slaying remains unsolved.

Lost in the tragedy were the master tapes of Quarterflash's successor, which has languished in legal limbo for almost thirty years. Next to nothing is known about the double album Coho (alternately titled "Kohoe"), as the surviving Ross has possession of the only known session recordings. Anecdotal reports generally describe the record as brilliant, and similar to Tusk in style and sound. The reformed touring version of Quarterflash, which features replacement singer and sax player Melinda Ross (who married Marv Ross in 1985), has maintained marginal success since the scandal and has yet to perform a single track from the Coho sessions.

OK, this story is complete bullshit... but I did in fact have a crazy dream about Quarterflash once. I really do like their first record, but I guess it ends there.

So I've been using a fucking cane for over a month now. After a few awkward days with the cane, I formed the following thoughts:

1) I'm gonna lose this thing in no time. I'm terrible with umbrellas, something like -73 all time. You'd think a cane would be really easy to just prop up when you're not using it, but it ain't. They fall on the subway all the time, skitter down the aisle on the bus, and are absolute nightmares in public rest rooms. Plus my kids love to run around the house with it.
2) I'm now walking the streets of New York with a weapon at all times. My cane's lightweight, but I'm pretty sure I could fuck up a smartmouth kid or a slenderly built woman with it. At worst, I can do some real damage to someone's windpipe before I'm arrested or beaten to a pulp.
3) This thing's really gonna get dirty. It's being literally dragged through the streets of a filthy city. Am I supposed to clean it when I get home? Run it under a hose? Nobody tells you things like this when you become disabled.

Oh yeah, any ideas about feeling sort of cool in an aristocratic kind of way are total bullshit. Anyone that uses a cane without a real reason is an idiot, and that goes for Mr. Peanut, Pete Nice, and all the Droogs.

You'd have to be insane to not love the insanely great tapes of DJ Q-Bert. I have the Demolition Pumpkin Squeeze Music one on CD, and I do in fact love it.

I'm not quite as crazy about Quasimodo, although I really do like the tracks (and Madlib, etc.). I can't stand the vocals, which is probably why I strongly prefer the instrumental version of The Unseen.

I love the music and vocals of Quasi, who I know I saw at Brownie's and probably a few other places I can't remember. A truly unique band. Unfortunately, my advance copy of Featuring "Birds" has some kind of dark epoxy-like resin stuck to the bottom of it-- four of its tracks were deemed unimportable by iTunes. Making matters worse, the song "Birds" was one of the damaged tracks, so I guess the whole concept of the album is shot.

I rarely listen to my Queens of the Stone Age CDs, and I can't seem to find any of my Queen CDs. I probably had three, and I sure did like them. Please advise if you borrowed or bought any Queen CDs from me.

Oh yeah, I once won a bet with a 13-year-old kid by successfully whistling the bridge to "Oochie Wally" by QB's Finest. I would probably be in jail if I actually recited the lyrics to the child, but whistling was just fine.

P is for Police

2012-01-05T22:42:00.002-05:00

Pretty pathetic, huh? My newfound free time to work on stuff I haven't had time for, like my blog doesn't quite seem to be happening. I guess the holidays, being a little sick, etc. has made a nice excuse for not doing jack shit on this self-aggrandizing CD collection idea. I humbly beg your forgiveness and ask to you screw yourself at the same time.

Imagine my delight when Pansy Division's music pops up as I'm flipping through the Ps! My old band had the privilege of playing with these guys, who apparently were/are mutual fans... One of those "somebody out there actually likes us" moments for a touring band starting to lose their minds on the road.

Remember Paris? No, the rapper you eediot! I loved driving around in my van listening to the 12" mixes of "The Days of Old" back in the old days, like any white guy would. I guess being a big fan of Paris instrumental tracks doesn't exactly put me on any FBI lists, but damn if I won't slam "Bush Killa" through my speakers without warning. I'll do it!!!

An inordinate amount of space on my hard drive seems to be expended on a dude named Anders Parker, who I may or may not have played drums with at some point. If you're reading this and have somehow never listened to his music, by all means do so (and let me know how you possibly found this blog!). If you're reading this and are familiar with the guy, check out a piece of his music you don't usually listen to and remember how good it is. If you're not reading this and are a fan of his music, click here.

I was going to make a stupid joke involving Graham Parker and Charlie Parker, but decided against it.

Here's a challenge for all you readers: acquire the first six or seven Alan Parsons records (just don't go past Ammonia Avenue, whatever you do), listen to each a few times, and create a 60-minute mix of the very best stuff and mail it to me. This isn't a joke! I think anyone that does this can generate a collection superior than the ones out there now, and I just don't have time to do it. There lots of great stuff to find!

Pavement had already peaked by the time S & E came out, and were long gone for Crooked Rain. Pearl Jam, on the other hand, have released over 200 records since Ten.

I used to take Ambien and listen to Penguin Café Orchestra, and then groove to the Peshay CD. No really.

I'm missing at least eight Pink Floyd titles on disc: Saucerful..., More, Meddle, Ummagumma, Animals, WYWH, and a bunch of other ones. Was I really so broke/stupid/drunk/cool in the 90s that I traded all these in for an 18-pack of Stroh's?

So it's pretty cool that the Police made just five proper records and got the hell out, huh? I don't really care much about Outlandos, but I think Regatta de Blanc (The White Boat) kicks some ass. Stewart Copeland is a phenomenally underrated drummer. Sure, his name comes up any time a bunch of dorks start talking about great drummers, but have you really listened to him?! A true five-tool banger: chops, power, innovation, sound, and attitude. Any three tracks from Zenyatta Mondatta will cover the spread.

But my favorite is easily Ghost in the Machine. They clearly lost their minds on this one... Andy Summers was cozying up to Fripp in his spare time and Sting was about five French phrases away from exploding into pretentious oblivion (or oblivious pretension). Ghost is part of the extraordinary Class of 1981, along with Abacab, Discipline, and Moving Pictures. By the power vested in me by the region of Long Island, I now declare you professors of Prog-Rock-Pop... ["Long Distance Runaround" plays as the graduates file out of the auditorium]

You know, Robert Plant wasn't too far behind the aforementioned geniuses. Pictures at Eleven was a bit cloddish, I suppose (with the exception of B-side "Far Post" LOVE IT!!!), but Principle of Moments is a true accomplishment. Percy manages to create an ambient rock album devoid of any life whatsoever. It's New Order to Joy Division's Zeppelin.

I have DJ Premier filed under P because it's asinine to have all these "DJ" artists all lined up like a bunch of idiots. Also because he's probably the best working DJ out there.

I put "2000 Miles" on a Christmas mix I made last month, and reminded myself just how awesome the Pretenders used to be. By the time I actually caught them live they had dudes with freaking dreadlocks in the band. I guess it was either that or more heroin addicts? Anyway, first record is pure genius, second is half genius and a member of the "We guarantee you'll skip the first song when it's convenient" club, and the third is really good but sort of empty and sad at the same time.

Do I really have to explain my relationship with Prince? OK, everything's perfect until Lovesexy and after that I refuse to even discuss it.

These Ps just never end! I already discussed Nation of Millions in my treatment of the Cs, but I'll add that Public Enemy means of heckuva lot to me. When Chuck D made eye contact with me and said "Alright..." as I was dragged around the side of the stage and dumped out the back of the Civic Center like Anthrax's empty pizza box, I knew I'd sleep well for years to come.

O is for Outkast

2011-12-09T23:20:00.004-05:00

The Os ain't exactly a treasure trove of great tunes, but we do have our moments here. Outkast is one of the more obvious ones, of course.

Pick five people at random from a crowd of people and ask each of them what their favorite Outkast record is, and you're likely to get five different responses. I've never actually tried this, but I'm pretty sure it would happen. Maybe the hipsters pick ATLiens, the hardcore pick Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, critics love Aquemini, but I just can't ignore Stankonia. Sure, the critics love Stankonia too, but let's be honest here: it's a goddamn masterpiece. Period.

Ripping up her record contract

Return to the 36 Chambers is a masterpiece too, even if it got overshadowed by the brilliance of Cuban Linx, Liquid Swords, and whatever your favorite Ghostface record is. Flip on the ODB when you're lazy kind of stoned, and you won't argue much.

Boy do I love Roy Orbison! I'd like to surgically remove the Travelling Wilburys from our cultural existence, but that's not his fault. It's also not his fault that his divider card read "Roy Oribson" at the record store I worked at for years (my co-favorite along with "Mary J Bilge").

Let's pay tribute to Onyx, shall we? I have countless hazy but wonderful memories of throwing "Slam" on and watching everyone bounce up and down like morons, splashing malt liquor all over whoever's house I was in. I also made the mistake of cueing up "Blac Vagina Finda" at a few parties, resulting in my immediate ejection.

Who remembers Sinéad O'Connor?!! Talk about here one day gone five years later... anyone out there own a copy of 2003's She Who Dwells in the Secret Place of the Most High Shall Abide Under the Shadow of the Almighty? I saw ol' cueball at Jones Beach way back, and she really knew how to piss off a crowd. Cursed like a fuckin' sailor, too.

Speaking of women named O'Connor with ridiculously great voices, I hope you all check out or have already checked out Jennifer O'Connor's stuff. The Color and the Light's my favorite, but don't let me change your mind about anything. JOC's a real good person too.

Anyone know what happened my Orb CDs?

Lulu

2011-11-20T22:33:00.002-05:00

Didn't they know they'd stain the carpet?

A friend of mine recently came uptown to visit me and my kids and gave me a burned copy of Lulu, the collaboration between Lou Reed and Metallica. I'm pretty sure there are hundreds of burned Lulu CDs in fireplaces and incinerators across the country, but this one was actually meant to be listened to. It was also the only way in hell that I was going to devote any measure of time whatsoever to this ill-conceived, God-forsaken hunk of baloney.

This morning I boarded an M5 bus with about four passengers on it (no, this is not a math problem) and headed down RSD to go see the new Herzog documentary. Seeing as I was in a rather morbid mood, I decided to give Lulu a try at full volume. Turns out that the opening track "Brandenburg Gate" is really fucking good. In fact, I think it's a masterpiece. I've only listened to it twice, but you can quote me on this one.

Surely Lee's putting us on here, or setting us up for some kind of cruel joke... Right?

Nope, it really is brilliant. The rest of the record is absolute horseshit, which I'll get into a bit later. But "Brandenburg Gate" is seriously as good a track as this cursed partnership could conceivably produce. Let's pretend (wish?) we've never heard the record before, and list all the possible ways Lulu could have turned out:
1) Straight up Metallica riffs with Lou jive-talking semi-randomly on top. In other words, they each do their normal thing. [this is pretty much what the record is]
2) Atmospheric, highbrow artsy shit with occasional Reed-prose and metal/feedback bursts. Or, Metallica gets outside their box and Lou does his thing. [they do this on the record a bit as well]
3) Metallica Machine Music: Lou talks the Four Horsemen into an instrumental noise record, and immediately disowns and trashes the project upon its release, resulting in lengthy lawsuits by Metallica and Reed moving to Indonesia. [unfortunately not the case]
4) The five dudes just plug in and plow through a Ragged Glory-style sludge-cycle, bringing their individual strengths to the table but smashing their own tried & tired templates in the process. ["Brandenburg Gate"]

I have absolutely no idea what Lulu is supposed to be about (sounds like it has something to do with a girl, who might be a slut or possibly a masochist), so I don't really care about the lyrics a whole lot. I will say that Lou, in classic form, manages to outdo any parody/imitation of himself that anyone might throw at him. Ever think you're hilariously clever by pretending to be Lou Reed singing songs by other artists? Give it up, homeboy. Leatherface himself tops all with his "You are my Goliath... you are my Goliath" mantra on "Mistress Dread."

I'm not going to waste anyone's time ripping apart tracks 2 through 10 on Lulu, because any idiot with two ear canals can do it themselves. I'm just overjoyed that at the very least, if only for 4 minutes and 19 seconds, these numbskulls came up with something really exciting. Hey, maybe Lulu will spawn more absurd "mash-downs" in the near future? How about Randy Newman and King Crimson with their new release, Hollywood Serpent? Have you heard the new Al Jarreau & Yo La Tengo collaboration on Matador Records? I think it's called There Is A Street And Its Name Is Bop.

N is for Nas

2011-11-08T20:15:00.001-05:00

Tough to talk about the N section of my music collection without Nas coming up. He's easily got the most pieces, although Naughty By Nature's pretty damn close (how the hell did that happen?). No, I don't own the Nirvana box set.

Illmatic put Nas in the hip-hop pantheon for life, and rightfully so. There were plenty of great rap records in the 90s that were more daring, more groundbreaking, or just more plain old fun, but Illmatic's the critical purist's dream. Smart, street, lean, and great fucking beats.

Max Schreck puttin' heads to bed.

No surprise that "Dr. Knockboots" never made another perfect record again. One could make a great mix of highlights from the rest of his career (and more than one of these exist), but that's about it. Maybe he'll be the Dallas Braden of rap... well, probably not.

Much more interesting to imagine the future Nas nicknames. Ever since Nastradamus dropped (I think I dropped mine in the garbage once), me and my boy Grit (keep ya head up, kid!) have been passing moniker-morphs back'n forth:

Nasferatu - Vampires are still trending, right? This could be dope! My long fingernails scratching in the night... I ain't a snitch but yo my bitches I might bite... Some creepy Gravediggaz-style beats and this thing's on, although we just missed Halloween.

NasDAQ "Toolz Of Tha Trade" - Might be a little tricky, but maybe some sort of anti-OccupyWallStreet angle?

Da Planet UraNas - A trip through the solar system, perhaps a different producer for each planet?

Goin' BanaNas - Full-on rap comedy album; could probably resurrect a few careers with this one, but likely to end his own.

Entre Nas - All French production team, maybe a lounge-electronica kind of vibe? Guest spot by Wyclef? Anybody still reading?

I always considered myself a fan of Napalm Death, but I can't find a single one of their recordings in my home. I think this officially makes me a poser.

I could write for hours about N*E*R*D, but I have nowhere near the amount of drugs this would require. Same goes for Neu!, Neurosis, and New Order.

Oh yeah, Nirvana. Am I the only one that listens to Nevermind and wishes it sounded like In Utero, and then listens to In Utero and wishes the songs were as good as Nevermind?

The Nuggets box rules. Those who say, "Yeah, but I'm just not into that kind of stuff..." should stand facing a mirror with their entire record collection behind them and say, "I guess I'm just not into rock and roll."

In Defense of Phil Collins

2011-10-29T21:54:00.001-04:00

What were they doing?

At some point in the 1980s, the words Phil Collins became interchangeable with sellout, lame, bad, or simply uncool. I'm here to argue that there was actually a time when Phil Collins might have been the coolest guy in the business.

I'd say things started going sour for Phil in 1986 (Invisible Touch, "Land of Confusion" video) or possibly late 1985 ("Separate Lives" and general fallout from No Jacket Required). Of course, I mean artistically sour; PC's bank was as sweet as dew on the vine at this point. He was turning mere over-exposure into hyper-exposure, and alienating even his ficklest fans. By the end of the decade, we were left convincing ourselves that drivel like "Throwing It All Away" and "One More Night" wasn't all that bad.

Friends, it wasn't always this way. Phil was a world class banger through the entire early 70s, as any objective listen to Nursery Cryme, Selling England... or Lamb will verify. That's not really news to the casual music fan... most people would admit, "Yeah, I know his drums were pretty good on the Peter Gabriel Genesis stuff, but..."

Hold it right there. The drums on Trick of the Tail and W & W are awesome, so it had nothing to do with Gabriel's hip factor. In fact, Phil already had a resumé that was way cooler than PG could even dream of until he hooked up with Fripp. Let's look at some of Phil's extracurricular work so far:

Eno's Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy), Another Green World, Before and After Science: PC does a nice job on Tiger Mountain, but positively kills it on Green World and BAAS. Those records aren't the same without him.

Brand X: Take it or leave it, but pretty awesome to have a legitimate experimental jazz fusion outfit on the side of your arena-level prog rock band. Great drums, and a few make-you-puke-up-your-tussin-it's-so-nuts tracks give Brand X the stamp of approval.

Not bad, eh? Phil kept in touch with his UK art-rock pals right into the early 80s, and hit the session jackpot with his work on his old mate's Peter Gabriel record in 1980. PG ironically gave birth to the "Phil Collins drum sound" and countless radio hours over the decade. The sound also opened the gate (ugh!) for Phil's demise, as his "big" period ("In the Air Tonight," "I Don't Care Anymore," Something's Going On, Behind the Sun, Pictures at Eleven, "Easy Lover" etc.) made good songs great and made bad songs really fucking annoying.

Phil was the undisputed king of the parking lot from '81 to '83, and here's why:
Face Value - the quintessential drummer does it all, bad marriage solo record.
Abacab - one of the most underrated records of the 1980s, co-defines prog-pop with Ghost in the Machine and Moving Pictures.
Hello, I Must Be Going! - even darker than Face Value, and is 50% perfect (not bad!).
Pictures At Eleven - "Far Post." Nuff said.
"I Know There's Something Going On" - Solidifies the "paranoid drum song" genre.
Three Sides Live - "Paperlate" b/w "You Might Recall" might be the apex of Genesis/Phil Collins, if not my own listening lifetime.
Principle of Moments - some genius is sampling "In The Mood" as we speak...
and, um, he also played on an Al Di Meola record in '83 and the Genesis album with "That's All," which I don't really want to talk about.

Hey, maybe the guy just got tired? I sang "Against All Odds" once at Winnie's and nearly passed out, so imagine how Phil musta felt! Oh yeah, he also played at Philly Live Aid and Wembley Live Aid (with Zeppelin!) without the use of a teleporter. Overexposed much?

I won't defend anything after 1985, so don't ask me to (with the possible exception of Stephen Bishop's horrendous Bowling in Paris record, which I'll gladly spin at any party I'm invited to).

This man is a billionaire.

M is for Metallica

2011-10-26T20:29:00.001-04:00

M's the first big section I've had so far, weighing in at well over 200 discs. Had some fun looking through my Mahavishnu sides (haven't listened much), and was a bit surprised at how often Bill Laswell's name comes up in other M titles. Nothing too exciting until I hit Kill 'Em All.

Pretty weird that talking about Metallica these days is a lot like talking about The Who or Pink Floyd. Maybe you've forgotten the first time you heard them, which probably means you weren't listening in the first place. Maybe you got sick of their bullshit and stopped caring, or just grew up and got a job. Allow me to refresh your memory.

Metallica were the best band in the world for damn near ten years. They did everything to the nth degree: played louder, faster, longer, were smarter, cooler, got more drunk, and generally beat the pants off every known band on the planet from 1982 to 1989. If they had recorded ...And Justice For All with the "not very" production of $5.98 E.P. they might have created the greatest hard rock album of all time. Metallica.

That said, I'm not sure what to think about the Lou Reed/Metallica collaboration, Lulu. I absolutely love it, but I intend to never hear a single note. However, I'm all in on the tour! Already hearing rumors of a "Sword of Damocles"/"Leper Messiah" medley encore, and possibly a guest appearance by Fernando Saunders on "Orion"... but these are just internet stories.

Lessee... how about a list of outstanding M records?
The Charm of the Highway Strip, Breaking Atoms, Master of Puppets, Bright Size Life, Operation: Doomsday, Mingus Ah Um, Double Nickels on the Dime, "Shook Ones Part II", Astral Weeks, Orgasmatron, Glider EP.
Personal faves:
The Pipes of Pan at Jajouka, A, Fear and Whiskey, Cargo, Blackout!, Special Herbs Vol. 7 & 8, The Introduction, "Universal Magnetic" b/w "If You Can Huh! (You Can Hear).

Sorry, still recovering from a couple of months of physical agony. I'll get some spunk back real soon.

I'm back!!!

2011-10-19T11:39:00.000-04:00

[sound of tree falling in unpopulated area]

L is for Los Lobos

2011-08-12T23:11:00.000-04:00

What?!!! How could L possibly be for anything other than Led Zeppelin?!!!

Hey, Zeppelin is obviously the greatest rock band of all time. No arguments there. But when I heard the theme from the Disney Jr. program Handy Manny the other day, I remembered just how criminally underappreciated Los Lobos have been for the last few decades.

I'm not even sure these guys are even "that band that did 'La Bamba'" any more... they might have disappeared from the general consciousness completely. I once drunkenly called The Wolves the "quintessential American band of our generation" (God, I used to love saying shit like that!). I mean, they had their paws (get it?) in the L.A. punk scene, roots rock, trad/Chicano, country, straight-up songwriting, textural production, you name it! These guys could, and did do anything and everything.

Up until the early '90s (I say "up until" because they were a full-fledged working and recording band in the fucking seventies!) it looked like LL might end up in the "great band, good records" file. The Neighborhood was pretty great, but Kiko is absolutely brilliant. You'd be hard-pressed to find a more rock solid record (minimum 50 min.) in the decade. No fat at all on this fucker. At least four songs can bring a grown man to tears, and a few might even inspire you to actually make something out of your life. "Short Side of Nothing" is the one of the greatest songs about the American experience, fuck that, the human experience ever written.

Don't get me wrong here. Their first couple of records (and EP) are great, and might actually document their live sound even better than their production-oriented stuff. But the fact that they took a chance and made Kiko, Latin Playboys (sort of), and Colossal Head was extraordinary. Tripping out to the beautiful "Ten Believers" and then getting your ass destroyed by "Mas y Mas" is the musical equivalent of jumping out of a jacuzzi and into the Arctic Ocean. No, they're not even on the same record, but I used to love doing this anyway.

Me and my music buddies (all huge fans) went to see Los Lobos play at some damn amusement park in Rhode Island right after Kiko came out. We were fucking corndogs-- smoking bad weed on a roller coaster, chugging big cans of beer, generally having fun. The band kicked ass, and we got so excited that we decided to "sneak backstage" after the show. We basically just walked into their dressing area, sat down, and started drinking their beer and eating their food. I think someone from the club followed us and was waved off by one of the band members, for reasons I still can't comprehend. Maybe we rattled off enough trivia about their discography to stay? Maybe they wanted to hear more about our band (doubt it!)? Maybe they were just plain bored (yep).

