Roads of battles, Paths of victory, We shall walk.

We broke some of our old rules tonight, folks, up in the club. But all is okay. We maintained, we were paid by Edmar in ounces of brandy, and we put on some nasty cuts.

DJing kinda sucks. Especially when you spin first, and noone is in the club that you know personally. You play some tight-assed disco and fools don't recognize. Then folks show up that you want to rock but your mission is already complete, like on some video game shit.

If you ask us to play dance music and we rack up some Bohannon and you cannot get into it, we super don't want to know you. Do not come up to the booth and hassle us, for we have attempted to do your bidding and you are lame as hell.

Right now we are kind of wishing the tamale guy had shown up. That would have put our shit correct. Word.

Happy new years eve, kinds. See you at the Bottle tomorrow.




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But the blood has stopped pumping and he's left to decay

Do Yourself A Favor Dept. Memo #8

Right now we are listening to Rinse FM, London's great pirate radio station. Link to your right. Go ahead. We'll wait for you to turn them on and come back. You need to flash up your work day, dun. When this sweet science starts spewing from those work computer speakers you never turn on, heads will roll. The office will turn into a spliff-hazed London high-rise flat before your eyes!

The song playing currently sounds like 5 minutes solid of that cool as hell noise the Transformers used to make when they changed from trucks into robot killing machines. Can you top that, fucksock? No. There are two genres of music on Rinse, for the most part. Grime and dubsteptechgrind something or so such. We aren't real sure the name of the genre, but it's instrumental dubby type shit. You'll love it. Tastes like chicken (and pussy). The group shows are amazing. When the Roll Deep crew steps up and 10 MCs start spitting real hard its total black steel in the hour of chaos and you ain't got no helmet.

We basically know more about grime than most (easy Simon Reynolds, we said MOST) of our associates because of the Rinse. OK, we can't tell what the bastard MCs are saying half the time, and almost every song has a non-stop sample of dogs barking, but that is okay. For instance, we now know what "eski" means. Do you? You dumb shit-eating Nazi. Learn! We hope to impress Ms. Chantelle Fiddy with our knowledge someday. She will love us and become our British bride. Yeah right.

The other great thing about Rinse is that the DJs run they mouths off all the time. And if you are an American from, say, Chicago, and you send them a text message big-upping them, their show, the joint they smoking, they love interest, etc. they will holler at you immediately on the air. Thousands of London radio listeners will wonder who the frickety frack Champagne James is, and how cool is it that Chicago in the heezy? Don't you want some of that action for yourself? It's all love up in here, bitches! Trust. We like to send a text at the beginning of a show so that at first we are just Champagne James in Chicago, but we multiply! Ten minutes later we are the Chicago crew, then we are the Chicago massive by end of hour one. It never fails. Don't you want to be Tulsa Oklahoma massive?




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Daddy's ghost behind you, sleeping dog beside you

Top 5 lessons learned in 2005:

1. Trust your spidey-sense when it comes to records.
2. Play hooky twice a year, at least.
3. Eventually, your heroes will die, and you will have to deal.
4. Fandom can reward you.
5. Seagulls. Always beware the seagulls.




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"Look, disco pants and t-shirts." "Yeah. Lots of space in this mall."

Yesterday afternoon a OGFP associate informed us that she was lazing around her house in nothing but a old Boston Red Sox hat and stilettos from Fredrick's of Hollywood. Dear reader, that is strategic information we can use.

Last night was all about our inner jazzbo. If the Empty Bottle were a volcano, the Vandermark Five would be the lava. We have been ordering, cajoling, imploring, etc. our various associates that we all take Ken Vandermark very much for granted. That he plays like 8 times a week all over town and we barely represent. This man is a McArthur Genius Grant winner. This man is not Mr. Yakkity Sax on some Boots Randolph type shit. This is serious as a heart attack real deal 100% jazz. Jazz is dead, you say. Huh. So is Lenny Bruce. Ever met anyone funnier? Sure, all you Weasel Walters with your axes to grind have a point. But we just love dude. And his band. Oh, boy blammo, the V5 smoke. Checkity check out this lineup: Kenny V (sorry) on reeds, Kent Kessler on bass, Fred Longberg-Holm on further strings, Tim Daisy on the kit and new to us sax man Dave Rempis. Here, say hi to the boys.