Regardless, we hung out with Los Lobos for what seemed like hours, and managed to keep what I remember to be actual conversations with these fine gentlemen. Steve Berlin was talking about early '80s Los Angeles, Louie Perez revealed recording secrets involving Pete Thomas, Conrad Lozano gave some tax advice (I'm not kidding!)... they really seemed comfortable shooting the shit with a bunch of drunken strangers. The only guy that wasn't interested at all was Cesar Rosas-- he had his headphones on for the entire ordeal.

Eventually it was my turn to sit alone with David Hidalgo, which was probably the most exciting "celebrity experience" I've ever had. This guy is one of the best songwriters, vocalists, and guitarists I've ever heard. Period. He sat there and listened, then looked me in the eye and said, "Just play music." Fucking amazing.

In other Mexican-American music news, "Low Rider Madness" by A Lighter Shade of Brown was my very favorite song for a few months. That was a weird period for me.

Let's salute Last Exit, Large Professor, Labradford, the Libertines, Lighting Bolt, Suede, Love, Nick Lowe, and Skynyrd while we're at it. And Led Zeppelin, who probably wouldn't have let me and my friends hang out with them backstage and drink their beer and eat their sandwiches.

K is for Killarmy

2011-08-11T09:18:00.000-04:00

Has anyone ever tasted aspic?

So we got back from a family trip yesterday afternoon, and boy are my hip flexors tired! Apparently I've lost almost all of my strength in this rather essential muscular group, which includes the iliopsoas and adductor longus muscles. From Wikipedia: Without the iliopsoas muscles, flexion in sitting position is not possible across the horizontal plane. Yeah, and it's really a bitch to walk, too.

Anyway, we had a really fun time, despite my adductor longus issues in the St. Louis airport and associated car rental location. After a grueling drive across Missouri featuring rain squalls of biblical proportions (causing Lee Jr. to shriek uncontrollably for about twenty miles), a slightly scary truck stop where a 5:3 ratio of males to toilets in the restroom was maintained over a 15 minute interval, and a statewide dearth of Smurf Happy Meals at McDonald's, we sputtered over the tire slicers at Avis/Budget (which Jr. hilariously called "Ah-vis Boojit" every damn chance he had) to return our purplish Hyundai. For some mysterious reason, we had to leave our car at the bottom of a long hill at least a football field away from the Avis shuttle bus, forcing us to climb an expanse of hot gravel with all of our luggage and both of our children. Everyone in the family had to piss badly, and nobody seemed to give a shit.

The shuttle bus bounced all over the damn place on the way over to Lambert, making our little 18-month angel cry her eyes out and nearly ejecting Jr.'s "Cars 2" potty seat right out the side of the vehicle. We finally get to the airport, and check our baggage curbside with the custodian from the Spinal Tap Cleveland concert. We had about as much luck as they did finding their way around-- I ended up separated from the rest of my family by a makeshift "under repairs" wall in the terminal and barely found each other. That said, the flight back wasn't too bad.

Here's what I learned from our trip:
1) Portable DVD players save lives.
2) Don't try to squirt allergy medicine down your 3-year old's throat mid-flight... just squeeze it into his drink.
3) Watching dozens of twenty minute chunks of Toy Story, Toy Story 2, and Toy Story 3 is really confusing and doesn't serve the filmmakers' intentions.
4) I honestly don't mind homes with little biblical quotes hanging all over the place, but I just can't seem to find inspiration from them. I was having a bit of a crisis in the bathroom late last night, and could only find something about "thine oxen" on the wall.
5) Always pack extra Prilosec when travelling in the Midwest. Just do it!
6) Airline stewardesses named Blanche may appear kind and helpful, but ultimately should not be trusted.

K,K,K,K... what begins with K? A few of the darker Wu-Tang projects, for starters. I remember listening to the Killah Priest stuff and saying, "This guy definitely has an interesting approach and something to say, but I'm not sure that I'm enjoying myself while listening to his music." My experience with Killarmy was similar, except that I never said anything about it for fear of being murdered. However, I don't need a gun to my head to tell you that the tracks on Silent Weapons (and, to a lesser degree, Dirty Weaponry) are spectacular. As for the rapping, well... I guess it's OK [looking over my shoulder for hidden assassins].

My King Crimson CD collection has been gutted out like a Tanzanian bush pig. Here's the damage: In the Wake of Poseidon, Three of a Perfect Pair (gotta have these); Beat (I'd like it back, but not losing any sleep); Lizard, Islands (good riddance); USA, Earthbound (probably only had on cassette); Young Person's Guide... (definitely never had CD). Everything else is still here. As for the crap after Perfect Pair, I'm waiting for someone to convince me that it's worth a darn (C. Simone?).

I seem to be missing some Kinks records too, but all the ones I love are still around. Life's not worth living without Village Green.

Not much else going on in the K department. Kraftwerk 2 is sehr gut, and solo stuff by KRS-One is interesting only for the production by Primo. Kool G Rap never fails, Kool Moe Dee is good for a few laughs, and Kool Keith slams on Sex Style. I don't know where this Diana Krall CD came from, but it looks like it cost at least $17.

J is for Jesus Lizard

2011-08-02T22:21:00.000-04:00

My friends and I are such unbearable dorks that we often attend Yankee games with prepared trivia questions and/or Saturday New York Times crosswords. I even do this with my wife! Also included in these pursuits is the creation of music-themed lists/categories.

I've written about this before: best metal bands of all time, bands whose name contains a member that isn't the lead singer, etc. At an excruciating loss to the Red Sox this year, we explored the idea of a band that was considered "huge" or generally well-liked and respected during their heyday, but hardly gets mentioned ten or twenty years down the road. My buddy may have framed this one within the indie rock sphere (late 80s and 90s), but I'm not sure.

Tight 'n Shiny!

Either way, he nominated the Jesus Lizard as a former powerhouse that can't get a free cup of coffee these days. I thought this was an excellent example... I can't think of a band that kicked more ass back in the day. I might have suggested the Boredoms as well, but the 'Zard is pretty darn perfect. After further discussion, we agreed that bands in this category were probably great live bands without many (or any) definitive recordings, and likely a bit "edgy."

As I skimmed through the Js, I was shocked to find only one Joe Jackson CD. Hello, is Look Sharp! available? Not here? How about Night and Day or at least Jumpin' Jive for cryin' out loud?!! Vanished. I have Body and Soul and that's all, folks.

Actually, I maintained possession of my Joe Jackson "I'm the Man" CD3... remember these?!! Now there's a fad right up these with the pyramid-shaped Rubik's Cubes and Magic Shell chocolate sauce! I showed one of the tiny twirlers to our babysitter, and she acted like I just whipped out a Betamax tape. OK, this is getting weird and I'm moving on now.

James, Jayhawks, blah blah, here we go... I couldn't wait to dig into my old Tull records, but they were all missing too!!! I need to reevaluate my habits of living in the early 90s, because I seem to have traded in about a third of my fucking music collection. I'm absolutely positive I owned This Was, Benefit, Aqualung, Living in the Past, Thick as a Brick, and at least five other Jethro Tull CDs. I probably have all the cassettes somewhere too, but that's another story. All that's left now is Stand Up (thank g_d!) and some cockamamie collection (not M.U.).

Of course my Joy Division stuff is all here. I wouldn't part with those for a six-pack of pure LSD. I imagine that being a real Joy Division fan is like being a real Chicago Cubs fan. Yeah, it's totally trendy but also a true badge of honor if you really listen to the music.

That's about it. Apologies to Jungle Brothers, but I'd rather watch Phil Hughes actually pitch a decent game than try to explain your discography. No offense to the JBs at all, but they're a tough nut to crack. Go listen to "Blahbludify" and I think you'll get my drift.

I is for Irabu

2011-07-28T22:46:00.000-04:00

Hideki Irabu was found dead yesterday afternoon near Los Angeles. If you're waiting for a punch line, you're reading the wrong wise-ass blog.

I loved Hideki Irabu. His arrival and debut with the Yankees was unlike anything I'd seen around that time, and I was going to shitloads of games in the mid/late '90s. This was before the mysterious sensations/disasters of El Duque, Ichiro, Hideki Matsui, Contreras, Wang, Dice-K, and anyone else that simply appeared out of nowhere. And once the Irabu photos and stories started making the rounds, we were gripped with a double standard: he had to be great, and there was absolutely no way he could be great.

Funny thing is, this is exactly what he was for most of his tenure in the Bronx. I'd guess I saw Irabu pitch around ten times at Yankee Stadium, although I only have six ticket stubs as proof. I saw him pitch in the first Interleague games at Shea, which was a hoot and a half. Hideki looked like a dad wearing his kid's batting helmet, and got a no-decision in the Yankees' win. I saw him toss a shutout against the Tigers in July of 1999, and generally saw decent starts from the guy. Don't remember details, but Heath Bieferman and I rooted our asses off for Irabu one time and assembled our own "K" signs out of ripped up pizza boxes in the old Loge section. It was always a good time to watch Irabu pitch.

I'll be wearing my #35 jersey this Saturday, not that I expect the Yanks to do anything cool for the poor guy. Rest assured that at least one Yankee fan will be thinking about Hideki Irabu as Bartolo Colon jiggles around on the mound.

Oh yeah, I just imported a bunch of CDs by artists beginning with the letter "I"... Not a whole lot here, excepting the spectacular Isley Brothers and Ice Cube singles/EPs. I'm fond of Under the Skin by Ice, although I haven't listened to it in ages. What happened to my Ivy record?

H is for Harmonia

2011-07-27T22:00:00.001-04:00

Crazy-ass motherfucking drum sounds

Boy was I happy to see that my copy of Big Bam Boom still exists. Along with Cosi Fan Tutti Frutti and Shaken 'N Stirred, this is one of my favorite crazy mid-80s production records. All are usually considered "dated" and are consequently underrated. Hold on a sec, I'm firing up my Pro Tools and recording that last sentence I wrote as a rap over a Paul Young loop.

What doesn't seem to exist is my copy of Daryl Hall's Sacred Songs. I miss the heck out of that one. If you like "Matte Kudasai" then you'll love "North Star!" That's because they're pretty much the same song, but the latter has a great singer and the former has Adrian Belew, who is a poor-to-fair singer.

If you've spent more than four hours in a row with me in the last ten years, you've probably heard me blather on and on about Harmonia. My two most-listened-to records for a long time now, and still not even close to tired of 'em.

Remember MySpace? I haven't been there in at least a couple of years... until this moment! I just logged in to my Harmonia fan page, and found that I (they) have over 4,000 friends and over a thousand unchecked messages. Surely there's a couple of lawsuits in there, or at least some nasty messages from HJR himself. I wonder how Charles Simone's Elf page is doing.

Importing my Hendrix stuff was a bloody mess. Because of the myriad reissues and posthumous collections that sully his core catalog? No, because my actual CDs resemble 80 grit sanding discs far more than pieces of digital media. How the hell did this happen? Were we throwing my copies of Smash Hits and Axis around the room while we were stumbling around to the stomp of "Machine Gun?" Somehow, they all ripped successfully.

I've already said most of what needs to be said about Allan Holdsworth, but I suppose a quick rundown of Metal Fatigue wouldn't be out of order, would it? Maybe some other time.

Let's finish with a quick curtsy to one of the great trios of all time: Hüsker Dü. They'll never be matched by anyone, and not for lack of trying. That's a sound, idea, and chemistry that just can't ever exist again anywhere. So enjoy the records while you still can.

G is for Gangsta Boo

2011-07-20T11:49:00.000-04:00

Normal people start losing their mind at around mile 13 of the New York City Marathon, which I believe is near the point where you're crossing into Queens and wondering where the hell the 59th Street Bridge is (this describes just about every trip I've ever made into Queens, usually behind the wheel of a car). Then you hit mile 14, and start feeling a little better. Maybe I can actually make it! Suddenly a black car pulls up next to you, and two guys in suits grab you by the shoulders and stuff you in the backseat. The car pulls off onto a backstreet and speeds back towards Williamsburg. Before you can say "Road Runners Member..." you're dumped out on your ass way back on Fourth Avenue and caught up in the running horde once again. You have to run those six or seven miles AGAIN!!!

This is how I felt when I realized that tons of the files I'd imported onto my first hard drive were corrupted. Certainly not all of them, but enough to make me go back and redo the Ds through Gs all over again, to be on the safe side. The horrible shame and embarrassment of sitting idly while a Gentle Giant CD is saved to your computer is one thing, but doing it twice??!! It's been a rough week.

That said, the Gs have been a breath of fresh air. Gang Starr and Geto Boys have highlighted recent rippings, but the giant Gs of Wu-Tang are the story around here. Thank the lord I had the wisdom and foresight to snatch up tons of GZA and Ghostface promo CDs back in the day. Not sure why I'm so glad, but I am.

However, the real gems of the section are two back-to-back records of remarkable guitar genius. Hmm... Slash? Buddy Guy? Phil Hurley? Nope, these are compilations on the excellent Original Music and Sublime Frequencies labels (the Matador and Drag City of world music). Joey Pants turned me and at least a dozen other stoners on to I've Found My Love: 1960's Guitar Band Highlife of Ghana. I've made my share of ignorant jokey references about this record ("Graceland on ________ (fill in hallucinogen of choice)" or "guitar tuners melted on dashboard of van"), but I honestly love it. I'm partial to the Frimpong tracks, but it's tough to argue with "Ohia Woa Enwu (Don't Commit Suicide Because of Poverty)" by the Royal Brothers, which closes the compilation with a slippery slide guitar bonanza.

Joey's recommendation inspired me to do some searching of my own, ~~usually inside old Ziploc bags~~ which eventually led me to several excellent releases on the Sublime Frequencies label. My favorite is the Guitars of the Golden Triangle: Folk and Pop Music of Myanmar (Burma), Vol.2 CD. Lots of great stuff on here, but the pieces by Saing Saing Maw are outstanding. As with most comps like these, very little information about the artists is supplied; this is because such information doesn't exist. The label's Cambodian Cassette Archives release is tragically mysterious, with well over half its tracks credited to "anon" and song titles that come up on Gracenote as either "Unknown," "Uknown," or "Unkown." Anyway, Saing Saing Maw's lead guitar playing is absolutely terrifying-- the solo on "Lah Ley Cham" sounds like it destroyed the recording mechanism used in the session. Writers say things like this all the time, but further listens support a literal interpretation. At least three songs on this CD are sonic dead ringers for the latest Ariel Pink stuff.

Next up... Hendrix!!!

Tabloid

2011-07-15T15:26:00.000-04:00

Loving a Mormon ain't easy.

Wife's at work, kids are at camp/with sitter, nothing going on... I'm going to the cinema!

Tabloid by Errol Morris was an easy choice for me. Pros: (1) playing at Lincoln Plaza (artsy, but not too artsy), (2) easy access via M5 bus, (3) 12:05 matinee, (4) rumors of Joyce McKinney herself making guerrilla appearances at various premieres last fall (maybe she'll drop in on opening day, first show?!). Cons: none.

Yeah, the film's great. I won't spoil it, although it is a documentary and therefore based on real events accessible to anyone. The story is totally insane and hilarious, and left me far more interested in what the film's subject(s) actually believe(s) to be true than in the actual reality of the scandalous chain of events.

As for scandal within the theater, I found almost nothing. When I first sat down there was a guy in front of me intensely watching something on his iPad that turned out have nothing at all to do with anything-- I think it was Starship Troopers. However, a truly suspicious and enormous man was sitting in the middle of one of the front rows, with an assortment of papers and bags spread out in front of him. Every few minutes or so he threw up his hands and exhaled loudly, as if he had just seen something outrageous or offensive to his person. I checked in on him after about 30 minutes and he was asleep with his nose at around 11:00 in the air. He staggered out of the movie completely soon after.

I had to make an emergency rest room trip (or what Ian Anderson might call a "Pibroch") near the end of the film, and saw the weird big guy again in the bathroom. If you've never gotten up and pissed in the middle of the film, let me tell you that bathrooms are always filled with lunatics during movies. Who else would waste money this way?

F is for Faith No More

2011-07-13T21:57:00.000-04:00

The wait between A to Z posts wasn't because my intern quit (as far as I'm concerned), or because I have thousands of CDs by artists beginning with the letter F (the least of any letter so far). Nor was it because I've been catching up on missed episodes of Basketball Wives (no comment). I ran into some unforeseen problems with the importing of my music collection.

Not that I wasn't warned. The disembodied voice of H.S.P. is still echoing in my mind's caverns: "Be careful with that..."
Dammit, I was careful. I just didn't get a hard drive fast enough to handle the assembly line rapid-fire style of ripping I demanded from my computer. Either that or I got screwed over at Costco. Either way, I picked up a more appropriate external device, and shit's been tin goose ever since. (knocking sound)

I'd also like to address the complaints I've been getting about the "druggie" references in my last few posts. Yes, I'm afraid it's true. I have indeed taken drugs while listening to, discussing, purchasing, mishandling, composing, and recording music on compact discs. It just so happens that the Cs and Es were on the heavier side of said behavior. I'll try to keep things a little more on the straight side this time.

[paragraphs about Marianne Faithfull and Faxed Head deleted]

Let's try to think of a weirder band than Faith No More, shall we? I loved 'em because they made my indie rock friends and rocker friends equally uncomfortable. Here's a good one: a truly bizarre "game" developed organically whenever we used to hang out at my friend's parents' house involving this band. One person would perform the piano outro from "Epic" while another would enter the room in a creepy, Frankensteinish kinda way. The idea was to do something more ridiculous than the last guy, which wasn't always easy, considering the people involved. No drugs, by the way.

Quickly and pleasantly reminded of how great the Feelies were when I ripped their short and sweet catalog. I know I had that fourth one, but... jeez I hope I didn't trade that in. Even if it's the worst of the bunch.

MIAs: Fairground Attraction (debut full-length and import single), couple of Figgs titles, and any Faith No More besides The Real Thing. I spent a lot of time trying to wrap my brain around Angel Dust, which I'm pretty sure wasn't a total waste of cells. [drug talk deleted]

Aaaah, Fleetwood Mac. Take the good stuff from the self-titled, Rumours, Tusk, and the good stuff from Mirage, and you've got one of the best runs in history. I'm pretty sure the band ruined each of their lives (except Christine McVie), but that's their problem!

Shout out to Flying Saucer Attack, who conned me into buying at least six of their releases on the strength of their brilliant debut. One time I cranked the shit out of "My Dreaming Hill" with my girlfriend-at-the-time (now ex-wife) sitting in the backseat of my car. I don't remember ever turning it off or down as she writhed in agony, but...

2011 State Farm Home Run Derby from Chase Field

2011-07-11T20:38:00.008-04:00

8:26 - Joining in progress... Gonzo's already clubbing dongs all over the fucking desert. For a second I thought A.J. Burnett was pitching.

8:29 - Lee Jr. took me a little deeper than I was expecting tonight. Had to resort to Cat in the Hat Comes Back as an emergency backup, which felt like bringing in Sergio Mitre in the 11th inning on no rest.

8:31 - Wow, they're moving right along! I'd hardly wiped the drool off my chin and Matt Holliday's already at the plate! This is a good sign.

8:35 - Some questions:
1) Has a H.R.D. entrant ever been beaned? Specifically, in the head? They don't wear helmets, as you know.
2) Have they ever resorted to instant replay to make a call?
3) Have any of the children in the outfield ever been injured?

8:40 - Ahhh, the verbal juggernaut we like to call the Grandy Man. For real, the future President of the United States, Mr. Curtis Granderson.

8:43 - Cano's cranking 'em out of the Arizona park ~~like illegal immigrants without fake papers~~ like John Daly. Broadcaster just said "Oh my goodness..." like he just watched Christina Hendricks peel off a wet t-shirt. As for Chris Berman, he's been grunting and moaning like he's getting boned in the butt by Don Draper himself. Yeesh.

8:53 - Rickie Weeks seems a bit overmatched here.

9:01 - Bautista took a ton of pitches and then started busting 'em out. I don't know what he's been on for the past two seasons, but I could sure use a few vials of it. Hmmm, maybe he's running a bit low on juice tonight. Or the cops seized his stash? I'm shutting up now.

9:06 - They're giving "actual distance" and "projected distance" stats for each home run now? How about meters, kilometers, and "distance it would be on the moon" stats? Or "distance it would have traveled in 2002" numbers?

9:11 - Now here's a great idea: Fans get to vote in a few guys with no power whatsoever (no pitchers), maybe Felix Pie or Julio Borbon. They have to keep swinging until they hit one out. Imagine the hijinks on the sidelines! Ortiz ambling up there with a towel, cajoling the BP pitcher to keep mixing it up... hilarious!!!

RUNNING LOW ON BATTERIES... WILL REJOIN LATER!

9:26 - Some serious multi-tasking going on here... typing, switching computers, picking up stuff on floor in living room, monitoring kids in bed, ripping CDs in other room, trying to find my copy of Into the Wild, it's nuts!!!

9:29 - You know the box that has all the shitty/oddball toys in it? The box that always gets dumped out and NEVER picked up by anyone?! I mean, are any children really going to play with half of a plastic egg? Jesus, I hope not.

9:31 - Well, this Derby's about as exciting as a fishing derby. For people not actually holding a fishing rod, that is. Plus, I'm in the hottest room in the house. Hold on.

9:35 - This is getting too hectic. I just galloped in from the dining room, where I'm importing "T.S.R. (Toilet Stool Rap)" by the Biz and trying to charge up my laptop. This is by far the most I've exerted myself all day, with the possible exception of making my first peanut butter sandwich. God, I love July.

Los Chicos!!!

9:40 - Oh, thank God. They just flashed the tiebreaker rules up on the screen. I mean, me and my buddies have been texting all night trying to piece together viable scenarios here...

9:41 - Wait, they're having a "swing-off" between Ortiz, Fielder, and Matt Holliday! OK boys, drop yer drawers!!! Yep, just as we suspected... Holliday's out by about the length of a soda can.

9:47 - So Cano's is the longest so far, eh? That doesn't surprise me at all. Robby and Melky used to get more tail than fucking Davy Crockett back in the day.

Lost track of things here for a while... ate some snacks and had a few confusing conversations with my wife. Kinda shut down the operation. I did manage to see Cano bomb his way to the top, which was totally awesome. Overall, a slightly improved but still stupid event.

Yankees 5, Rays 4

2011-07-10T00:56:00.000-04:00

Pretty sure I get called an asshole if I don't at least mention today's game.

So I had plans months ago to take my old buddy Kong to today's Yankee game. He's in town visiting from Texas and a longtime baseball fan, so the game was a no-brainer. As the date got closer, we started thinking about Jeter's 3000th, of course.

Just wanna say that Kong showed a lot of class today... the guy's a born and bred Red Sox fan, and still rooted like heck for Jete today. Why? Because he appreciates greatness, that's why. On top of that, he even rooted for the Yanks to win (or at least he made me think so) to make the day that much more special. He got psyched for Mariano to save the game, too. A classy guy.

Made me think about what I'd do if the tables were turned. Tough one, because there aren't any guys like Jeter and Rivera left on the Red Sox, or the rest of the Yanks' team, for that matter. So let's say Kong somehow takes me to Fenway next season to see Manny (who's somehow still on the team and in baseball) with a chance to hit his 600th home run. Yeah, I'd totally root for Manny to crush one to high heaven and lope around the bases like an idiot. I really would. But would I cheer on the team to win the game? No.

I guess I'm just an asshole after all.

OK, here's two scenarios where I'd root for the Sox:

1) The Boston Red Sox play an exhibition game against a newly-formed team of Neo-Nazi white supremacists from around the world. I'd also hope for a bench-clearing brawl where David Ortiz is forced to fight his way through a mass of opponents using a series of left jabs.

2) The Bostong Red Sox play an exhibition game against a team of alien invaders, on the condition that Boston must win in order to save the human race and planet Earth herself.

That's all I can think of at the moment.

Road Games (remaster)

2011-06-29T21:50:00.000-04:00

I was looking through my unpublished drafts the other day, and I exclaimed to myself, "Hey, there's some pretty good stuff here!" One of my summer projects (along with teaching my daughter how to read and teaching my son how to solve linear equations) is to post some of these forgotten chestnuts. In some cases I might add a few sentences, but I promise not to delete anything-- no matter how incoherent it gets.

This one was originally titled "Allan Holdsworth vs. Eddie Van Halen" and was to pit Road Games against Fair Warning in a no-holds-barred battle for supremacy. I believe that Van Halen wins this one in both the rock AND jazz categories, but I quickly found that explaining my argument was much too complex for the English language, especially on two tabs of Ambien. I'm settling for a simple book report on Road Games.

Original date of draft: August 1, 2008

The early 80's were an exciting time for jazz in the music industry. Wait, didn't he mean to say the late 50's, or at least the mid-60's? You totally missed my point-- I said music industry!

Jazz fusion guys were pressing records by Warner Bros. with legitimate budgets, like 1984's Samurai Samba by the Yellowjackets or David Sanborn's Backstreet (1982). We were still years before Pat Metheny's VH-1 cool jazz empire took over with the help of Still Life (Talking) and Geffen Records. Big jazz records were being made, but the music still had an edge. It seemed that fusion could maybe score a hit record without going new age, but by going rock instead!

Enter jazz fusion journeyman Allan Holdsworth. Then bring in too-hot-for-your-road-case guitar phenomenon Eddie Van Halen, who starts citing Holdsworth as a major influence, and calls Allan "the best." Mo Ostin hears the things his label's major breadwinner's been saying, and decides to lets Holdsworth take a crack at a major label record on Warner Bros.

It seems clear that the goal of the project was to bring jazz fusion music to a much larger audience, an audience that simply never had the chance to hear such challenging music. Bring cultured music to the rockers... which is never easy.

Road Games was recorded in early 1983. Van Halen talked Mo Ostin into funding a project with some major talent, but with even more major groundbreaking to be done. Getting Holdsworth, bass phenom Jeff Berlin and Zappa prodigy Chad Wackerman on drums together sounds like a no-brainer: plug'em in and let'em play whatever the hell they want!

But WB wanted a bit more than Elegant Gypsy -- they wanted jazz fusion with rock vocals and song structure (like, verses and choruses). So the boys brought in a few singers to make this happen: Jack Bruce from Cream, and Paul Williams, who sounds a lot like Jack Bruce.

The record actually came out a bit more like an EP (and when this happens, it's always for the best), but it sure as hell came out on Warner Brothers! I remember carrying my Road Games cassette around in my pocket back then... I'd be at a party, and cats would be arguing back and forth about Geddy Lee and Bruce Harris and Billy Sheehan and sounding like jerks in a record store. I'd whip out my A.H. tape (already cued to the end of side one) during a lull in the action, and then unleash a vicious attack of fretless bass playing that made "Run to the Hills" sound like "Jack and Jill." I wasn't always the most popular guy at a party, but I did get really good at spelling "H-o-l-d-s-w-o-r-t-h" for drunk music fans.

Road Games could have made me into a visionary DJ/producer if I had the proper equipment in 1983. Well, Five Towns did have the proper equipment, but I had absolutely no idea how to use or even refer to it. Anyway, I always fantasized about putting the drum break and chorus of "Tokyo Dream" together to make a cool track on their own. I could have beat MF Doom at his own game by a dozen years if I'd understood my own concept and how to apply it. Or maybe I could've talked some of the guys down at the Long Island Drum Center into blessing the mic with some nasty Commack freestyles... we gettin' loose at the C.M.I., where niggas pay by the hour and never stay dry, or something to that effect.

Hey, I'm glad as all get out to have Road Games as a remaster. The recording simultaneously exemplifies the what could, the what is and the what should never be of 80's crossover jazz fusion, in just six songs!

E is for EPMD

2011-06-26T23:04:00.002-04:00

My intern Josephina quit a few days ago. Kind of a misunderstanding... I'll just let her email explain:

See what I mean?! Well, she's a good kid.

So I've been ripping all these damn CDs myself for days!!! What a pain in the ass!!! I'll give her this... she was right about the "20x" importing thing-- it really is a lot faster. When she cools off I'll send her a text.

Speaking of crazy women, it was a real trip to see my copy of The Gasoline Age by East River Pipe again. I first heard this on a cassette my buddy made me when I was going through my divorce way back. Actually, I was going through lots of crazy shit at that point: divorce, major illness, and a bitch of a new job that I was laughably unqualified for. All I ever listened to for a few months was Lucinda's Car Wheels (for the divorce), Murda Musik (for the job), and this cassette, which I guess was for my rapidly deteriorating nervous system.

For some reason, I began to believe that The Gasoline Age starts with "Hell Is An Open Door" and not "Shiny, Shiny Pimpmobile," which actually opens the album. I not only believed this mistruth, but I even went on record declaring "Hell... " to be one of the greatest opening tracks of all time. If you start at track #2 and stop before you get to the awful Atlantic City song, you're looking at an amazing album.

I've chosen to alphabetize "number bands" by their spelling and not their numerical value, so 801 Live belongs in this discussion. You won't find this square peg of a record in many discussions at all, unless you keep very peculiar company. For the unenlightened, 801 was a side project art-prog supergroup featuring Phil Manzanera (Roxy Music), Brian Eno (band name came from one of his songs), Francis Monkman (ex-Curved Air, future founder of Sky), Bill MacCormick (ex-Crimso Ian MacDonald's brother), Lloyd Watson (prog session guitar guy), and Simon Phillips (drums for Jeff Beck, Judas Priest, Pete Townshend, The Who, Asia, Toto, etc.). Like I said, a supergroup.

The record itself is weird as hell. Supposedly it was one of the first live albums primarily recorded "direct" (not mic'ed or off the board) to tape. That explains a few things, but the song selections are the story here: oddball Eno covers, standards by Kinks & Beatles, and wacko prog-fusion instrumentals. You might say that I found this album to be influential on my own career...

The best part of 801 Live, however, is particular to my very own copy of the E'G Records CD. It shouldn't surprise readers to read that I listened to this recording with friends while drinking cough syrup from time to time. One afternoon years ago I woke up to find this beloved treasure completely soaked in Maximum Strength DM-- the jewel box looked like a melted grape Fla-Vor-Ice sheath. Pictured at right is the actual booklet, complete with tussin discolorations.

I already dragged the Eno reissues through the mud a while back, so I won't do it again. On a positive note, I'll nominate side two of Before and After Science as my favorite flip side of all time.

Everybody loves EPMD for reasons that are obvious to those of us blessed with a pair of functional ears and/or legs. It's the morons that judge rap solely on "importance" that miss out on all the fun. Pretty tough to beat Strictly Business on any level, and I'll throw "So What Cha Sayin'" in with the cream too. Nothing we don't already know...

I will volunteer some new theories regarding the other rap giants of the E section, the Gog and Magog of hip hop... Eric B. & Rakim. I once brilliantly outlined a one-to-one correspondence of the catalog of Wyandanch's finest and another LI/NYC crew called the Velvet Underground. Yes, these two hugely influential musical acts followed dual paths, as demonstrated by their pristine recording tetrads. I can't exactly remember the finer points of my case, but I know that "My Melody" and "Venus in Furs" had something to do with it. Or maybe it was "Lyrics of Fury" and "I Heard Her Call My Name"... not sure. Since I've also famously presented the VU and Uncle Tupelo catalogs as analogs, it follows that Eric B. & Rakim and UT should also correspond. I'll leave that one to the listeners.

D is for Dumptruck

2011-06-12T06:44:00.000-04:00

First things first... I've settled on a storage system for my orphaned CDs and booklets. The big black Case Logic wallets have served me well for many years, but they don't stack or stow well at all. Since I'll be packing these "fusion frisbees" away long-term, I need something durable, prismic (preferably), and cheap. The winning system is shown at right:

The D-block immediately lifted me out of my musical swamp. Jeez, the Dambuilders were one hell of a live band. My favorite shows of all time were behind the kit opening for these guys, playing my ass off knowing that drummer Kevin was going to kick some majorette butt later on. Not that I had anything close to his chops, but I'd usually bust up a cymbal or two just to make him squirm. Oh yeah, the rest of the 'Builders were really good too.

Josephina left me a hilarious voice mail asking me, "Who the fuck is Das Efx?" and, "How do you have seven of their CDs?" and, "How could you possibly be missing two more?!!" My answers were, "Next question," "I don't know," and "I don't know," respectively. Side one of Dead Serious was as good as things got for a while there. Now, not so sure.

The question she should have been asking is, "How the fuck do you have so many De La Soul CDs?" These guys put more of their 12" singles out on CD than any other band I can think of, and single-handedly kept me feeling "in touch" with hip hop for years. You see, I don't buy vinyl 'cause I refuse to store or maintain it properly. It's a big damn pain in the ass. This makes it tough for one to consider oneself an actual fan of rap music, obviously. Somehow I've made it work, and the Tommy Boy Records marketing department is a big part of that.

The question I was asking was, "Where the hell are my Deee-Lite CDs?!" These hipsters were in heavy rotation for a while there (1990?), along with beer balls of Matt's and lots of acid. In fact, I'm pretty sure World Clique was the soundtrack for the LSD-inspired painting of our living room at the time... a really, really bad idea (lots of swirls and flowers with a hideous black skull in the upper corner of the wall). I remember Deee-Lite completely disappearing as suddenly as they arrived, probably due to the Built to Last Dead tour finally ending, as well as the absurd rumors that Lady Miss Kier was actually a man.

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh... Deicide. Legion is easily top-ten "records you don't ever play at someone else's party" material.
THEM: "What the hell is this??!!!"
US: "It's Deicide!"
THEM: "WHAT??!!!"
US: "It's 'Satan Spawn, the Caco-Daemon!!'"
THEM: "WHAT???!!!!!!!"
US: "It's..."
THEM: "TURN IT OFF!!!!!!!!!!!"

I really wish I knew more about Deicide (the band, not the conceptual act)... any band whose lead singer burns multiple inverted crucifixes onto his forehead, gets a gig canceled when a live bomb is discovered and ultimately detonated on stage, and allows pit bulls to violently mutilate a (fake) body filled with entrails during one of its shows seems worth investigating some more.

I had a Bob Dylan harangue all cued up, but I just don't have it in me right now. I'll end with a CD by Liz Durrett that I picked up on tour about five years ago. It was the one night I actually drank beer after I played, so of course I bought stuff from the girl we played with. I only remember one song she played, which was spectacular; I spent the rest of her set making the songs sound like the one I liked in my head. Mezzanine is pretty good, but the recording doesn't really capture what I heard (or at least what I think I heard) that night in Athens, GA. They never do.

C is for Cavedogs

2011-05-27T22:25:00.010-04:00

Finally, the third installment of the unabashedly self-indulgent "Lee's CDz from A to Z" series.

The C-section has delivered one bundle of joy after another. I was just getting started when my beloved pre-legal woes Captain America popped off the spindle. Along with Tougher Than Leather, this is one of the few records that actually makes me taste and smell beer whenever I hear it. Amazing. Licensed to Ill is the all-time winner for "beerfeel," but a bit unfair since the CD itself is actually covered with malt liquor and literally smells like beer. Anyway, "Buttermilk" from CA's "Flame On" was a boozy fave back in the day. With lyrics like "buttermilk was on her chin, same color as her white skin," it's no wonder the record was recalled! Also no wonder I was thrown out of their show at Club Babyhead for over-consumption of beer.

I'm getting all kinds of shit 'round the compass about how long this is taking... well excuuuuuuuuse me!! Do the math, Euclid!! Let's say each CD is 45 minutes (conservative estimate!), and I'm well over 500 already... so that's at least 500 hours of ripping time! Add the time it takes to put the discs in and out of the computer, plus typing all the song titles into iTunes, and we're talking about months of work! Josephina was yowling something about "doing it at 20X" the other day, but she usually has no idea what she's talking about anyway. Most of the time she's just looking for ways to bill more hours for her internship...

oh dear god in heaven!

Wowed by The Cars in a big way. What a great fucking record. "Bye Bye Love" is pretty much perfect, and segues seamlessly into another vision of perfection. That would be "Moving in Stereo," aka "the song that makes every guy born between 1960 and 1970 instantly pop a boner."

Once again, missing tons of CDs. Between Josephina's notes and my spotty memory, here's the death toll: 3 Cream, 4 Eric Clapton, a ton of Cure CDs, a few John Cougars, possibly 2 (!) Chi-Lites discs, and God knows how many releases with Crosby and Stills on the spine. It's possible that each of the above titles were mysteriously replaced with Cypress Hill CDs, of which I somehow have eleven. What the heck happened?! And where's my Coolio record?

About two-thirds of the way through the letter-grouping, I unearthed a piece of plastic that belongs in some sort of museum (or laboratory)-- my Giant Steps CD. This thing found its way into trouble so many times I was sure I chucked it! Nope, still here.A buddy of mine that crashed on my couch in college for at least a full semester had something to do with it. We took acid one night (actually, dozens of nights... but I'm referring to one in particular here) and ended up in a familiar scenario: taking turns playing records for each other. At some point, "Fruitfly" (not his real name) threw the Coltrane on, which I was certainly familiar with but by no means expert. My friend launched into several lectures within 30 seconds, namely (a) an etymology of the title "Giant Steps," (b) a quick discography of Paul Chambers, and (c) something about bungee jumping. At the same time, Fruitfly had unsheathed his bass guitar and was furiously playing along with the song, to my ears, perfectly.

Like many LSD experiences, fascination quickly morphed into terror. Fruit's fingers were moving so quickly that I imagined them as the blade of a circular saw, which made me shrink back about two feet. I stammered out some sort of suggestion about "Giant Eyes" or "Giant Squares" as an alternative title, and made an end run around Fruit over to the CD bookshelf. I considered hanging on for dear life until "Naima," but that was light years down the road at this point. I grabbed a disc off the top of the bookshelf just before 4:30 on the display and made a slick switcheroo. A brilliant transition popped into my throbbing orange brain in the 10 seconds of silence between records. Something like "here's your fucking Coltrane!" slid off my tongue as I skipped to track two of It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back.

Fruitfly cowered in mortal horror as I practically climbed on top of him, with "Bring the Noise" shaking the walls of our building. I regurgitated some jive I'd tried out a few nights before on cough syrup, but fired off my lines about twenty times faster and clearer than the first time. "You're overwhelmed right now!! You're musically and conceptually overwhelmed!! This is politics, lyrics, production, innovation, humor, dance, race, EVERYTHING AT THE SAME TIME!!!"

I don't even think we made it to the end of the track; I felt like a rogue linebacker after breaking a placekicker's neck. It didn't take long for us to settle down and make friends... I think we went outside and watched cars for a while. Pulling a nasty stunt like that takes a lot out of you.

The Giant Steps CD resurfaced years later on Long Island, when I somehow left it in a paper bag with four other titles on a stool at Gunther's Tap Room. Next time I walked into that hole the bartender threw the brown package at me, sneering, "These are yours." The 'Trane was in there, but my brand-new Iron Maiden collection wasn't. I hate that bar.

looks kinda like a fish...

Somewhere along this odyssey, the CD was damaged badly. Who knows where, who knows how? Regardless, there's a swatch of digitally encoded polycarbonate missing from the disc's underside. The missing data is near the outer edge of the program area, possibly during the alternate take of "Syeeda's Song Flute." I attempted to import this monstrosity a few weeks ago, and nearly destroyed my computer. As the CPU tower started to shake, a sound I immediately compared to running over a putter with a lawnmower filled our apartment, waking up two of the three sleeping children currently residing at Chez Mazzola.

I'm starting to worry about ripping my Red Hot Chili Peppers CDs, if I still have any. I know for a fact that one of my copies of Freaky Styley was submerged in orange juice for at least two hours.

B is for Bad Brains

2011-05-16T20:57:00.002-04:00

Not vinyl but bloody brilliant

If the "digitization" of my CD collection were a cross-country trip, the B section would be the first hour of Pennsylvania: a few initial thrills followed by nerve-deadening boredom. I never thought I'd be so thrilled to see David Byrne's The Catherine Wheel emerge from a freaking spindle.

Highlights:Original Émigré pressing of Basehead's Play With Toys ("Not Over You" is a forgotten classic), a copy of Biz' I Need a Haircut with a chainsaw-sized cut-out notch in the booklet, a promo-only single of Bodeans' "Closer to Free" with the Party of Five cast on it, a couple of weird BDP discs, and more Bill Bruford CDs than I'd like to admit. Oh yeah, Lindsey Buckingham's Words and Music too-- a collection interspersed with dorky musings and comments about the songs by LB himself (director's commentary-style).

MIA: nearly all my BÖC, Jeff Beck, Sabbath, and my Last Waltz double disc... no question that these were traded in during the early '90s depression days. Needed a 15-pack of Stroh's? That certainly seemed worth four or five perfectly good classic rock CDs. Now? Not so much. Remarkably, I'm even missing some additional Bruford recordings.

[The fucking Rays just scored five runs in the time it took me to write two paragraphs.]Flat-out missing are Vincebus Eruptum, Power of Pussy, This Is Big Audio Dynamite, Last Splash, and one of my Richard Buckner CDs. Like, I have the booklets but not the actual music. I guess they all might've walked at the same party, but seems a bit fishy.

Funny as hell watching my computer try to import We Sold Our Soul For Rock 'n' Roll... hiccuping and wheezing over the horribly scratched CD like a tubercular pigeon. After multiple attempts and piecewise ripping, only "Sweet Leaf" was declared to be unimportable and omitted.

A is for Audioslave

2011-04-23T22:35:00.002-04:00

As I staggered around my living room watching Carmelo Anthony with a Miller Lite in my hand, trying not to step on my daughter's head, I wondered aloud, "What the hell am I doing?" Of course, I knew the Knicks had no chance of beating Boston in a 7-game series, and I actually love Lite beer, so I was searching much deeper. "Why do I have thousands of CDs stored in giant black wallets taking up valuable storage space in our apartment? What the hell am I doing?"

My CD collection's display value has varied inversely with my age, in years, over the last two decades according to the following equation:

da = 20
(let d = display value, in percent)

In other words, my CDs are currently hidden from view and somewhat accessible on demand. In other words, there's gotta be a better way.

Scary good.

I always laugh when people talk about "digitizing their CD collection"-- isn't that like liquifying your urine? Anyway, I bought myself a big old portable hard drive at Costco on 116th and started lettin'er rip!!! We've officially finished the A section, featuring well over 100 pieces of plastic. My new intern, Josephina, is doing a kick-ass job so far, even if she misspelled every one of the twelve Autechre releases she notated in her accompanying Excel file. "Lee, why do I have to type these in? iTunes does it automatically..."

Here's what we've learned so far:

Most of my indie rock CDs seem to be missing: Atari Teenage Riot, Archers of Loaf, Amnesia, etc. These are all on my original Excel file (typed by my old intern, Michelle), but nowhere to be found. Hmmm...

Totally forgot that AZ started out on RCA as "AZ the Visualiza." Wonder why that never caught on?

AC/DC might be the greatest band of all time. Their stretch from 1975 to 1981 is unbeatable. OK, they're the greatest band from 1975 to 1981.

The Bargain Bin

2011-04-20T22:45:00.006-04:00

Drawing inspiration from (1) Charles Simone's touching memoir "An Ode to the Record Store," and (2) the Yankees' recent success with scrapheap sensations Bartolo Colón, Freddy Garcia, Andruw Jones, Eric Chavez, Russell Martin (sort of), Kevin Millwood (possibly), etc., I present an homage of my own to diamonds in the musical rough. Each trashcan treasure below spent many months (or years!) in the 99¢ cut-out bins on St. Marks and elsewhere, crying out for savvy shoppers like myself to snatch'em up and share. Props to S.T. for pointing a couple of these out...

Cool Down Time - Dan Zanes (1995, Private Music)
Between the Del Fuegos and his Nick Jr. superstardom, Dan Zanes made a weird pop record with cool production and sticky tunes. I think I bought three copies in Princeton for less than $5.

Thank You - Royal Trux (1995, Virgin)
My wife backed off a bit when I asked her for a formal rec on this one, but we certainly agreed that it was a bonanza in the bins. A cheap, cheap high.

Keep a Secret - The Mysteries of Life (1996, RCA)
An industry buzz-band that sold nada outside of Indiana, whose debut features wonderful pop tunes and superb drums courtesy of Freda Love Boner.

A Series of Sneaks - Spoon (1998, Elektra)
Sure, these guys are huuuuuge now, but nobody outside the record biz had this little old masterpiece back in the day. Happens to be their best album, too.

Dirt Floor - Chris Whitley (1998, Messenger)
Not a major label promo-spawn but still a cellar dweller cut-out tragedy. I used to buy this one every time I saw it for less than five bucks, which was often. Great fucking record, great fucking guitarist... crying shame.

Knicks-Celtics / Yanks-Rangers Live Blog!!!

2011-04-17T18:47:00.034-04:00

6:46 - As soon as I get Jr. to bed, I'm on it!!!

7:46 - One hour later, and tied 28-28. Jr.'s asleep but Lil Mz is roaming the living room virtually unsupervised. Good enough.

7:57 - Figured I'd try typing with my 14-month-old daughter on my lap. My laptop immediately went to a terrifying black screen, with a garish font warning something about system reboot. Children under the age of two have an uncanny ability to make computers (and other electronic devices, particularly cell phones) do things they've never been seen to do. Lee Jr. once caused my screen to rotate 90 degrees with the strike of a single key, which was harder than you might think to fix. I had my head and spine orthogonal as I tried to make corresponding moves with my mouse, which I was terrible at.
I can barely pick my nose properly while looking in the mirror-- something is seriously wrong with my brain's ability to reflect images.

8:08 - Pretty good so far. Bounces and calls seem to be going our way for the most part, and no one's broken their leg(s) yet. We have a chance.

8:09 - I really thought about postponing the boy's bedtime and having him watch the game with me on the couch. You know, a real "father-son" moment. Or something like a farmer taking his boy out to see the slaughtering of chickens ("geeking") as a rite of passage; maybe even the equivalent of the Maasai Eunoto ceremony, where pubescent warriors eat raw oxen flesh as they are promoted to the ranks of full tribesmen.

---(MID-THIRD QUARTER)... JR. HAS HORRIBLE HONKING COUGH FIT AND NEEDS TV TO RE-OPEN WINDPIPE... "MAX AND RUBY: EASTER" AND "MAX AND RUBY: PARADE" ARE ON-DEMANDED ARE WATCHED TWICE EACH FOR A TOTAL OF 96 MINUTES OF AIR TIME... REMAINDER OF KNICKS-CELTICS MISSED COMPLETELY, WITH MINIMAL ACCESS TO BLACKBERRY SCOREMOBILE... LAST 21 SECONDS OF GAME TAKE AT LEAST 10 MINUTES OF FROZEN SCREEN TIME... MISSED REMAINDER OF YANKEE GAME AS WELL...

Can someone tell me why the fuck i even bother writing about this bullshit?!! Anyone?!!!

Huges, Huger, Hugest!

2011-04-15T21:26:00.000-04:00

Glad ESPN got this news to us right away...

Pistons 99, Knicks 95

2011-03-18T22:17:00.000-04:00

People have been asking me, "Lee, why don't you write about the Knicks anymore?" Well, they really say, "Lee, you asshole, why don't you write ANYTHING anymore??!!!" but that's besides the point. Let's talk about the Knicks.

Truth is, I'm terrified. Every time I turn on MSG when the Knicks are on, they immediately go stone cold and disappear into a 12-2 run by the opponent. Seriously, at least 80% of the time. I fear my beloved team have become Eurydice to my Orpheus, punishing my lack of faith with eternal misery.

Upon further reflection, I realize that this is not a new phenomenon. The Knicks have sucked as soon as I turn on the TV for the last 10+ years! Forget the Greek myths, this is like saying, "Wow, I looked out the window at midnight tonight and it was dark out!" It's just that now the Knicks are sort of good again, I think. Maybe.

SEE???!!! They were up by about ten when I turned it on tonight, and they just lost the damn game to the Pistons. O Knicks! Return thy selves to the Erinyes and Hades himself, for you my gaze shall ne'er find!!!

Charlie Don't Surf

2011-03-05T21:42:00.001-05:00

Wow. Sheen's-Korner is so powerful, so awe-inspiring... it's not logical to even begin a discussion. I'm half staring-at-the-light in Close Encounters and half staring-into-the-Ark in Raiders of the Lost Ark. It's a brave new world, or maybe an eternity damned.

Snowblind

2011-01-30T20:39:00.002-05:00

I can't see a damn thing. Feels that way, anyway.

Honestly, my recent vision issues are a welcome departure from my last medical debacle, which is still going on. I'd love to tell you all about my semen analysis nightmare of the past couple of months, but it's much too complex and painful to write about. Let's just say it involves a Subway sandwich shop on Canal St., a testing center in South Maryland, and more than a few wasted weekends. I thought the whole point of masturbating was to avoid being rejected by other people!

Things started looking all washed out and blurry in my right eye about three weeks ago. Given that things have looked all washed out and blurry in my left eye for about seven years, this concerned me. Even weirder was the droop in my right eyelid, which ranges from about 50% to 15% droopage. Did I have one of those "silent strokes" everyone's talking about, or did I just fall asleep in my ice cream again?

This seemed like a question for Frank Weiner to answer. Dr. Weiner is one of New York City's most respected neuro-opthamologists, and he actually takes my insurance. I had an appointment last Wednesday afternoon, and arrived promptly with a CD of my most recent brain scans and some scrawled out notes on a piece of paper. It was already starting to snow like the dickens, but I made it.

I was immediately convinced that Dr. Weiner was a stand-up guy and a master of his discipline. Within minutes he had diagnosed my ailment (contact lense fatigue), but he still put me through a battery of neurological and optical exams, probably to eliminate obscure diseases like heterochromia, Horner's Syndrome, and nystagmus (I actually had uveitis, which I guess sounds sort of cool). It's incredible how low-tech most of these tests are. Ratty parchment letter charts and plastic eye-patches are still used by the finest physicians in the world.

Defying description is the "visual field" exam. which measures a patient's peripheral and central vision. Imagine getting bonked on the head with a sledgehammer, taking a hit of acid, and playing Missle Command with a spaghetti strainer over your head. That's what a visual field exam is like.

Weiner sent me off with a script for steroid eyedrops and strict instructions to avoid contact lenses for at least one week. Avoid, as in "don't wear them." Of course, I forgot to bring a pair of glasses with me. [note: I famously forgot my glasses for Mike Mussina's near-perfect game at Fenway in '01... Charles Simone will bring this up any time he has 5+ beers in him]I staggered out onto First Avenue and into the budding snowstorm. Slush puddles the size of Lake Huron had already formed at every corner. My chances of hailing a cab seemed as scant as Blind Pew finding buried treasure in the island sand. I decided to head west, young men.

Second on my mental list (right under "cab") was finding a drugstore-- not only did I need to fill my script, but I also needed some fancy-ass preservative-free eyedrops to prep my sore eyes for the 'roid-water. I spied a CVS across the street, just beyond what appeared to be a clearing in front of parking garage. That seemed like safe passage, even if I was still seeing flashes and swirls from the visual field exam.

The "clearing" turned out to be a side entrance to the Midtown Tunnel, and yes, it was rush hour. I hotstepped my way across and somehow made it over to CVS. I soon realized I ~~had about as good a chance of locating preservative-free eyedrops as Blind Pew~~ was never going to find what I needed without some major help. A kind strumpet took pity on me grim face and sent me to aisle 5. I grabbed a Snickers and shuffled back out into the cold.

Walking around Manhattan without glasses or contacts (if you're visually impaired) feels liberating at first, and quickly becomes absolutely terrifying. A lot like walking around Manhattan without pants or underwear (which I've only done once). I decided to push the taxi thing even harder.

I finally made it home, and joined my wife in a frantic search for my glasses. I believe I've owned only three pairs of glasses in my life, but I'm not quite sure. What is certain is that one pair was sat on by the Mz. and another pair was dropped in the toilet by me. The third pair was at least four prescriptions old, but easily located (of course). We were unable to find the toilet-glasses, which left me with lenses that actually accentuated my eyes' deficiencies, rather than correcting them (they blurred my left eye and doubled my right eye imaging). I immediately began wearing them.

Top 10 Guitar Solos

2011-01-21T22:43:00.002-05:00

Buddy of mine came up with this "topic" a few weeks ago. No, we weren't wasted! At least I wasn't. Anyway, here's my necessary but not sufficient list:

1. "Blue Sky" - Duane Allman/Dickey Betts

Brings a tear to me eye ev'ry time. Probably the only song on this list you can safely play in front of anyone (in-laws, toddlers, your boss, the elderly, etc.).

2. "Comfortably Numb" - David Gilmour

Wait, you never listened to this on your floor with your eyes bulging out of your head? You should stop reading this right now and go organize your sweater drawer.

3. "Flight Over Rio" - Al DiMeola

They shoulda called this one "Blimp Over Sunset Park On Cough Syrup" but hey, Al's never been big on song titles. A.D. rescues this proto-Screwed flange-fest from the tussin swamp around the three-minute mark, and proceeds to embarass the sweatpants off of Jan Hammer in a somewhat unconventional duel of licks (Les Paul vs. Mini-Moog?). Al carves up a fucking bison while Jan spurts synth-jizz all over the console.

4. "Free Will" - Alex Lifeson

I already nailed this one in two words or less on two pills or more in my Permanent Waves review: positively horny.

5. "Heartbreaker" - Jimmy Page

I remember a guy I used to hang out with complaining about this one: "Blah blah blah... so sloppy... blah... noisy pickups... not that fast... blah..." Notice I said used to hang out with that jerk.

6. "I Heard Her Call My Name" - Lou Reed

The gold standard for noisy guitar solos. My college roommate was out on the roof with his friend and a couple of girls one afternoon, totally wasted and pissing me off. I took their bad rap CD out and blasted this song, and they kept on dancing. Neither drunk got laid.

7. "Sinner's Swing!" - Eddie Van Halen
I nailed this one on Lee's Steez too, but I was so bombed I deleted it. Something about skinning an electric eel, or maybe wetting your pants in an electric chair? It was right on, whatever it was.

8. "St. Elmo's Fire" - Robert Fripp

Mr. Bojangles perfects his toggle-switch electric pan-flute routine here, and is given a courtesy reprise for his efforts. Bravo!

9. "The Thing That Should Not Be" - Kirk Hammett

You wanna talk about guitar solos that enrich not only the song but the song-concept as well? I do. The Lovecraft theme is reinforced by a non-Euclidean guitar-poem that defies all known tonal and harmonic constructs. Yog-Sothoth is belching in approval somewhere...

10. "Whole Lotta Rosie" (live) - Angus Young

We don't usually recommend bringing a breakneck juggernaut to a complete stop for a guitar solo; in fact, we forbid it. Angus somehow gets it back up on the tracks and up to speed in about ten seconds, in front of thousands of screaming fans! Breathtaking.

The Big Payback

2010-12-02T22:23:00.001-05:00

I couldn't wait to get home tonight and provide y'all with coverage of LeBron's ballyhooed return to the Quicken Loans Arena. Let's not forget that the worst decision of LBJ's charm-assed life was broken via live blog right here at Lee's Steez!

So I got Lee Jr. bathed and asleep by 7:55, which should've given me more than ample time (5 minutes) to get my shit together and set up in front of the old boober tuber. Before I could even find the remote, things began to spiral out of control:
1) The Mz hadn't gotten our little 10-month angel down yet. In fact, she was wide awake.
2) The Mz was going out drinking with her galpal from Texas.
3) As I thought about how the f**k I was going to get baby doll to sleep, she did a Tommy LaSorda and bonked her head on the hardwood floor. Bloodcurdling screams followed.

Not to worry! Being a pro, I had my daughter asleep 15 minutes later, thanks to a little something I like to call "pumped breast milk." I finally got the game going, and quickly encountered the fourth problem:
4) This game is totally ridiculous. Cleveland sucks! Bill Simmons is out of his mind!

You do the math. Take any Cavs game from last season, and subtract LeBron's points from their total. Now add his points to the other team. Cleveland loses every time!!!

More pathetic than the Cavaliers team are their blue-collar, tough-as-nails, salt-of-the-earth fans. "BETRAYED" signs? "QUEEN JAMES" t-shirts??!! Their wife just dumped them and fucked the local Wal-Mart supervisor on national TV and this is the best they can do?!!!! No wonder he left! Actually, the best one was a quartet emblazoned with "Le", "B", "U", and "M" sitting in a row. When the camera finally focused in on them, the "M" guy was slouched down and looking away (probably on his phone), so their message was read by millions as "LeBU"... Wait, an hour later they finally got it right! LeBUM! LeBUM!

Hey, I just realized that if Chris Bosh was still on Toronto, he'd be on the elite all-star team of guys that look like what their team is named after. He looks exactly like a Raptor, or some sort of slender prehistoric reptile. Other "Namesake" players: Kevin McHale, anyone on the 2001 Blazers... I'm not entirely sure what a "Cavalier" is, but Anderson Varejao might fit the bill.

Only real question here is who's gettin' gaffled and who's doin' the gafflin'? Did LeBron James and the Heat walk into a psychological and emotional massacre? Or are the Cleveland fans (of course, we're not actually talking about the Cavs here!) about to take another mega-punch to their collective gut? Who's taking the hit here?

As always, the answer is US. We're the stupid asses that buy into this manufactured TNT "drama" again and again. They're showing clips from the Reggie Miller vs. Knicks/Spike Lee series, leading us to believe that another battle of epic proportions is under way here in Cleveland. Please!!! The "choke" wars were actually spawned by exciting basketball, not money and backstabbing. Wow, things have really gone downhill in this league.

Sippin' On Some Syrup, verse 1 (Pimp C)

2010-11-10T22:17:00.005-05:00

According to Google Analytics (whoever that is!), my "Swervin'" song translation is the most popular blog post on Lee's Steez. Literacy is alive!

If Three 6 Mafia is indeed the Chaucer of the Dirty South, then "Sippin' On Some Syrup" is its Canterbury Tales. The task of translating such a masterpiece is both arduous and exhilarating. As ol' G.C. used to say:
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage
Now po' it up, nigga...

Three 6 Mafia f/U.G.K. - "Sippin' On Some Syrup"

Chorus:Sippin' on some sizz-urp, sip, sippin' on some, sip...
Sippin' on some sizz-urp, sip, sippin' on some, sip... (repeat 8x)
Drinking a mixture of Tussionex, soda, and/or liquor...
Drinking a mixture of Tussionex, soda, and/or liquor... (repeat 8x)

Pimp C:
I'm trill workin' the wheel, a pimp not a simp
Keep the dope fiends higher than the Goodyear Blimp.
I'm a genuinely masculine human being and completely in control of all relationships I hold with the opposite sex, especially while operating a motor vehicle. The narcotics sold by my syndicate of drug dealers are of such high potency that they often cause sensations of disassociation and vertigo, similar to those experienced by passengers of dirigibles, zeppelins, etc.

We eat so many shrimp, I got iodine poisoning
Fuckin' niggas make me sick with all that pinchin' and bargaining.
Our extravagant lifestyle affords us excessive arrays of appetizers, including raw shrimp and other shellfish-- occasionally our shrimp consumption leads to unnaturally high (but hardly fatal!) levels of iodine in our bloodstream. We have neither the time nor patience to deal with customers that steal from or attempt to haggle with the merchants of our drug syndicate.

You say that you a boss, I ain't believing that shit
You got the funny Geneva watch, with the Ferrari kit.
You claim to hold a position of prominence in your organization, but I haven't seen any evidence to support this. In fact, you've been spotted on numerous occasions wearing gaudy, tasteless Italian watches.

Take that monkey shit off, you embarassing us
I got tha red promethazine, tha orange and yella tuss.
Please remove the aforementioned accessories... you're misrepresenting members of your own crew and your profession as a whole! I'm currently in possession of Codiclear, Tussionex, and other hydrocodone compounds.

Hydroco-done on tha hands-free phone
Tha 84's roam on them blades, 20-inch chrome.
I'm operating a "hands-free" cellular phone, in full compliance with the Tennessee criminal code pertaining to motor vehicles. However, ingestion of the opioid hydrocodone has rendered me unable to operate my car legally. Regardless of my inebriation, my car is outfitted with 20-inch chrome Cadillac wire rims.

If you got 16, you can get a bizzerd
I'm chokin' on that doja sweet and sippin' on that sizzurp.
One can purchase a kilogram of pure, uncut cocaine for $16,000. I'm smoking marijuana and drinking a mixture of Tussionex, soda, and/or liquor.

He's baaaack...

2010-11-05T23:00:00.005-04:00

Just when you think good ol' Isiah might disappear for good, he comes back better than ever. He's already scheming his return to the top of the Knicks "organization." Check out these (real!) quotes from his ESPN interview:

"I want to be on the float and I want to get my ring," Thomas said.
A ring around his bathtub?

"I'll put my draft evaluation record up against anyone's."
???

"In Toronto, Indiana and New York," Thomas said, "I've never actually gotten fired for a basketball reason."
My .456 career record as a head coach speaks for itself.

"Six or seven [NBA] teams I advise," said Thomas, who included the Knicks in that group. "I don't get paid for it."
I also advise President Obama, Dick Clark, and Santa Claus. I just don't get paid for it.

"I was below the poverty line," he said. "I swear to you I never thought I would see 20 years old."
Or 20 wins in one season!

"But I wasn't there. I wasn't her [Anucha Browne Sanders's] boss. She didn't report to me. I worked in Westchester, she worked in Manhattan. I would say hello to her at the games..."
Hello dolly!

"That's a problem with being a visionary," Thomas said. "You're way too far out, and by the time it catches up, people will hack you to death."
Hold on, are we talking about being a visionary or ODing on Lunesta?

"Chuck Daly begged me not to take the Knick job," Thomas said. "He said, 'You can't fix it. You'll probably fix it for somebody else.'"
We all begged you not to take the job!

"I do find it ironic that we all ended up here in Miami instead of us all ending up in New York," Thomas said. "But it's a four-year deal."
Who's "we?" You, Snooki and Vinny?

Knicks 120, Bulls 112

2010-11-04T22:53:00.001-04:00

Wow, I'm actually sitting here at home and WATCHING THE KNICKS!!! I'm so happy that my aching balls don't even matter. I'm relaxing and watching the Knicks.

I was all set to watch 'em the other night, and the game was actually cancelled due to an asbestos hazard at MSG. Jeez, can these jerks do anything right? Utter ineptitude.

This is what I consider to be an ideal Knick game. They're up by 15 with less than six minutes to go... perfect!!! Chances are about 50/50 they win or blow it, which equals absolute excitement in my book. Sort of like turning on a Mets game with NYM up four runs in the 7th inning... this is gonna be good!

Shaw 'nuff, we're down to single-digit lead with about three minutes left. I got a single digit for ya, ref!

They usually win these kinds of games, but it ALWAYS goes down to the wire. But maybe things are different now... these are the ~~no-luck~~ ~~no-look~~ ~~don't-look~~ "new-look" Knicks we're talking about here. Definitely a new look to me-- I don't even know who some of these guys are! When Danilo Gallinari is the most famiiiar guy on the team, you know something's weird.

Well, looks like they're holding the lead. This Knick team might crawl out from under the curse of the new millenium, but they have the personality of a moving company. At least they'll win a few more games this way.

Slice of Life (part two)

2010-10-30T23:56:00.002-04:00

[Slice of Life (part two) is the second part of Slice of Life (part one)]

Esai prepared the first injection, and I began to wonder why I didn't choose the "no-scalpel, no-injection" method over the suddenly barbaric-sounding "no-scalpel" method. The "no-shirt, no-shoes, no-service" method seemed appealing as well, but it was too late to stop now. I mean, my balls were already shaved!

The first injection felt like someone stapling my balls to either a wall or a 7-sheet stack of paper. The only point of reference I had (since I've never accidentally stapled my balls to anything) was Wes Craven's "I want to hear you scream!" scene, although getting dumped out of the back of a truck in Port-au-Prince wearing only a pair of blood-stained briefs seemed a bit far-fetched at this point.

True to Dr. S's word, the local anesthesia kicked in right away (thank Jesus!) and the second shot felt a lot like the first one (for some reason, he had to do everything twice!). In hindsight, it would be more accurate to describe the pain as someone stapling your balls to either a wall or a 7-sheet stack of paper, and then magically pulling a "just kidding!" moment out of their hat five seconds later. Not so bad at all.

Doc asked me how I was doing, and I tried to remember some of the witty stuff I'd prepared in the waiting room... something like, "Hey, the Valium really helped that gash!" or something unintelligible in a pseudo-castrata voice. I opted to croak, "Okay."

The rest was standard fare. Fix the vas deferens, shift the clamp, blah blah blah... Once the drugs kicked in, the whole experience was about the same as a bad freshman-year hook-up: lots of mildly painful tugging, some awkward silences, and ~~blood everywhere~~ a nasty headache. Dr. S did slip in a funny steakhouse reference while he "cooked" the tip of each vas, but that was it for the jokes. I staggered over to my clothes, grabbed a complementary apple juice, and wandered out into the hallway.

My better half met me in the waiting area, where some sort of terrorism plot was being reported on CNN. We then debriefed with the good doctor as a couple, which was actually quite helpful. Doc told my wife I had a "beautiful scrotum" and assured her that my semen would "look, smell. and taste the same" as it did before the procedure. I only found these comments mildly disturbing for some reason.

On our way out, we were given a goodie bag containing two plastic lab cups to be used for sperm evaluations after "six weeks or 15 ejaculations, whichever comes first." I couldn't handle this kind of math at the time, so I focused my attention on keeping my apple juice cup separate from the cumshot cups.

I brought my bill to the cashier, who promptly charged me double the amount I was promised by the doctor. I was at a somewhat compromised position to haggle, seeing as the procedure was already completed. Luckily, all parties honored our original agreement and the fee remained severed in half. At least for 15 ejaculations or the end of my AmEx billing cycle... whichever comes first.

Slice of Life (part one)

2010-10-29T23:56:00.000-04:00

Hey readers!!! Reports of my e-death are mostly exaggerated. Truth is, I've been spending just about every waking (and sleeping!) moment working on a collaborative effort to solve the Collatz Conjecture with a team of Turkish mathematicians. Our parity sequence approach line is looking bleaker and bleaker, and Aztük-Bey (our team leader) is about to throw in the proverbial towel. I haven't slept in fucking months.

I emerged from my math-cave Thursday morning, and saw the letters "VSC" on the wall calendar for Friday the 29th. First thing came to mind was another reunion bash for the old college intramural soccer squad, but then it hit me: THE VASECTOMY!!! I set this thing up over the summer... I guess time flies when you're mapping residue classes with a bunch of crazy Turks.

I dropped Jr. off at pre-school this morning and more or less dicked around on the Upper West for a few hours (Verizon store, Modell's, Rite-Aid, etc.) until it was time to head East. I figured I'd look over my literature on vasectomies while the M72 seeped crosstown, but it was tough to keep a low profile when every page of the info-packets I had featured giant diagrams of penises.

At least I knew I was going to see the right guy. Dr. Shel Silverstone is a world-renowned walnut whipper with an office right here in Manhattan, and a helluva good guy too. During our initial consultation, he told me I had a "perfect scrotum" and called the surgery-to-be a piece of cake. And when I found out my insurance wasn't gonna cover a red cent of the procedure, Dr. Silverstone sent me this email-- "I'll cut it in half..." Funny guy.

Before I knew it I was donning a hospital gown and wondering what the hell I was doing. The decision to sterilize wasn't a difficult one, considering the ~~hundreds of sexual partners~~ immense challenges we're facing raising just two kids; it's hard to imagine doing any more than we already are. As I've said many times, two's my limit on schnitzengruben.

I was led into the operating room by Dr. S's assistant, who was a dead ringer for Esai Morales. As Esai shaved my balls, he asked if the music piped into the room was OK. Something from the closing credits of a Shirley MacLaine romantic comedy wasn't really doing it for me, so I asked him what else they had. He said, "Classical and Sinatra," which sounded even worse, so I settled for Tesh-Grusinesque garbage. I was about 30 minutes into a Valium, and actually considered digging out my iPod and hitching up E'G's Angels in the Architecture for all to enjoy, but had a horrifying vision of Moraz/Bruford's "Split Seconds" startling Silverstone into lopping off my jimbo.

Esai prepared the first injection, and...

TO BE CONTINUED

Curtis Spurts

2010-09-20T23:17:00.000-04:00

Wow, ESPN really went for it with this story. We're just thankful they cropped the photo above the waist...

Yankees 9, Mariners 5

2010-08-24T22:11:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the extended absence. I've been so busy stockpiling prescription drugs in preparation for my "Eddie Van Halen vs. Allan Holdsworth" piece that I just haven't had the time to write.

I attended Saturday's contest against Seattle with noted polymath and beer ~~snob~~ enthusiast Charles Simone. Lee Jr. gets along real well with pretty much all of my friends, but the kid seems to have a special bond with Chuck. Probably due to CS's clutch babysitting performance last summer while Mz whisked me across town to get my bladder drained, but who's keeping track?

We got to the game just on time, and realized that this might be our tenth year going to Yankee games together. Both being suckers for tradition, we indulged in our usual fare: drinking, gambling, and trivia.

I immediately presented Charles with a choice that would govern our beer consumption for the afternoon. We would either
1) drink a beer every time the lead changed (including the first run of the game, but excluding ties), or
2) be required to preface any beer order made with the word fucking, i.e. "I'll have two fucking Guinnesses, please."

Charles wisely chose #1. We also made our picks for the "dollar game"-- a simple system of bonuses and penalties based on hitting performances by several players of our choice. Within minutes we were frantically exchanging singles and ordering drinks with Javy serving up deep dongs to Ichiro and Russell Branyan, whom Chuck had on his dollar payroll. Like the morning after an ill-advised hookup, things were looking ugly real fast.

Turned out to be a false alarm, as we virtually broke even on our wagering, the Yanks came back in spades, and we were restricted to only two beers for the afternoon. Kept in check by circumstance, we resorted to a Bacchanalian festival of baseball and music trivia.

Chuck struck first by requesting the only active pitchers residing within the top 100 of all time in career strikeouts. I made it with a few nice hints, but wilted under CS's tough follow-up (active sac bunt career leaders), even with a few nice hints.

I was dreadfully underprepared in the trivia department, but I managed to slap together a couple of nifty "discussion" pieces. Me and my pals have gotten lots of mileage out of these before (bands named after non-vocalists, "classic" bands with more crappy releases than good ones, etc.), sometimes for weeks on end. We began with one that seems idiotic at first: the eight best metal bands of all time.

Maybe we should have anticipated that the toughest part would be defining "metal bands." Or, distinguishing metal from "hard rock." I honestly can't remember what Charles and I actually settled on that day, but here's how it looks after a few tweaks:

1. Black Sabbath
2. Metallica
3. Led Zeppelin
4. AC/DC
5. Iron Maiden
6. Slayer
7. Judas Priest
8. **Motorhead

**The original list had Nirvana on it, which was ruled inadmissible via the very argument I presented in defense of Kurt Cobain. CS would've liked to see Kiss, Motley Crue or possibly Van Halen in the 8-spot, while I was exploring absurd alternatives like Def Leppard or Cream.

Neither of us were comfortable with the inclusion of Zeppelin or AC/DC, but can you really turn your back on "Black Dog" or "Hells Bells"? Honestly, we just couldn't come up with anything better.

I later consulted one of the only people on the planet I'd actually listen to on this one (along with Pete C in AZ, my kids' babysitter, and a guy named Al I went to high school with)-- my buddy Grit. I hope he doesn't mind me printing his excellent choices:

1. Black Sabbath
2. Metallica
3. Kyuss
4. Iron Maiden
5. Motorhead
6. Judas Priest
7. Slayer
8. Anthrax/S.O.D.

We also debated songs whose live version is better known than the studio version but I really don't want to get into this one right now. I'm going to bed.

Foot, this is Mouth.

2010-08-13T16:59:00.000-04:00

Some of my favorite "misspoken" gems from this summer:

Tim McCarver on Yankees' treatment of Joe Torre.

Dwyane Wade on Miami Heat hype.

Dr. Laura on, umm, race.

Hey, at least they're all sorry.

Masters of Reality

2010-08-11T23:05:00.002-04:00

"100% fake." (her quote)

A totally stoned Arnold Poindexter once queried, "Would you rather live in the ascendancy of a civilization or during its decline?" A not-quite-as-stoned Lee Mazzola now replies, "Both."

If you're already bitching about Mad Men or trying really hard to spread the word about Treme, you're pissing on the wrong tree. This Golden Age of TV we now live in allows us never to be disappointed in a show again... just watch something else! Including reruns (excluding on-demand and DVR, of course), I claim there are a minimum of fifteen things worth watching during prime time on a nightly basis (and that's just standard cable!).

Work of Art: The Next Great Artist (Bravo)
I neither watch nor care about the chef shows, but how many elimination- based contests actually judge entrants based on a creative product? A nice wet spot on Chad Johnson's sheets doesn't really count as a creative product, although I guess I'd have to see the actual stain to make a final decision.
Anyway, contestants on Work of Art must create a piece each week according to a given theme and time restraints. The artists range from dorky hipster painters to pretentious designers to headcase photographers to trainwreck sculptors, and every possible combination of the descriptions I just listed. Contestants' work is critiqued each week by irritating gallerists, smug art critics, loathesome "enthusiasts," and a variety of smarmy artists themselves. It should come as no surprise that the show is dorky, pretentious, irritating, smug... you get the picture. What's surprising to me is how fun it all is! Plus, the winner gets their own show at the Brooklyn Museum and $100,000 worth of magic markers. There's something fascinating about watching people create half-baked (not to mention totally rushed) original pieces as part of a competition. I haven't been this excited since the Vancouver Olympiad's opening ceremonies!

Jersey Shore (MTV)
Haters can go smush themselves, and the indifferent don't matter anyway. Get over yourself and enjoy something that's undeniably hilarious and just plain fun. At least show some R-E-S-P-E-C-T-T-T for JWowww, who makes Xena the Warrior Princess look like Dora the Explorer.

The Real Housewives of New Jersey (Bravo)
I was a bit late turning on to this show and the Housewives thing in general. It's as if I'm hearing "Whole Lotta Love" having never heard Led Zeppelin before in my life; a bit embarassing but ultimately mind-blowing. To be honest, I got into RHNJ by way of Bethenny Getting Married?/RHNY, so it's more like discovering Zeppelin only after purchasing The Principle of Moments (hey, I'm sure it's happened to at least one person!). Either way, another masterpiece of stereotypes in the tradition of great American literature and film.

Ochocinco: The Ultimate Catch (VH1)
One of the more bizarre programs you'll have the ~~mis~~fortune of watching. I'll just refer you to the "summary" provided on the actual VH1 website. Here's a little nibble (emphasis mine):

Just like in football, before you make the team you have to prove you rank high enough to make the rooster. So, before these woman get a chance to play in Ocho's tournament they are going to have to show him and a few of his NFL colleagues what they're made of in a mini tryout camp.

The show's math is even worse, as the harem has too many cincos and only a few ochos. Trainwreck TV.

Exercising While Intoxicated

2010-08-03T15:38:00.001-04:00

Readers send me links, pictures, stories etc. all the time-- there's no way I could possibly get to all of them. Here's a nice one courtesy of one Señor Pants, along with some thoughts by yours truly.

The piece I'm talking about is from a fun new blog about drinking. Specifically, competitive drinking. The author performs a feat of epic proportions that you'll just have to read about yourself.

Here are some kinda relevant drinking feats of my own (or at least ones I've heard about):

1. The 100 Club - I'm not a member, and I've never even tried it. The idea is to drink 100 beers in a weekend, 72 hours worth (varying accounts might have you believe 5pm Thursday to midnight Sunday, but I think 72 hours is fair).

The regulations for this exclusive club are a little unclear in other areas as well. Are you allowed to puke? One friend of mine insisted, "NO WAY." Of course normal bathroom visits should be allowed, but what about secret vomits? We initially agreed that one plastic garbage can (we lived in a dorm!) in the middle of the room was fair for all functions including hurls, and then thought maybe we should be able to #2 on our own. I don't see how you could police the throw-up rule without major problems. Oh, and no drugs allowed.

God knows we talked about this one enough back in college. Of course, we over-analyzed this one to death, and came up with several approaches. I was always a "boot-and-rally" theorist-- drink until you puke or pass out, someone wakes you up, repeat, etc. Trying to plan it out seemed ludicrous. My friend claimed he had a "pacing plan" that should work, but it was never taken seriously by anyone. Wouldn't the 100 club have to be boot-and-rally, no matter what?

Didn't matter, 'cause it never happened. Our bickering about the rules slowly gave way to reasons why there was no possible way we could do it, except our reasons never included our drinking abilities. First it was financial... "There's no way we can possibly afford to buy 300 or 400 beers at one time!" That was sort of true, but not really. Then it became, "There's no way we have time to do this! When can we find 72 hours in a row with nothing to do except drink?!" This was outrageously false. We were able to find hundreds, maybe thousands of consecutive hours to do nothing but drink on a regular basis, but on no occasion were 100 beers consumed by one person during a 72-hour interval within said benders.

Finally, we settled for "I'll bet you so-and-so could do it." Arguing about who could or couldn't do it was as close as we ever got.

2. I lost a Monday Night Football bet once and had to drink two 64 oz. Colts in 20 minutes. I lost another bet around the same time and had to drink a warm six-pack of something nasty in some short amount of time, which didn't go well at all. People stopped making "the loser has to drink..." kinds of bets with me a while ago, and not because I'm such a prolific drinker.

3. This isn't really the same as what dj tennessee did, but I once sprinted about 20 blocks down Lenox Ave drunk on at least 13 beers in the middle of the night. The Miracle Mile, as I called it the next afternoon.

Stupid Subway Tricks

2010-07-18T22:42:00.001-04:00

Riding the subway gets pretty boring after 5000+ swipes per year, so why not have some fun while you're at it? Here are some good, clean ways to help pass the time:

1. Stand on the edge of the platform and look frantically down the track for the next train (like everybody else), except look in the wrong direction. It's even funnier when you make exasperated gestures, complain loudly, etc.

2. Blab away on your cell phone in between stations, even though no reception exists at all. Especially nice in tunnels between Manhattan and Brooklyn, or especially long express stretches (59th to 125th on A train).

3. Rehearse dialogue from an imaginary screenplay, loudly and by yourself. The lines should be some combination of absurd, pretentious, offensive, and intermittently en français.

4. Sketch the person sitting across from you, and look as serious as you possibly can. The sketch must never be seen by anyone.

5. Lift extremely light weights repeatedly, or jog in place, or perform some other form of totally lame exercise on the train. Breathe heavily and moan a lot.

6. Work on the NY Times crossword in a very obvious and obnoxious way. Be sure to make annoying comments to yourself, chuckle a lot, and look around the train for approval. This is really funny on Mondays.

7. Scrawl random mathematical calculations on several pieces of paper, with an extremely worried look on your face. Accompany your work with visual measurements of various parts of the subway car (height of doors, people's feet, etc.).

8. Ask the person next to you for directions to part of New York that is absolutely as far as possible from where the train is currently headed. A remote and potentially dangerous location is preferable.

Lemme know how it goes!

The Decision

2010-07-08T21:31:00.000-04:00

8:53 - Folks, I'll admit I'm a little excited about this. I just turned the TV on and quickly found the hilarious info blurb about tonight's program on ESPN: "LeBron James announces whether he'll stay with the Cavaliers or go to another NBA team." This is absolutely the most informative and factually correct INFO box Time Warner Cable has provided since we re-subscribed to cable.

8:58 - This is the biggest load of bullshit I've ever seen in my life. Jeez! They just showed the election-style map with the current polls, and Miami leads with 42%. Knicks are at 15% and the Nets aren't even on the map.

9:00 - Nice fucking shirt, LeBron! Seriously. I like that party shirt!

9:01 - Is James Earl Jones narrating this thing? Wait a sec, the show just started, and it's the exact same bunch of nimwits sitting around (Wilbon, Stuart Scott, one of the Barrys, some other moron)! A seamless transition from nothing to nothing.

9:04 - Wow, the Nets really are out of this? Hey, at least they just picked up Travis Outlaw!

9:05 - They're showing a video montage designed to convince us that LeBron is "the most coveted prize in this year's free agent class." No shit!!! Is there a Josh Childress Decision airing on TBS tonight that I didn't know about? I'm two seconds away from switching to Bethenny Getting Married? for Pete's sake!

9:10 - I was kinda hoping they might play "Heroin" in the background: "I have made... very big decision..."

9:14 - At 8:00 AM EST tomorrow morning, I'll announce whether I'm serving Lee Jr. a waffle, a bowl of oatmeal, or possibly yogurt.

9:17 - Yes!!! The Knicks have climbed to 15%!!!

9:18 - OK, let's be serious for a minute. This is total bullshit and insulting to sports fans of all kinds. I propose a boycott of ESPN and the NBA (unless he picks the Knicks) for this offensive charade. I'm not kidding. I'm never watching Sunday Night Baseball again.

9:22 - I can't believe they haven't played "Split Decision" by the Crowes yet! That's a slam dunk, right?

9:23 - Here we go, the actual interview. The word "process" was just used ~~five~~ ~~eight~~ ~~nine~~ ~~ten~~ eleven times in 20 30 40 seconds.

9:26 - "Decision" is gaining on "process" as of ten seconds ago. I'll keep you posted.

9:27 - FFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKK YYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm such a stupid idiot. Really.

Germany-Spain live blog!

2010-07-07T14:27:00.002-04:00

Today's post is an exciting one... the first "voice recognition" live blog on Lee's Steez!

If all goes as planned, the new software (purchased by my intern, Michelle) should convert my running commentary into text, which will then automatically be posted at halftime. I'll be reporting via headset mic, as my schedule today doesn't permit me to sit at a computer like a lazy scumbag.

Let's see how it goes!!!








































































































































































































































































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





Uruguay-Netherlands live blog!

2010-07-06T14:29:00.004-04:00

This could be the shortest live blog since I attempted to give a minute-by-minute account of me listening to Tangerine Dream on sleeping pills (this was never published). I just got both kids down for their afternoon naps-- Jr seems solid but Li'l Mz could wake up at any minute. I think they're (whoever "they" are) renovating the apartment across from us, or maybe even demolishing it. It's kinda noisy.
Note that I'm listening with the sound off, so I'm missing all commentary. If they say, "Once again, we remind you that an enormous spacecraft is still hovering over the stadium... we've been given specific instructions by the aliens that we are only to talk about the E.T. visit; we cannot film anything..." then forgive me if I don't report on it.

1.55 - So the Netherlands are orange, right?

3.02 - Nice move by the Dutch guy that looks just like Rob Corrdry!

4.29 - Man, I wish Uruguay's abbreviation was "URI." Then the score would say "URINED."

8.47 - I'm so psyched to see that model run naked in the streets if Uruguay wins!!! Maybe Laura Posada or Minka Kelly will try a stunt like this in October...

10.54 - The names on the backs of Uruguay's jerseys seem to be written in "Menu" font, which I can't find anywhere on my computer.

13.28 - Man, I meant to ask Grit about this but I forgot... we used to hear stories about players peeing out the sides of their shorts during matches if they really had to go. At least that's what our coach used to say when we'd ask to come out of a game so we could go to the bathroom.

16.30 - That always happens... a guy tries to make one fake too many, loses possession, and immediately trips the guy that stole the ball..

17.38 - WHOA! What a shot! Count it!

20.01 - The Dutch electrical tape-style numbers on their jerseys are ridiculous.

HT - At least we didn't miss much! Principessa woke up at 20.03... I knew I should have had my intern transcribe this. So a guy got kicked square in the head (right off the LIJSL soccer camp video Why bicycle kicks are dangerous), Uruguay scored a neat outside shot, and a stupid commericial for something called The Expendables aired ("together... for the first and only time..." - isn't anything happening for the first time necessarily also happening for the only time to date?!).

75.30 - Sorry about the lapse. I missed two goals, although I was in the room for one of 'em. I've been enjoying the play of Dirk Kuyt, who strongly resembles a cross between a Johnny Be Good era Anthony Michael Hall and the weird freaky guy from The Hills Have Eyes. Hey, they actually were in a movie together...

89.04 - OK, this one's about over. I'm still considering jetting down to Borders at Columbus Circle for Kendra's book signing. I wonder how many people show up with copies of Kendra Exposed?!! One time I showed up at a signing with SHIT! Uruguay just scored! I'm not sure how much SHIT! It's 102 degrees out!

Hopefully I'll be back tomorrow. Dag!

World Cup predictions

2010-07-06T14:18:00.000-04:00

I totally missed the cutoff for my picks last round, but I swear on the Stables of King Augeas that I had Brazil, Uruguay, Germany, Spain...

So here goes:
Netherlands 2, Uruguay 1
Germany 3, Spain 1

Germany 2, Netherlands 0

Nitty from the Gritty

2010-07-01T21:50:00.004-04:00

Continuing our World Cup 2010 coverage on Lee's Steez, here's an interview with our favorite Brooklyn soccer afficionado. Grit was kind enough to squeeze this into his busy schedule before tomorrow's quarterfinal matches...

Lee: Give us a quick profile of yourself as a soccer fan.

Grit: I was partnered with a Man-U-supporting resident alien for about 12 years. Caught the World Cup bug in '98. Lived in an immigrant-rich part of Brooklyn throughout the 00's, regularly waking up at 7 a.m. to watch live matches on Fox Soccer Channel and Goal TV. Watched nearly all of the '02 World Cup even though it was on in the middle of the night (when it was over I had jet lag though hadn't left home). Traveled to Europe (not Germany) to enjoy the '06 action without so much time shift.

Let's just say I know the difference between Xavi and Xabi Alonso, and what it means to win "the treble."

You can’t walk down the street without hearing someone complain about the officiating this year. Is this a product of better replay technology, the fact that soccer’s fan base is expanding, or do the refs just really suck in this tournament?

Nothing has changed except more Americans are watching. Every American must go through this pain to adapt to football (I'll call it that to distinguish from MLS) or just go back to ignoring it. You see, Americans expect fairness. Other countries cry when they lose on a bad call, but only we cry and also demand a permanent fix. I'm sure it looks ridiculous to the rest of the world -- especially to those who know that American sports also suffer from horrendous officiating errors and biases, despite elaborate efforts that cause absurd game delays. The notion that more rules make sports more fair sounds to the rest of the world like a call for more lawyers in sports. I sympathize with the World's point of view, though will point out that technology improved tennis, and that the England-Portugal quarterfinal in Euro '04 was the most excruciatingly unfair sporting event ever staged. My solution was to forever despise Portugal and quit supporting England, which is working out nicely.

For our American readers, can you give us a cultural reference point for Wayne Rooney, if such a thing exists?

You have to go back a bit, before all American sports stars were media coached. I'll say Moses Malone. Huge talent, unfathomable aggression but tough to hide the extent to which focus on the game and a very early arrival to the front of the pro stage have impeded the development of mature human being. It looks like Wayne is being better taken care of, but if they put the mic in his face after games it wouldn't be as pretty as with Ron Artest.

I was thinking that Brett Gardner might make a decent soccer player: low center of gravity, inhuman speed, dorky voice, etc. Are there any current New York Yankees that could hack it on the pitch?

All the Latin-American-bred players who are smaller than Orcas (i.e. not Sabathia) probably played into adulthood and are reasonably good. The skill set is so elemental -- speed, eye/hand coordination, balance, discipline to practice -- that it makes sense to assume that almost any great American athlete who can run and is not a specialist at some non-athletic skill (i.e. not Nick Johnson) could have been a great footballer. A-Rod and Jeter for sure, Gardner, why not?

Don't forget that Iron Maiden and their road crew were a champion team. Not sure how that's relevant, but don't forget it.

The Florida Marlins succumbed to World Cup fever a few weeks ago by equipping their fans with vuvuzelas (officially promoted as “Marlins Air Horn Night”), resulting in one of the craziest games I’ve ever watched on television. Do you think the “hell-horns” could possibly expand into American popular music anytime soon (Dave Matthews Band, Jay-Z, etc.)?

Don't forget that the samba part of "Fool in the Rain" was inspired by Argentina's cheering section in the '78 World Cup.

Any predictions for the quarterfinal matches and beyond?

A Uruguay-Paraguay final would be too sweet for words, but I'm not holding out hope. I will hold out hope for Ghana, though they're not good enough (i.e. I will hope they triumph via flukes, chokes and bad calls). Anything can happen, but the safest money is on the one team with international superstars actually cooperating on the pitch, which is Argentina.

One last thing I want to say: I can't praise highly enough ESPN's decision to staff English announcers for their matches, and I can't denigrate vociferously enough ABC's decision to put an asshole American in the booth for last Saturday's disappointing round-of-16 US loss. I sincerely believe we might have fallen because this dipshit's endless speculations on the feelings of the players, especially late in the "psychological game," were so alien to the manly and action-oriented nature of football that the sport's ecosystem rejected our team's noble effort.

World Cup!

2010-06-30T21:46:00.002-04:00

Shep Buckingham

I apologize in advance for my weak coverage of this year's World Cup. I mean, I meant to apologize in advance a month ago but was too busy.

Either way, I'm hoping to make amends with posts-a-plenty for the remainder of the tournament. If you're thinking, "What the hell does Mazzola know about soccer, anyway?"-- think again, my friend. This is no kid and I'm not no bandwagon soccer hipster... I know what I'm talking about. I grew up on Long Island, for Pete's sake! I missed a week of school in the third grade to play soccer down in Coral Gables, Florida. I can't even count the number of times I played in "The Robbie" up in Canada, including one time when my host family practically lived in a school bus with their name painted on the side. I was at the legendary "Europe vs. the Rest of the World" match at Giants Stadium, along with about 75,000 other people. I played in Belgium when I was thirteen years old and got wasted on Jupiler and Stella Artois. I saw Steve Zungul score at least 75 goals for the Arrows in Uniondale. I kicked the ball around with Franky Vercauteren before an Anderlecht match. I took a stiff shot to the nuts blasted by none other than Werner Roth at a summer program at Hofstra. I had the high score on a Ms. Pacman machine at Shep Messing's complex for a month or so. I know what I'm talking about.

Stay tuned for more!

Sonic Terrorism

2010-06-28T21:26:00.000-04:00

JESUS CHRIST THIS IS FUCKING ANNOYING!!!

2010-06-26T22:33:00.002-04:00

I don't know where to begin... I've been looking forward to watching this game all week, and I can barely stand to be in the same room as it (the game). I spent most of the day arguing (to myself) why baseball is so much better than soccer, and this is what I'm rewarded with?!

I realize that I'm not the first person to complain about Fox's MLB broadcasts. In fact, I've recently gone on record saying that Tim McCarver's "not really that bad" and even praised the "professionalism" of Joe Buck. Those two nitwits are probably the least offensive thing about this horrible crap.

First off, the game itself has been awful. Watching A.J. Burnett pitch this season has been a bit like trying to watch a redneck meth addict teach calculus to a bunch of retarded kids. It's not even funny. Things are getting even worse-- they just brought in Chan Ho "Hairpie" Park.

How does Fox think it's okay to spend an entire inning interviewing people in the booth while there's a goddamn baseball game being played?!! Not only that, but they feel it's important to actually show everyone sitting around talking to each other... why would anyone want to see that? The Yankees are putting guys on base, and all I get to see and hear is Tom Lasorda and Reggie horsing around with Tim and Joe. Then they kiss Billy Crystal's annoying ass for a half hour. How many times do we have to hear about 61* in our lifetimes?

Plus, there's stuff going on that I'd like to know about! Some kid named Colin Curtis is on the field in a Yankee uniform, and all I get is Billy Crystal talking about how close a friend Joe Torre is. This Curtis character just made an absolute little league play out in left field, and I was in no way prepared to deal with it.

I swear, we always lose these damn Fox games. The new Rush movie is on VH-1 right now, which I'm an idiot for not watching. Hell, I might even check out Alicia Keys on Iconoclasts for a little while. Our only possible saving grace just entered the scene in the form of Jeff Weaver. Ah shit! Joe just took him out. I'm going to eat some Vanilla Swiss Almond ice cream.

The Ypsilanti Era

2010-06-22T21:02:00.001-04:00

It's been an exciting June! Galarraga, Griffey, Strasburg, R.A. Dickey... I can go on and on. After last week, it might be time to add Mazzola to the list.

I already detailed my ascencion into the 600 club in February. We all knew I'd pass ~~that druggie freak~~ Sammy Sosa, which I did on my Mom's birthday in April with a well-placed jab to my right thigh. When Ken Griffey Jr. retired earlier this month, I thought I was a lock for the coveted #5 slot. I wish I could say A-Rod was right on my tail, but I'm a lot more concerned with his groin at the moment.
Anyway, looks like I'm joining Junior in retirement. I performed what appears to be my last A****x injection two weeks ago, freezing my career stats at 622. Not that my legs could take much more abuse-- I'm walking around on a couple of voodoo dolls at this point.

You know what they say... when one recombinant humanized glycoprotein door closes, another recombinant humanized monoclonal antibody door opens. I began the Ypsilanti treatment eleven days ago, and boy are my leukocytes tired! I was infused with a steroid/Ypsilanti cocktail at around 6pm, and was out the door by 8. Save some minor itchiness and the metallic taste of pocket change in my mouth, I felt OK.

The first wave of side effects kicked in about two hours after I got home: moderate-to-intense itching on my legs, nausea, dizziness, headache, and some chills. In fact, the only list items I seemed to be missing were depression and vaginitis. I figured these two would come together or not at all.

Not much else to tell so far... I'm still alive and regenerating cell tissue in my thighs by the minute. I might even be able to wear a swimsuit this July! Joy, joy!!!

Yankees 5, Mets 3

2010-06-19T21:28:00.002-04:00

As you've probably noticed, I haven't been posting much lately. THAT'S BECAUSE I'M FUCKING BUSY!!!!!!!!!! It's enough to find time to do all the shit I have to do-- to then write about it is ridiculous. It's like doing everything twice! It's like doing everything twice!

But all's good. Today was especially good... the Mz and I actually went to a game together! We even made a clean getaway from Jr. & Li'l Mz, but it wasn't easy. Our third string babysitter (funny, since she's an utter pro) showed up fifteen minutes early, which meant Jr. got fifteen extra minutes to scream bloody murder about us leaving. Miraculously, we slipped out the front door without things getting even worse.

I was already suffering from exhaustion when we got to the Stadium, evidenced by my bizarre and erratic behavior (purchased Premio sausage, refused offer of free beer from wife, considered taking dump in men's room, etc.). I hunkered down in our seats (which I officially hate) for at least four consecutive innings, which is kind of a lot for me. Not that I had a choice; our row was littered with dozens of half-full (and half-empty) sodas and beers, cardboard containers, and countless peanut shells, as well as the assholes that consumed said items. Nobody ever gets up from their seats in our row. Nobody. Ever. Every time we want to get a good beer or take a piss it's like we're getting up during the second hour of Schindler's List... groans, dirty looks, and rolled eyeballs.

Well, the game was really fun. Mz even got a little buzz going. Came home to a quiet apartment with one napping and the other smiling. Nice.

Jeez, I never posted about my Legends Suite seats two weeks ago. I mean, I did write something but never finished it. I have a ton of unfinished drafts right now, some of which are pretty good. Anyway, the whole thing was amazing. The only points of reference I was able to articulate in my original draft were "greatest Bar Mitzvah ever," "George Costanza's Forbidden City episode," and "like the dinner scenes in Defending Your Life without the white robes..." You get the picture.

In case ~~you're an idiot~~ you have no idea what I'm talking about, Legends Suite means you're sitting a few rows from the dugout, and you have access to unlimited food and drinks (no booze) for the entire game. People are serving you left and right-- a guy even walked right over and gave me a thing of sunblock right at the beginning of the game (which I characteristically slathered on myself sloppily and unevenly, resulting in pattern-burns and painful red patches all over the backs of my hands). The seats are worth just about any price (not that I paid for 'em!) you're asked to pay.

So I've been to four games this year, and the Yanks have won 'em all.

Friends don't let friends sing sober

2010-05-29T03:06:00.005-04:00

Been jonesin' for karaoke lately, or so I've been saying. What does this actually mean? That I simply haven't been in a while, or that I recently discovered a great song I'd like to sing? It means nothing.
Wong made it up to my place in time to see both kids put to bed. We hit the streets at around 9:00, and headed straight for the Korean joint on 32nd St., which is apparently called "Chorus Music Studio." I'm still not entirely sure where it is, even though I've been there at least fifteen times.

Wong's a karaoke purist at heart, but always willing to slum it at second-rate K-joints for the sake of the song. This place is totally weird: complementary cheese balls, a communal sink, and a framed Before and After Science out in the hallway. One has the absolutely same experience every time one goes here, whether one knows it or not.

I showed up armed with several aces up my sleeve, including "Here Comes the Rain Again," "Cocaine," and "Money for Nothing," none of which were available to perform. I threw down a tenner for 6 bullshit K-tickets and started the utterly pathetic charade of looking for songs in the binder. Like the addict ransacking his dresser drawers for that miracle stash, this search is invariably fruitless. I settled on "Nights in White Satin" and a Springsteen and bought myself a Diet Coke.

We submitted at around 10:00, and were still twiddling our pickles at 11:30pm. To make matters worse, the same five or six lame-o's were prancing around singing about 85% of the night's material. I asked the KJ/barwench about where we were on the evening's docket, and she chop-talked something about "ten more songs."

What she didn't clarify is that we would always be ten more songs away from singing. The only thing keeping us from going on a murderous rampage through the karaoke complex was the presence of the Daily Show's Rob Riggle (pictured above) and John Oliver on the couch next to us. Rob sang a few numbers and was a generally good sport about things... he didn't seem to mind that I air-tazered him every time he walked by us. He appreciated my cleverness, no doubt.

After complaining like a couple of losers, we finally got our moment just before midnight. Wong spent most of the evening watching the two microphones like a hawk, performing endless sound-analyses comparisons between each mic. I had every confidence in his ability to not only identify and select the superior sounding microphone in a split second, but also to share his information. There was no way I was going to sing Bruce through a wool sweater.

Wong picked the wrong mic for his opening rendition of "Jump"-- this became apparent when his usually spot-on Rothian yelps came across like smothered gerbils. Wong commandeered the good mic right before the beginning of the second verse-- a point of no return if there ever was one. Wong salvaged the song, but moved our small group from "hey, those jerks over there that keep ruining our songs can actually sing!" to "those jerks aren't even all that good."

I did far worse than Wong, delivering an anemic "Dancing in the Dark" that actually left me gasping for air. I can't fucking believe how out of shape I am.

I broke the only rule of Karaoke that actually matters by not drinking all night. Alcohol is the best (although not only) way to mask the horrors of karaoke: sad and talentless people pretending to be happy and possess talent. And if you've ever been sober when a genuinely happy person that actually can sing gets called to the mic, then you're not reading this because you're being hospitalized for severe depression. Never, I repeat never, go to a karaoke bar without drinking at least five drinks. Never.

Yankees 7, Twins 1

2010-05-16T15:49:00.003-04:00

Friday was one helluvan afternoon, to say the least. I snuck out of work early (2:45) and bolted for the bus. Ain't no bus, so I got on the F instead. I was already exhausted.

I was headed to the upper East for a series of exams, scans, and ~~drugs~~ treatments. First stop was the ___________ Imaging Center. I was thinking F to the V and get off at 53rd/Lex-- maybe a farewell ride on the soon-extinct V line (and good fucking riddance!). Passed a parked V at 2nd Ave that wasn't going anywhere soon, so I switched to the D at W 4th in hopes of passing another V before 34th. Didn't happen, so I stuck with the D until 7 Av, where I pulled a slick switch to the Queens-bound E for 2 stops to the aforementioned 53rd/Lex stop. Piece of cake, really.

53rd/Lex is one deep station, so I was all about the escalator. Painted-blue plywood surrounded the escalator entrance, which I took to mean "the escalator is out of order." I staggered over to the stairs and began what Anatoli Boukreev might have called The Climb. Seriously, this is a really long flight of stairs.

Unfortunately, the stairs give a nice view of the fully operational "up escalator" about ten feet to the right. I considered leaping across the 4-foot gap (perhaps inspired by the alleged heroics of Boukreev himself), but that seemed like a bad idea. About halfway up the flight (appr. 5000 steps) I came face to face with an urchin of an old woman heading down the stairs. BTW, I was on the right side of the stairs while she was on the left.

The bitch wouldn't move! We stood there for at least 15 seconds before I said, "Come on, lady, move." She said, "Get out of my way!" I said, "Just move to the right, OK!" She said, "GET OUT OF MY WAY!" I said, "Common courtesy dictates that..." She said, "GET OUT OF MY WAY!!!"

By now, people were gawking through the gap between the escalator and the stairs, thinking (1) "what the hell is that idiot doing climbing the stairs?!" and (2) "that lady's a nutjob!" I was inspired by neither thought, and actually moved to my left, breaking every moral code in my body. Then I had to walk up the remaining fucking 5000 steps.

By now, my condition that necessitated the afternoon's exams, scans, and ~~drugs~~ treatments was much worse. On the bright side, I was actually on time! I stumbled into the MRI center looking like someone that needed one hell of an MRI.

I should mention that the ___________ Imaging Center is an absolutely top-notch operation, which is good considering the gravity of their work. An attractive receptionist asked me to fill out lots of paperwork, including a sheet with outlines of the front and back of a human body (they looked exactly the same) which I was supposed to mark according to my pain/symptoms. I circled both diagrams completely and submitted my clipboard.

An attractive nurse escorted me into the elevator and down two floors into the bowels of the center. I was given a key to a locker and told to store my belongings and change into a hospital gown. I asked the nurse if the facility had a restroom I could use before my MRI, which was probably the stupidest question of all time. Can you imagine an underground MRI center without a bathroom??!!

I was then led into a small room by yet another attractive nurse, who informed me that she was "setting up my port for the introduction of contrast agents." She was sticking a needle and catheter in my arm (which she did expertly and efficiently). She then led me down the hall and into the MRI room ("the tube").

A large man introduced himself and said he'd be my imaging technician for the afternoon, ending my streak at three. He was a dead ringer for Anton LaVey, which I took as a good sign. Anton asked me some stock questions, sizing me up for the ordeal ahead. I smirked and said something about this being my fourth or fifth MRI (this is true; I have had four or five MRIs in my lifetime). He smirked right back (and this guy knew how to smirk!) and said, "Well, today's session is a bit more... rigorous than you've experienced before." I replied, "How so? How long are we talking here?" Anton mumbled something about "55 minutes or so." Oh boy.

He gave me two cheap foam earplugs, which I immediately dropped on the floor. He helped me out with another pair, and strapped me in. Being strapped into an MRI with an IV tube in your arm is a little weird; I resisted the handful of death row jokes that floated through my transom. Once I was completely immoblized, Anton explained that I'd be getting MRI scans of my brain, and cervical spine, as well as an MRA of my neck, each with and without contrast. I asked him something about a "break" and he said something about "one shot."

Getting a closed bore MRI is exactly like listening to Autechre at maximum headphone volume on cough syrup, which I've done at least four or five times. The technician introduces each portion of the scan like a deadpan DJ, stating, "OK, this one's 3 and a half minutes" or "this one's about 2 minutes." The technician always underestimates the length of each ~~song~~ portion. That's the only way to make it through something like this (especially for almost an hour and a half!!!)-- to treat the experience like a little personal concert, brought to you by Warp Records. I totally dug the bass-heavy stuff, but couldn't stand the high-end BRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKK BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKKK shit. I found out later that my right earplug fell out sometime during the scan, so my noise notch is now offically a noise ravine.

I'll also say that it was goddamn freezing in there!! I figured either (1) they have to keep the facility well ventilated for patients' safety and proper maintenance of the machinery, or (2) Anton was trying to neutralize my terrible farts.

I do have some suggestions that would improve the MRI experience for patients:
1) accompany each scan-series with a mini light show-- how hard would that be?
2) introduce each portion with a title, not just a length: "This one's something we like to call 'Gepetto's Waltz'" or "Here's 'Crunch Brigade'". That would really move things along.
3) they put a little tilted mirror above your head so you can kinda see out into the main room, like you're in jail or at a golf tournament. Maybe they could act out some interesting scenarios or at least walk around or something?! I thought I might see Anton eating a Subway sandwich or playing Klondike but I never saw anything move at all out there.

I was extracted from the tube at about 6:15pm, feeling and looking like a human Pop-Tart. I half-expected to be congratulated by the crew for remaining so perfectly still during the 90 minutes I spent in there, but only got a "Nice job, man" from Anton. I was so proud of my corpse-like performance that I actually began to fantasize about second careers that could avail themselves to someone with my special talent, perhaps in the fields of international espionage, escape artistry, being buried alive, etc.

My afternoon was only half over, as I still had to check in with my doctor about the results of my scans (they burned me a CD on my way out, furthering the music parallels I'd been working on all afternoon). I was really late for my appointment, but doc still took the time to study my brain, spine, blood, and whatever else they got on the damn CD. He gave me a "coulda been a lot worse" report, and then tossed around some pluses and minuses of the new treatment I've been considering. The therapy (let's call it "Ypsilanti") has shown remarkable results for most patients, but seems to have caused more than a few fatalities along the way. They've tightened up the ship in the last year or so, and the drug's been downgraded from "risky" to "might be sort of risky." I can live with that.

So it's almost 8:00pm on a Friday night and he asks me if I want to hook up for a steroid IV. I say, "Sure, but right now?" He says, "Why not? I'm here for a few more hours anyway." Within five minutes I'm juiced up in a chair with the Yankee game YES broadcast blasting from the waiting room television. I was feeling better already.

The rest of the night's a bit blurry. I know the kids were both asleep by the time I got home, and I jabbered at my wife for about 45 minutes about Facebook, Twitter, and the Boston Celtics. I passed out at a respectable hour.

NEXT MORNING: Oh shit, I got a Yankee game today! I had a lousy morning trying to get Jr. to do just about anything besides watch TV, shat my brains out for a few hours, and made it up to the game by the third inning or so. Fun time-- not much to report at all. Apparently Michael Kay referred to Manny Ramirez as "Man-Ram" during their broadcast discussion of grand slams, which I gladly would have stayed home just to hear.

Live Post: Yanks-Sox!

2010-05-07T22:32:00.002-04:00

7:05 - Yyyyyyyouch! Injection #614 goes into the books.

7:15 - Jr. just tore down the hall into the bedroom, screaming. Something tells me tonight's bath might not be so smooth...

7:25 - The boy just walked out on a full bath.

7:28 - Lured him in with a combination of Mr. Potato Head ("Toe-Head") and foam letters. Jr's first offering (besides ripping a fart) was a composite wall piece: "W GOD THOAMS PERCY"

7:35 - At least he seems to be getting better at cleaning up. A joy to behold.

7:46 - Checked in on baby girl before reading to Jr. For some reason I keep singing Madonna songs to her... very strange.

8:35 - Jeez, this is taking forever. Knuffle Bunny Too, Thomas ABCs, The Prince's Bedtime, Bear in a Square (with counting in Spanish!), Monsters Don't Eat Broccoli. Maybe the Tylenol-4 was a bad idea.

8:50ish - Staggered out to bases loaded and one out. Apparently Beckett's losing his shit... Cano and Pyle left the game hurt. He looks wild.

8:58 - Wow, he's totally lost it. Beckett looks like he's laughing as he pisses the game away. Weird.

9:22 - I'd be a tad ashamed to be a Sox fan tonight. Jeremy Hermida? Awful.

9:34 - Al Leiter: (muttering, indecipherable)

9:37 - 9:49 - technical difficulties

9:50 - I'm back! Uh-oh, David "No Lead is Safe" Robertson just came in. This guy's a fucking disaster.

9:57 - Apparently Girardi's plan is to humiliate Robertson to the point of quitting, perhaps to save some money.

9:59 - This A-Rod v. Braden thing really is funny. Any time Alex gets in a war of words with anyone is great, especially when the other guy is a bigger kook than A-Rod himself.

"We don't do much talking in the 209."I mean, does this idiot actually think he sounds cool? Are we supposed to get the impression that Dallas Braden doesn't do much talking?

"He plays for the name on the back of the jersey, not the front. I don't know if he's noticed, but he doesn't have a name on the back over there so he should play for the name on the front."

This might be the best quote of the year. Especially coming from a grown man that wears white pajamas to work.

10:12 - Well, that was fun!

Random Yankee Bullshit

2010-05-01T21:15:00.001-04:00

I've barely written anything baseball all season... didn't even mention my first Yankee game two weeks ago.

I blew off today's game for a number of reasons:
1. felt like crap
2. Vázquez pitching
3. wanted to hang out with family unit
(in no particular order)

I managed to watch most of the game at home. Can't call the game disappointing, since disappointment implies expectations, which I had none of. The Bombers featured their three worst pitchers: Vázquez, Robertston, and "Dá-Marté." Dá-Marté is Felix Heredia all over again, Vázquez is Vázquez all over again, and Robertson is gone before Monday. Tonight's reading of one of Jr.'s Dora the Explorer books gave me a new name for these jerks: The Fiesta Trio.

Other thoughts:
Joba looks huge... what the hell has he been doing? (or not doing?) He's pitching fine, but approaching Sabathian dimensions.

I haven't seen a white guy run as fast as Brett Gardner since my buddy got caught stealing at Tower Records at the Roosevelt Field mall...

I hate the pitch counter on the YES screen-- it makes me nervous. It's like having a "cholesterol count" follow you around, or a "countdown to your death" graphic on your bedroom ceiling...

I totally buy the theory that balls aren't flying out of the Stadium this year because of new wind patterns caused by the demolition of the old Yankee Stadium. Makes absolute perfect sense to me.

Grandy's out... where's Shelley "Slam" Duncan when we need him? You may be familiar with the name Greg Golson by July...

I figure our starting pitching should be good for 3 wins out of every 5 games, right? If so, we win 100 games for the season.

The Alaska Diaries, week 10

2010-04-10T23:00:00.006-04:00

Pukers Die!!! The Alaska Diaries [names have been changed to protect the guilty and innocent]

WEEK TEN: The Long Way Home

[this is an absolutely true account of one of the great driving feats of all time. almost 5000 miles in six days, including no driving after dark the first three days and a 44-hour straight shot from edmonton to poughkeepsie.]

Monday (day 64)
Not much to say to everyone-- weird. Driving out of the cannery was fucking scary. Van sounds OK though.
Great driving today! At least 600 miles, and can't drive over 60! Made it to the border (Beaver Creek?), parked somewhere, drank some beer, and slept.
[the van's dashboard gauges were incorrect for the entire trip post-engine replacement... we showed about 20% faster than we were actually going, and put on 20% more miles than we actually traveled.]

Tuesday (day 65)
Woke up at sunrise and got the fuck on the road. Great driving again... got past Whitehorse about halfway through the day and stopped a little past Watson Lake (!!!). We waited until dark, drove back towards town, and stole two "ALASKA HIGHWAY" street signs. Totally _______'s idea.
[this was hilarious... "mission impossible"-style.]

Wednesday (day 66)
First order of business was to visit Ralph Grunow at his auto shop. Told him all the stuff he fucked up with the van, including the drive shaft that popped off a few hours after we left. He gave us $40 and sent us on our way. I grabbed _______'s Marquee Moon tape out of their radio in the garage.
I talked to some guy at a gas station about the lake in town where ______ and I tried to wash up on the trip in-- he says, "Oh, you mean Chemical Lake?"
We drive all the way to Dawson Creek-- "mile zero." Three 600-mile days in a row.
[i'm still not sure what to think about the Grunow repairs. the guy did let us sleep in his junkyard for a week! i mean, how could he not rip us off... we were a pretty pathetic sight, I'm sure.]

Thursday (day 67)
We actually eat breakfast in Dawson Creek (sit down and pay for it). We get pulled over right after we leave, but no ticket.

We decide to head straight for Edmonton and then take a break. _____ says the largest mall in the world is in Edmonton, so we go there. We smoke a huge Alaska bud in the parking lot out of a beer can-- smells amazing. Maybe the most stoned I've ever been.
The "mall" is ridiculous: we ride a roller coaster, a "Free Fall" ride, water slides, a wave pool, innertube rides, an aquarium, a submarine ride, check out ice skating, an unbelievable arcade... I even buy a cribbage board. We get high out in the van again, too. CRAZY!!!

We drive out of Edmonton after dark to somewhere called Millet. Totally wasted. Nowhere to park and sleep at all, so we park in what looks like a regular parking lot. Turns out it's a car dealership, and we have to move. We almost get stuck in the mud in another spot, and then we get busted by the cops. We end up driving more and finally find an actual rest area.

Friday (day 68)
We wake up early and realize we have to get home as soon as possible. We drive straight from just outside Edmonton to Poughkeepsie, NY.
THE END.
[i didn't write a whole lot from edmonton to ny... we traded 8-hour shifts back and forth (one sleeping, one driving) the entire way back. i remember drinking TONS of pepsi and mountain dew, and putting a quart of oil in almost every time we stopped. had an amazing listen to eric b & rakim on the radio driving through chicago at night. the only time _____ and i were awake at the same time was near the end of the trip... i remember ranting and raving from the passenger seat that soul II soul were changing the face of music forever, and that we would be seeing rap and r & b coming together for the next twenty years. i was sort of right.
i dropped _____ off in poughkeepsie, and headed straight to vassar college to take a shower in main building. i can't believe no one stopped me-- i looked completely insane.
on my way back to long island, i was pulled over on the hutchinson river pkwy (had to pull over onto the grass) at around 7:00 pm. i had no drivers license or id of any kind, a buck knife hanging on the rear view mirror, beer cans all over the back of the van, weed, and a street sign. i was pulled over because my license plate light was out, which i refused to believe at the time. i wasn't sure if i was being arrested, or just written up for about $1000 worth of tickets, when the cop got called on some kind of emergency. he looked me in the eye and said, "it's your lucky day," and drove off.]

Dirty Trick

2010-04-01T23:57:00.001-04:00

So I'm doing a little late night shopping on the American Express Membership Rewards page a few weeks ago, and I happen across a rather intriguing item: a Yankee Stadium "Dirt Plaque."

I always wanted one of those back when they were selling everything they could think of from gum-encrusted seats to urinal cakes. You know, a little memento from the old Stadium... what's wrong with that?

I slapped down about 5,000 points for two Dirt Plaques (one for me, one for my pops), and went to bed. Got some kind of confirmation the next morning, and everything seemed cool. When my items arrived a few days later, all still seemed OK (although 4" by 6" really is kinda small).

Wouldja believe the dirt is from the NEW Yankee Stadium?!!! I guess I missed the fine print about "Inaugural Season" or I don't know what the hell "inaugural" means, because I'm stuck with fucking dirt I can scrape off my shoe any Saturday afternoon for the rest of my life! I want Guidry and Reggie dirt-- not Brett Gardner dirt!

You really can't be too careful these days.

Bad Girls' Club, Naked Lunch, and The Wire

2010-03-31T15:00:00.092-04:00

What do The Wire (season 2), Bad Girls' Club, and the 1991 film Naked Lunch all have in common?

A) Each features brilliant portrayals of men and women caught in fundamental human struggles central to most classic literature (survival vs. morality, objective/subjective perception, thongs vs. panties, etc.).
B) Each contains compelling performances depicting gay/lesbian/bi characters in lead and supporting roles.
C) Each is best appreciated stoned, or in some other diminished capacity.
D) All of the above

The correct answer is (D), but I'll be focusing on choice (C) here. One of the latest buzzphrases in the field of education is "the curse of knowledge," which I'm happy to report very few of today's youth seem to be accursed with. Actually, the idea is more about teachers: it's hard for an expert to remember what it's like to not understand something.

Fortunately, television/cinema is about having a good time, not actually learning something. For this reason, i'll go with the good old "ignorance is bliss" approach. Most of the stuff we watch these days favors the passive viewer, or at least the one that doesn't really know (or care) what the hell's going on. But let's not equate apathy with confusion here-- we can certainly enjoy something with passion and still not "understand it" at all.

No better example than Cronenberg's adaptation of the novel Naked Lunch. When the film was released, the hardcore Burroughs fans formed two distinct camps: those that trashed and disavowed the film, and those that got trashed and enjoyed the film immensely. As a proud member of the latter camp, I can honestly say I was more fucked up for the ??? Multiplex (somewhere out east on the L.I.E.) showing of Naked Lunch than I've ever been in a movie theater. It was also what I'd have to call a religious experience (especially the harrowing drive home!), no exaggeration. That film was beyond any notions of sense or meaning I'm familiar with; it simply was.

I saw the film about a half-dozen more times, in various states of varying intoxication. Once I was able to approximate that amazing debut performance, and apparently celebrated by watching most of the video completely naked in a 100+ degree apartment in Providence. Naked Lunch was untouchable in its genius until I watched it completely straight. I mean, it's still good, I guess, but golly if that film wasn't a hell of a lot better when shit didn't really make so much sense.

Ditto for the sophomore season of HBO's darling The Wire. I watched most of season 2 high as the top row at Camden Yards, usually "on demand" Friday nights. I kinda did this for the first season too, but nowhere near as consistently as this time. I LOVED season one, and if you asked me then, I LOVED season two as well. It didn't matter that much to me that Ziggy was fucking annoying as hell, or that they probably could've done the whole loading docks story in about three hours, or that nobody really cared that much about most of the new characters... I was enjoying the heck out of myself. I didn't really see what a bunch of dead white girls in the back of a truck had to do with anything I'd seen in the previous season, but I was too busy zoning out on other shit to mind much. Second and third viewings of said season weren't as forgiving, as the critical (focused?) eye revealed a bit too much. What a pity.

Our third example is a bit different. Now I've watched more than a few BGCs a sheet or two to the wind, but I've generally been better described as "diminished capacity." Just plain fucking tired, to be exact. Throw in the fact that I usually watched the show with the sound off, and we're talking about one mixed-up and diminished motherfucker! As far as I was concerned, the Bad Girls' Club had absolutely no plot or concept to it at all! How could anyone not enjoy this show!!!

Turns out the show really doesn't have anything to it. Jury's still out on whether I can actually watch the show without a fatigue-adjusted I.Q. in double digits, but last season's finale (which I stupidly watched completely awake and aware) makes me think I was better off before.

You can't go home again. Actually, you can. Just make sure your doctor doesn't write "no refills" on your script.

Braun 790cc Pulsonic shaver (part 1)

2010-03-17T22:40:00.000-04:00

I'm not exactly sure why I started shaving with an electric razor at a young age. In fact, I honestly can't remember ever using an actual blade razor at all (except a trip when my old Braun got jacked out of my luggage in Ft. Lauderdale, forcing me to mutilate my face to comic proportions with a shit razor I bought at a gift shop).

What is it that makes about 30% of men choose an electric shave? I think it has a lot more to do with DNA than grooming styles-- it's passed down like attached earlobes and an inability to correctly pronounce the word "tarpaulin." It's possible that I never stood a chance.

Either way, I've been a happy buzzer for about twenty years now. I absolutely loved my last Braun 7505 model until the switch got stuck in the ON position at 11:00 at night on a weeknight. I had to let the fucking thing just run out its charge in the back of our apartment, wrapped up in a towel but still jerking and humming like a robotic armadillo. A tragic way to watch something you love pass away.

You know what? Let's give my 7505 a proper burial here... I share with you my top personal electric shaver moments:
1. Poughkeepsie, NY - A day or two before my graduation from college, we decided to have a little party at our apartment. I guess we got started a bit early; I was completely shitfaced by 4pm for our evening affair. I vaguely remember assembling bottles of Absolut, Jim Beam, Tangueray, and Bacardi together on a table, exclaiming, "ALL-STAR TEAM!!! FUCKING ALL-STAR TEAM!!!"
I disappeared for a little while, and re-emerged horrifyingly drunk just as our guests were arriving (including my own thin ice girlfriend). I guess I figured I had a little time to get ready before the big crowds showed up, so I strarted shaving right out in plain sight, staggering all around the apartment. My "shave" consisted of random stripes across my face, each of different direction and depth. Think crop circles.
I fell down the back stairs of our apartment and popped a nasty black eye just in time for my parents' proud arrival for their son's graduation.

2. Irving Plaza, NYC - My band was opening for Teenage Fanclub and Yo La Tengo, and possibly in the midst of a tour. I was hanging out in the common area dressing room with random leeches and indie rockers, including Yo La's own Ira and Georgia. In the middle of moderate-level conversation, a faint buzzing sound became audible in the corner of the room. There were bags and cases all over the joint, so nobody knew where the fuck it was coming from. Every few minutes, Ira would pipe in with a "You guys hear that sound over there?" and nobody seemed to give a crap. After about ten minutes I realized that it was my trusty Braun humming away in my road bag. I excused myself and came back when the coast was clear and switched off the noisy little bugger.

3. LaGuardia Aiport runway, NYC - In an eerie twist on the Irving Plaza incident, my wife was discretely summoned to the front of our ready-for-takeoff plane to Oklahoma City by a crew member and quizzed about the contents of her bag. I had no idea what was going on, so after a few minutes I went to the cockpit area and asked what the hell was going on. Apparently my wife's bag was vibrating (!) in the stowing area and required immediate attention. I defused the situation by explaining that my razor sometimes gets switched on, blah blah blah, sorry, I'll make sure it doesn't happen again, blah blah...

I have a pretty good story about an old housemate of mine too, but I'd rather not revisit that one at this time.

So, what about the Braun 790cc Pulsonic shaver? More on that in part 2...

Bad Puzzle Night

2010-03-13T23:06:00.001-05:00

Last night was one of my worst Friday puzzles in recent memory. It went like this:
1) I jinxed myself by sending a totally unnecessary text to my friend at around 10pm, in which I called him a "dumbass" for asking me who introduced the symbol "e" for natural logs. All was downhill from there.
2) I was more than a little stoned, but nowhere near enough to warrant writing HOTTOMATO for "something passed without hesitation." I woke up this morning and fixed it right away, as if I were pulling on my drawers after a questionable hookup.
3) I was nearly passed out at 11pm when my hand filled in the unspeakable solution to 20 down: REDSOXNATION. I tossed the clipboard off the side of the bed (nearly hitting my 5 week-old little girl in the noggin) and went to sleep, utterly disgusted.

It's time for baseball!

2010-03-10T21:43:00.000-05:00

Can't wait to try out my new cheer when the Mets come to town...

"THYYY-ROIDDD!!! THYYY-ROIDDD!!!"

Rejected Space Needle titles

2010-02-23T22:41:00.002-05:00

for Voyager LP:
Here Come the Hotsteppers
"Two Nigs United 4 East Northport"
Fuck You Ray McKenzie

songs from Voyager:
"Theme from Penthouse Letters"
"Simian Wind"
"Hypeland"
"Sandbox"
"Noise Dub"
"I Love Tussin"

The 600 Club

2010-02-20T23:58:00.007-05:00

Tonight I became a member of an elite group: The 600 Club (or "DC+").

I'm obviously not talking about home runs, but I'm feeling kinda kindred to some special folks nonetheless...

762 Barry Bonds*
755 Hank Aaron
714 Babe Ruth
660 Willie Mays
630 Ken Griffey Jr.
609 Sammy Sosa**
600 Lee Mazzola**

(* alleged use of steroids, ** confirmed use of steroids)

I'll be checking in on my head-to-head race with A-Rod this season as well.

Anyway, I've decided to celebrate my milestone achievement by providing a list of my own highlights-- wait a sec, what exactly are we talking about here?!! Tonight I self-adminstered my 600th weekly injection of A****x in treatment of my very own chronic illness. The entries are chronological, and contain supplementary drug info keyed below:

α = sleeping pill, β = narcotic pain reliever, γ = anticonvulsant, δ = steroid

Injection #3 - Days Inn, Youngstown OH 10:30pm
α = ●●
Only my second full-dose injection and the first travel night of a national tour with B** *****. Had intense double vision while watching Law & Order; I understood that there weren't really two Carey Lowells on the screen, but I somehow convinced myself that they didn't know that on the show, and worked the "twin" characters into the storyline. Woke up with intense flu-like symptoms and horrible headache.

Injection #43 - President St, Brooklyn NY 8:15pm
α = ●●●●
This could have been any weekend in fair-weathered 1999 (actually, that summer was hotter than hell!)... I fell into a wonderful and mysterious pattern of taking hallucinogenic dosages of pills and going to movies, usually by myself. What a time for trippy films: eXistenZ, Julien Donkey-Boy (late year), The Blair Witch Project, Fight Club, The Matrix, Bringing Out the Dead, Go, Election, Eyes Wide Shut, Limbo, Deep Blue Sea, Three Kings, American Beauty, . Anyway, I picked this particular date because I'm pretty sure it was the night I went to see Run, Lola, Run at Angelika, and then stumbled out after about 15 minutes to sneak into South Park: Bigger Longer & Uncut. I know I saw Deep Blue Sea as part of some insane self-produced double feature somewhere, but I haven't the foggiest what the other movie was (maybe Lake Placid???). The old Worldwide Theater was another of my favorite haunts around this time ($3 admission and easiest place to sneak around ever).

Injection #47 - Summer Rental Cottage, 1000 Islands NY 9:15pm
α = ●●●●
I injected near the beginning of our nightly Trivial Pursuit match, featuring me, my parents, my grandmother, uncle and three cousins. My behavior became erratic around the fourth pie, when I accidentally shouted out the answer "Cheops!" during an opposing team's history question. Badly slurring, I spent the last 30 minutes of the match alternating between laying my forehead down on the table and maniacally cackling every time my grandmother gave a final answer. The next morning my cousin says, "Man, you were pretty fucked up last night."

Injection #50 - President St, Brooklyn NY 8:00pm
α = ●●
Milled around the old Tower Records w.4th area downtown. I was providing guest percussion with Mascott at The Fez Under Time Cafe later that evening, so I figured I'd stay in the area until "show time." Drugs seemed to be kicking in when I finally got on stage, or perhaps it was the three NA St. Pauli Girls I nursed. My assignment was alternating whole notes on a tamborine, but I treated my part like royalty. The sound at Fez was always so beautiful on stage for quiet bands, and I really got into the decay of the tamborine picking up ambient reverb from the vocal mic's (which I was not granted permission to use at this show). Likely that I sat there like a simpleton with a silly grin, but who the fuck cares?! Someone told me after the show that it was the greatest tamborine performance they'd ever seen live, and I'm still not sure if they were kidding or not.

Injection #70 - President St, Brooklyn NY 8:00pm
γ = ●●●
A bit stressed out, so I decided to just stay in for a change. Either I hit an artery or missed completely because my leg swelled up like a grapefruit, and got all purple and shit. First (and definitely not the last!) time this happened, so I decided to call the hotline number I had in my notebook. Nobody answered, so I left a message and kinda forgot about it.
I probably forgot about it because I smoked a big old joint to "take the edge off." The swelling started going down anyway, so things got better pretty quickly. My pager started dancing at around 10:30, with an official-looking callback number (I'm not sure exactly what that means). Anyway, I called the number, stoned out of my swollen gourd. It was the injection hotline!!! Duh!!! I told 'em "Everything's cool, now. Really. Everything's totally cool..." but I still had to run a gauntlet of difficult questions like "How old are you presently?" and "Describe the exact shape of the swollen area." I was absolutely sure there was a team of paramedics outside the front door ready to carry me off in a giant ice pack. I never heard from the hotline people again, but continued to smoke pot semi-regularly after injections for several years.

Injection #119 - Home, New York NY 4:00am
β = ●●●
You'd think I'd have this injection thing down pat after 2+ years, no? Rule #1: always wash your hands before spiking (no problem). Rule #2: NO ALCOHOL! Rule #3: (something about raw shellfish, not entirely clear on this one). But the no booze thing's never been an issue for me at all.
So I went out and got completely shitfaced on a Friday night after a hard week's work, which I absolut(e)ly had the right to do. I wasn't injecting until Saturday anyway, so pour it up! I got home around 3:30, barely coherent, and decided that I'd just "sneak in" a shot before I passed out. I mean, I was obviously gonna sleep in, so I'd just zzzz my way right through the nasty side effects, right? I pounded the 1.5" needle into my leg, slugged a few pills and hit the sack.
I woke up three hours later in excruciating pain, sweaty and freezing. I puked like a frat plege for about 5 straight hours, muttering self-deprecating phrases over and over like fucking Jake LaMotta. I was severly hung over for at least 40 hours, but still made it to work Monday morning. Life's a bitch.

Injection #299 - Yankee Stadium, Bronx NY 12:00pm (injected at home)
α = ●, β = ●●●, δ = ●
For a couple of years I bought what I believe was called the "mid-week pack" or something like that from the Yankees. You got six or eight games, all at weird times during the week against weird teams, for only $5 each. I usually called it the "Slacker Pack." I decided to just buy a single seat for each game, and go whenever I could.
Perfect kind of game to shoot up for. I chose a Thursday 1:00 game against the Colorado Rockies, for which I actually had a decent seat. Who cares if Jose Contreras was pitching? I was heading up to the Cathedral with a sophisticated high.
I think I took the bus to the game, which is pretty weird in itself. I also spent quite a bit of time on the Thursday Times crossword, which might explain my confusion when I noticed Contreras was still pitching in the 7th inning, even though he seemed to be giving up home runs every time I lifted my head up. The Yanks crushed the Rockies 10-4, winning their 4th in a row. I staggered out of the Stadium at around 4:30 with a huge bucket of popcorn and a nasty case of double vision. I wisely took the D train home to the safety of my own living room.
Interesting to note that only two players on the Yankee scorecard that day still play for the team: Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez (Posada was rested for John Flaherty, who bashed a grand slam in the 6th).

Injection #319 - Home, Manhattan NY 8:15pm
α = ●●, β = ●●●, δ = ●●
I was just finishing up a particularly rough cycle of I.V. Steroids over these two weeks, and this night was my last oral taper. It also happened to be game 7 of the 2004 ALCS between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox.
As I said, I was dealing with some major health issues at this point. I had a catheter/port put in my left arm so I could perform the steroid infusion in the privacy of my own home. I actually went to game 2 of the ALCS (the "Who's Your Daddy?!!" game) with the catheter sticking out of my arm, wrapped in a sock and under two jacket layers. I was white as a sheet.
Nowhere near as sickly looking as I'd be a week later, as the Yankees proceeded to piss away a 3-0 lead to the dreaded "1918" Sox. The game 7 loss was such a foregone conclusion that my only response was to medicate and wait. I complemented my injection with what I used to call the Full Count: 3 painkillers and 2 sleeping pills. My buddy and I tried this just for kicks at another Yankee game one time and nearly got lost in another dimension, or at least another section of the tier reserve.
So I watched the game at home lying in a puddle on my green couch, with my wife sitting to my right across the room. I remember her taking advantage of my extremely vulnerable state by making some suggestions for new habits I might begin practicing over the next few months, like watching less TV, talking about things other than sports, not taking so many pills, eating better, etc. I also remember slurring back to her, "But what about watching the Knicks..." to which she never responded. It was the end of a devastating week, and the beginning of an entirely new existence for baseball fans.

Women's Curling

2010-02-19T14:32:00.001-05:00

Imagine my excitement when I turned on USA this afternoon to find Russia vs. USA in women's curling. So many unanswered questions caroming around in my head: Is the curling sheet the same length as in men's competition? Is the stone lighter? Is it still called a stone, or maybe an egg? Are women better at curling because they're better at cleaning floors than men?

Let's get something out of the way first-- the Russian women's curling team are total sexpots. Anna Sidorova (pictured) could probably do for curling what Anna Kournikova has done for tennis, which is to inspire thousands of drunk American men to watch the sport while killing time at Chili's (that's where I was when first saw Kournikova compete).

Sidorova is unbelievable. Her delivery approach is part swan, part Russian battleship-- brutal elegance. Her teammates are no slouches either. The Privivkova-Sidorova-Fomina-Galkina quartet stacks up nicely with the all-time Olympic foxy foursomes, none of which are immediately coming to mind, but take my word for it. These girls could melt the ice off a Gulag snowshovel.

Wow, I think the match is tied after regulation. Extra ends? Break Point? Sweep-off? I won't tell you what I'm hoping for.

Men's Curling

2010-02-16T22:09:00.006-05:00

Curling tends to be the butt of most anti-Winter Olympiad jokes, usually at the hands of Americans that just don't understand the sport. Since 99.998% of the American viewing public doesn't understand curling, you hear a lot of jokes about curling every four years or so. I don't think I'll be the guy that does much to reverse this trend.

I won't bother trying to explain the sport, except that it's exactly like Friday nights when I lived with my ex-wife: me coming home drunk and sliding down the hallway towards the bathroom, usually dropping and rolling a 40 oz beer down the hall while she frantically scrubbed the floor clean.

Although the sport is of Scottish origin (early matches featured huge chunks of frozen haggis instead of today's granite "stones"), Canada has established herself as the modern-day curling capital of the world. Our gracious hosts are favored to bring home the curling gold in Vancouver this year, and they won't have far to travel with their medals since they're already at home.

Of course, the Americans will be lurking in the shadows, brooms in hand. Since the floodgates opened near the end of the 20th century and curling was no longer restricted to amateurs, the US has made its presence known. I took a look at today's match against the Germans.

The US curlers have a young, fresh, almost hip look (i.e. one of them has a goatee), while the Germans are pretty plain. As the Mz said, "They look like janitors." Cool or not, the Teutons dominated with lots of help from Andy "I Don't Need No Fucking Scrubbers" Lang, who seemed to just power the stone right down the middle every time.

The rules really are simple in curling, but it's damned hard to tell whether a team's delivery was good or bad. I'll say things like, "Jeez, that was a terrible job by the Germans," only to watch them celebrating three seconds later. It's also possible that I just don't understand the game at all.

Lots of funny things go on during a match. After the curler delivers the stone (that sounds kinda disgusting, right?), he generally screams orders at the other guys with the brooms. And I mean SCREAMS!!! (this part especially reminds me of my ex-wife) The sport also features time outs, which seems sort of weird-- do they really need a break that badly? They wear awesome shoes, too.

At least curling at Vancouver should be immune to the top plagues of this year's games: warm weather and accidental deaths. Then again, those granite stones are pretty fucking heavy...

Women's Ice Hockey

2010-02-15T18:49:00.002-05:00

Awesome! My first legitimate "free time" to cover an event this time around. Women/s Ice Hockey? No problem! I'll take Men;s Ice Sculpting at this point.

Looks like Canada vs. Switzerland, which sounds like a classic match-up, right? Team Canada's coming off an 18-0 trouncing of Slovakia, so you might say they're on a roll. Goals are worth one point, right?

I dunno about this... I thought they were just warming up and skating around and they're actually 0:52 into the first period. I wonder if an announcer ever made a period joke during one of these games, like "Yuck, messy period for the girls out there," or "I thought the women showed a lot of poise and grace considering it's only their first period."

Anyway, they're not very good. A slow-motion replay of a slapshot was just shown, and I swear her stick (blade?) hit the ice at least 6 inches in front of the puck. You know, like when you're little kids playing out in the street and Kevin skronks a wide open shot under a parked car? Just like that. I hate to imagine what a Slovakian slapshot must look like.

I thought I'd do a little research about Olympic Women's Ice Hockey... I clicked OLYMPIC SPORTS>>ICE HOCKEY and got a diagram that looks exactly like the old bubble hockey arcade games. Remember that shit?!! The booing button?!!

Awesome! Cammi Granato's in the booth for MSNBC's coverage. i guess she's the Cheryl Miller of ice hockey. Wow, that works even better than I realized.
EEK! They just did a little side piece on the US team, and I don't think they'll be winning any medals for good looks... well, this Ruggerio character managed to avoid the ugly stick. I imagine she'll handle most of our face-offs.

It says in the US vs China boxscore that "Q Xueting" served penalties for hooking at 4:12 and 19:32 in the first period. You think they kept her overnight or just gave her a summons? At least she used an alias.

I don't think I can actually watch this. My son just fell asleep on the couch a good two hours before his bedtime. Au revoir.

Vancouver Winter Olympic Games 2010 (opening ceremonies)

2010-02-13T15:17:00.004-05:00

I fully intend to cover this year's Vancouver Winter Olympiad as completely as I did the Chinese Summer Games two years ago, but this may not be possible. I don't think I'll be able to stay awake.

I was busy reporting on last night's opening ceremonies (even though I tuned in almost three hours late) when I was overwhelmed by several feelings at once: exhaustion, shame and intoxication. I've been averaging three hours of sleep (tops!) for over a week now, and my body's reacting in several ways at once: loss of appetite, bizarre emotional swings, and general dimwittedness. See what I mean? I can't even write anymore!

Anyway, I was all fired up to rip this year's Olympiad a new arse-hole. I already had some pretty funny stuff down after only 15 minutes of tube time (including a funny riff involving k.d. lang and an igloo) when I ~~was overwhelmed by several different~~ started to feel like a real asshole. Usually that's my sign that I'm writing some really good stuff, but this was different.

These opening ceremonies were doomed from the start. In addtion to an athlete dying during a training run on the luge course, balmy weather conditions, and having to follow the unbelievable Chinese OC last time, the Canadians just didn't seem to "want it." Let's face it-- the ceremonies have become an event in themselves.

So why'd I feel so bad about ripping the 'nucks for doing a lousy job? Mainly because they did the right thing. There's no way they could have even come close to rivaling Beijing '08's extravaganza, so why bother? This year's committee (team? groupe?) did things in true Canadian fashion: modest, understated, and sorta hard to understand. I applaud them for this.

Not that they didn't attempt a couple of tough routines. When I turned the TV on, there was something going on that looked like a giant-scale outtake from Inland Empire. Images projected on enormous rippling tarps in an utterly confusing manner. I honestly couldn't tell if something was broken or I was just seeing things or both.

Minutes later a guy looking like Fat Joe as a college professor was orating to the thousands about who-the-hell-knows-what. Yeah, I had the volume muted and our CC wasn't picking up anything, but I had no idea what he was talking about! k.d. came on and delivered a laborious version of... I don't know what it was, OK?! And where the hell was Rush during all this crap?! I'd think they'd have Geddy Lee on speed dial #1 any time a Canadian cultural event of any kind is in production.

The guy that made the final address (like, "let the games begin") seemed to be apologizing more than anything else, and there were still more mishaps to come. I don't know what the composite "torch" structure was actually supposed to look like, due to the fact that a large component of the piece never actually erected itself. I came up with (a) a half-assed bonfire, (b) a huge replica of half-eaten french fries, (c) the cover of Los Angeles by X, or (d) a conglomeration of marijuana joints.

Even weirder seeing Wayne Gretzky carrying the last leg of the torch's journey in a pickup truck like he was running from the cops. The kids running next to him on the side of the street were a nice touch.

All in all, they rolled with the punches pretty well. Merci, Canada, for bringing the Olympics back to the people. At least Anne Murray didn't have a wardrobe malfunction.

Holy Jesus... I thought I was tuning in to today's Games at 2pm Eastern and instead got an insane "We Are the World: Haiti" performance/advertisement. Absolutely terrifying. Check it out if you can.

Karaoke 201

2010-01-31T00:12:00.000-05:00

Last night's karaoke in Chelsea got me thinking about some more tech jargon for the casual singers out there (previously discussed here):

Broadway Joe (or Jane) - You get lots of theater rejects here in Manhattan, and they love "slumming" at karaoke bars. These types must be ridiculed and heckled mercilessly. We had some fruitcake last night singing "Lion Sleeps Tonight" complete with vocal acrobatics and an insipid, condescending smile aimed at everyone present. Not to be confused with a Ringer, a genuine talent revered and respected by all.

Good Mic/Bad Mic - Lots of places have two microphones, and one of 'em usually sucks compared to the other (too quiet, muffled, weird reverb, etc.). Best to keep an eagle eye locked on the good one to avoid shell game panic right before your song comes up.

The Mulligan - We had a few of these last night... you command the KJ to restart the track due to technical/sound difficulties or absenteeism (out for smoke, pissing, etc.). Crews are surprisingly cooperative with this.

K-Hole - Slang for a private booth, which are generally dark, stuffy, and smell like beer/vomit. Spending a few hours in a booth with less than ten people is a surefire way to induce severe depression or psychosis, especially if no women are present.

The One-Up - A nasty move where you sing another song by the same artist that someone else just sang, and you blow 'em out of the water. Nastier still is The Robbery, where you zip a song in to the KJ (avec $) before your nemesis (or friend) even finishes filling out their slip.

The Glaze - The surreal stare of the crowd up at the TV screen with the lyrics and video. Even weirder when someone mouths the words while someone else sings.

Bad Book - A songlist binder not sorted alphabetically by artist or song-- virtually impossible to find anything except songs by Justin Timberlake and John Mayer.

a bad day gets worse

2010-01-21T22:52:00.001-05:00

Celebrity Rehab - funniest line of the month so far:

"Oh my God..." - Tom Sizemore after encountering Heidi Fleiss in rehab

possible runner-up:

"There he goes..." - Dennis Rodman watching Tom Sizemore walk out of rehab

Random Daddy Bullshit

2010-01-08T23:27:00.000-05:00

Stuff I was thinking about tonight:

Is it common for a dad to obsessively eat his child's food while feeding him/her? I do this all the time. I did a search and found "Stalingrad Syndrome," but I think that's more about actual starvation. I mean, I'm really hungry when I feed Jr. his dinner... my job happens to be such that I don't have a spare moment to blow my damn nose, let alone sit down and eat a half-decent lunch.

I can't stop eating his macaroni & cheese, for instance. I regularly threaten him when he loses focus during a meal, "Hey, I'll eat this if you don't! I really will!" and then follow through and eat the rest of his bowl. I also eat his yogurt, cheese bread, and apples before he has a chance to finish. I'm of the belief that you shouldn't feed your child anything you wouldn't eat yourself (that goes for jars of baby food and other potentially nasty shit).

The boy's been on a hot streak with his after-dinner bath for a few months now-- lots of fun. He got these "bath drums" for his birthday (or Xmas?) that kinda rule. They make a wonderfully soothing sound, almost African... they remind me of Bill Bruford's Discipline-era log drum, quite frankly.

Anyway, I had a pretty dope "Biko"-style beat going tonight that had Jr. splishin' and a splashin'. One thing led to another, and I had a nearly perfect mimic of BB's "Sheltering Sky" lick going right there in the tub. Sounded freaking amazing, if I do say so myself. I almost segued into "Discipline" and started daydreaming about getting some guitar licks going when I noticed Jr. had the nozzle of his baby soap dispenser up his nose and was about to squirt gel into his brain. I made a mental note to look up the "Li'l Chapman Stick" on Amazon after bedtime.

The Alaska Diaries, week 9

2010-01-06T21:56:00.001-05:00

Pukers Die!!! The Alaska Diaries [names have been changed to protect the guilty and innocent]

WEEK NINE: Workin' for a livin'

Monday (day 57)
_____ & I drove up to Kenai to get van fixed at Dodge "hospital" (dealer/licensed service station). The place is amazing! Car sounds a lot better.

We work in the afternoon. Play our Nightwatch gig afterwards.

notables:
Fire
Stone Free
Femme Fatale
Wipeout

Swimming naked in river again. Stole lots of stuff from club.
Changed sign out front to "SHITCORNS" and "BAKOMO". _______ pukes. Crazy night-- we stole a bunch of shotglasses and threw them around the van on the way back from the club.

Tuesday (day 58)
We start working at 3pm (still hungover) and finish our shift at 8am the next morning. Long time.

The Japanese cannery guys were doing calisthenics and playing dodgeball in the morning out in the parking lot. One guy had a stopwatch. "Fuckin' A"...

Wednesday (day 59)
Thursday (day 60)
Friday (day 61)
Saturday (day 62)
Sunday (day 63)
Worked double shifts every day except one single shift day. Got too stoned one of the days and drove the fork lift into the back of the freezer truck, forks up. Also worked in the freezer room in shorts. The regular freezer room guys were taking acid in there sometimes.

Looks like we're leaving tomorrow. ______ has to be back in NY in ten days to fly to South Africa. We're driving the equipment back ourselves-- no one else wants to go back in the van. Two of us the whole way...

week ten: the long way home

Manic Mondayz on A&E!!!

2010-01-04T21:31:00.000-05:00

Gearing up for the biggest one-two punch in TV since the Beverly-Melrose heyday... the sometimes unbearable, occasionally hilarious, always exhausting combo of Intervention followed by Hoarders.

This 9pm to 11pm double-dose of dysfunctionality is the reality TV equivalent of watching Raging Bull and The Deer Hunter every fucking Monday night, assuming that each film were edited down to one hour in length apiece. Add the fact that A&E (sadistic bastards!) throws in a bonus episode of IV right before the 9:00 new one and spins a bonus Hoarders at 11pm, and we're talking about watching Raging Bull twice in a row followed by The Deer Hunter twice in a row (hour-long edited versions) for a total of four agonizing hours. I'm pretty sure we've never seen anything this grueling in the history of prime time television, unless you count last season's Met games on SNY.

This week's new Intervention features Sarah, an OxyContin addict who manages a massage parlor in Florida. She jerks off clients to pay for her habit, and supposedly took 8 hits of acid at once as a high school freshman! Sounds like a job for Jeff VanVonderen, the Albert Pujols of interventionists. Jeff always gets 'em off to rehab safely, and generally keeps 'em clean for good. Like they say about climbing Everest... it's not getting to the top, it's getting your ass back down alive.

Tonight's Hoarders also sounds like standard terrifying fare: Deborah's obsessive hoarding is driving her alcoholic husband to drink even more, and Jim the beekeeper has a shithole for a hive. More on this another time.

Natasha? Natissa? Natette?

2010-01-01T22:21:00.000-05:00

As I started the first of eleven loads of laundry for the evening, I said to myself, "I think I'll watch the Knick game tonight." I actually said it out loud in the building laundry room!

I've been a bad fan lately. Knicks are actually winning games lately (putting their humiliating loss to the Nets aside), and they're doing it without any Nate Robinson at all. Almost starting to feel like a Marbury kinda thing... Nate hasn't played since December 1st!

I had the game on for about the first 3 minutes of the 1st quarter, and I started wandering. Say what?! Lockup marathon on MSNBC?! "Extended Stay: There Goes the Neighborhood" followed by "Tennessee Women's Prison"?! Maybe I'll just keep tabs on Knicks-Hawks every few minutes or so...

I finally came to my senses after a couple of hours, and stumbled back to MSG to find that Nate was not only playing, but was on fucking FIRE!!! Seriously, he scored every god damn time he took the ball down the court.

I sat there for a while with my jaw in my lap, folding Jr's shirts and (the future) Lil' Mz's onesies like an inmate on Thorazine. The game went into overtime with Nate still sinking everything he put up (except free throws, of course). Forty-one points????!!!! Off the bench????!!!! What the hell is going on???!!! How many "question mark/exclamation point" tandems can I possibly squeeze into a single paragraph???!!! Are we really having another kid in five weeks???!!! Is there a girl version of the name "Nate"???!!!

The Pussy is Free-ee (but the wax costs money!)

2009-12-28T22:15:00.001-05:00

Hey, if you haven't checked out the Ministry of Information yet, you're a fucking deadbeat. DJ HSP aka "High School Pussy" aka "Home Slice Pussy" has undertaken a task as ambitious as the Human Genome Project (HGP), which I suppose makes him the James Watson of hip-hop.

No shit, get your ass to Mars and see what the man has to offer. I GUARANTEE you'll hear something you've never heard before and I GUARANTEE it'll be good. From stuff you already know (Main Source, Kool G Rap) to stuff you should already know (Godfather Don, J-Live) to stuff you definitely don't know (Tootskee and the Czar MC, Poison Ladd S.L.R.), HS Pussy gets 'em off every time.

SYR to LGA (live in-progress)

2009-12-23T09:36:00.010-05:00

I know "holiday delays at the airport" stories are a dime a dozen, but...

HANCOCK INT'L AIRPORT, SYRACUSE
December 23, 2009
8:34am - Reported to my gate exactly 30 minutes before scheduled departure. There are no US Air employees anywhere. Screen says "ON TIME".

8:39 - A few other passengers around. Doesn't look good.

8:42 - There are two separate groups flying with dogs on my flight. Each group is headed by an obese older woman with polyester pants. I'm still not sure if the groups are related. The dogs in each group are yelping like the dickens.

8:46 - A smart looking girl just announced from her Blackberry that our flight's delayed at least an hour and a half. An idiot responded, "What does that mean?!"

8:50 - One of the dogs just escaped from its bag. One of the fat ladies chased after it, but the dog's leash got wrapped around one of the other dogs. Complete bedlam... I feel like I'm living inside a P.D.Eastman boardbook.

8:57 - U.S. Air crew finally showed up. The guy's announcing the delays over the intercom while fat dog lady #2 screams into her cell phone that she doesn't know when the flight's leaving.

9:08 - We might be the only gate with a flight in the entire wing-- there's nobody here. At least there's some sort of bonding thing when you're delayed among throngs of desperate holiday travelers; we're feeling like a bunch of losers here.

9:23 - I think I have a BabyRuth candy bar somewhere. Our food options are terrible: an Au Bon Pain with fossilized pastries and a vending machine. Maybe the bar will open soon.

9:27 - Hey, a flight just arrived at our gate! A fantastically gay-looking guy just strutted in from the walkway with rainbow-striped boots and a white puffy hat. Thank god... that's the first evidence of civilization since I flew out of LGA Tuesday morning.

9:31 - Hmm, that doesn't seem to be our plane. Then whose is it? Philadelphia?! We've been lapped by the next scheduled departure from our gate.

9:33 - Awesome! They just paged "Heinie Webb" on the intercom and the girl next to me got up and walked over to the desk! OK, maybe it was "Heidi Webb".

9:38 - Wow, the Blackberry girl is sitting and chatting with fat dog lady #1. I must be a complete prick bastard... I wouldn't talk to any of these people for all the tea in China. I mean, a crazy lady with a dog? She'll never be able to shake her off! Ever!

9:43 - At least I got to watch Sex Rehab last night before I went to bed. Phil Varone looked like he might literally explode if he didn't get some action ASAP. Then he pretty much came out and said, "I'm gonna lose it if I don't jerk off or at least spoon with someone" or something to that effect. An utterly compelling character.

FUCK! The damn airport just cut off my signal mid-post... lost some funny shit about driving on cough syrup and killing dogs. I'm quitting.

...and I'm back with live shit mid-air:
10:48 – Finally getting on the damn plane. Into the tunnel, down the stairs and out into the snow. Propeller plane in a snowstorm. Not sure if we’re flying to LaGuardia or Everest base camp.

10:52 – Might be Everest base camp after all… a family of small Indians are climbing around the seats of the tiny plane as I board. The stewardess is chasing two little kids around, yelling “No! No! Sit!” The mom and dad are equally as clueless, squinting at their boarding stubs muttering “D? F? 2?” Totally weird.

10:54 – Next wave of passengers is a quartet of Asian men in sweatsuit pants. None speak English but all are wearing headphones.

10:56 – The stewardess has the tricky job of communicating that we should really be sitting in our seats but since the plane isn’t even half-full you can actually sit wherever you want. None of the passengers except myself and two women seem to understand this subtlety.

11:05 – Out on the runway, props spinning, plane humming, KAPUT. We’re grounded for at least 15 minutes, minimum.

11:07 – Stewardess comes around for another round of admonishings: “No! No! No music! Sit!”

11:10 (estimate) – I think we’re taking off now…

11:32 – No snacks.

11:41 – “No! No cameras! No!”

11:42 – As I look out over the majesty of the Himalaya and the Annapurna massif, my mind wanders… nope, looks like either Scranton or White Plains.

11:50 – If this plane crashes, it would make a lousy movie.