Tim Daisy especially tickles our fancy. He hits 'em hard, he hits 'em soft, he hits 'em everywhich damn way. At one point as he was counting off a track, Ken looked over to him and said "you sweaty motherfucker" in a complimentary fashion. True dat. The V5 is driving, muscular post-bop that sounds very Midwest to us. Like good Chicago architecture, solid and flowing ever upwards. Ayn Rand, that evil old Facist wench, would probably love this band. For all the right reasons of course. But they can ballad that ass too. The short, moving piece they played for Derek Bailey had a visible effect on the room. By the end, people were whooping after solos and freaking the fuck out. And these were jazzbos. You, know. Pasty. Bad facial hair. Lots of bad facial hair. 8 or 9 dudes to every chick in the room. Conversations about Lee Morgan and Kenneth Terroade. Imported beer in every fist. War whooping. You shoulda been there.



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When your friends they do come crying, tell them now your pleasure's set upon slow release

Edge Break. Last night we recieved a missive from OGFP super-bud Jon Z. that night before last he got "frickin' housed", as opposed to what we reported here yesterday. We regret the error.

We also raise up our pimp cups and join him in intemperate solidarity.



Use of unnecessary violence in the apprehension of the Blues Brothers
has been approved.




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Note to self: don't die

Congrats to OGFP super-bud Jon Z. for staying sober for six whole days. Damn! We wish we had that kind of moxie. The last time we had a streak that long around here was somewhere during the first Bush administration. As in 1992, wigga. But, you know, a pretty good band once said everything has a season, and we're pretty sure sobriety is our calendar in the future, too. Until then it's Drinky Crow Routine v. 2.53.

Speaking of new developments re: Drinky Crow, we, as our superstar alter-ego Champagne James, are DJing Sonotheque this Friday night Dec 30, around 10PM or so. Yeah, the drinks are expensive and the crowd can sometimes be privates-deep in haterade. But come represent as we put that sound-system into blaze mode. We know how to move you. We're not giving out a set list or anything (what are those, anyway?), so you'll have to come out and give us a pre-New Years Eve kiss. Patrick Adams will be on the menu. Local grabass Logan Bay will also be riding the decks, probably playing crazy Baltimore/Brazilian booty jamz. He's crunk like that.

Oh, and we have another Rock Records story to relate while we've got you here. Down in the basement one day, we smelled burning and saw the haze of smoke. Ernie, the owner, immediately called the Chicago Fire Dept when we told him. We then went upstairs and outside with our co-workers as per Ernie's request. Apparently the CFD takes downtown fires very seriously, for within 3 minutes, Washington was literally filled with Firetrucks, on both sides of the street, all the way from State to Wacker. Probably 40 or 50 of them, with ambulances, Mobile HQ RVs, SUVs and an armada of Chicago Police. We were momentarily deputized: "Here! Hold this hose!" Firemen who are totally repped with all their gear look incredibly kick ass. We wish we looked that good on the job. Seriously, more you know what than a toilet seat. And they deserve it.

Anyway, the "fire" turned out to be some smoldering leaves that had caught alight when someone dropped a cigarette through a crack in the sidewalk in front of the store. The Chief of the CFD himself (four stars!) took a bucket and put it out with about 50 of his men quietly observing. Then they began to talk to each other, shaking hands with men from other units, milling all over the store in full dress, shopping, showing each other their axes, generally talking shop. Traffic by now in the entire Loop was at a standstill, and the firemen could not have cared less. We were enthralled to be around them that long. We did not ask if we could try on a fireman's hat, however. Hey, we were 26 at the time. This lasted about 45 mintutes, until another fire alarm came in and off they all went en masse, sirens screaming and trucks glinting majestically in the sunlight.




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The window sees trees cry from cold, And claw the moon

Jesus in a lemonade stand. We were sitting around Casa Borracho last night getting our tipsy on, watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force and Season 3 of Mr. Show on the crazy new big screen flat pannel TV Miles brought home as Xmas loot, and we were almost tempted to put poetry on this thing. Can you imagine that? We were going to write a poem about going to the bus stop in the morning. We would have so regretted it. We do occasionally write poetry around OGFP, but certainly not for public consumption.

We will write a poem and post it here if 300 people visit us in one day. How about that? Wordsworthian we are not, but if so demanded, we will try our best.

Anyway, so new TV. This will be interesting. Basically we've spent the last few months without one, and haven't missed it much. Coast to Coast AM and ESPN Radio 1000 have fed our souls the media we require. How many TV shows cover the phenomenon of remote viewing and the life work of the quiet prophet Edgar Cayce? John and Ed got us through the playoffs and World Series. Additionally, the internet is good enough these days for serious global citizenry, we have found. We do remember the days when we were Josh's manservant, and he basically bought us cable. And oh, how we watched the cable. C-Span! CNN! Charlie Rose! HBO! Deadwood! Baseball Tonight! Lou Dobbs! Little bits of us miss those moments, drooling at 3 AM, in the pale blue light of the boob.

We were talking to our associate Chris at the Bottle the other night and he was telling us some very strange drug tales, the veracity of which we'd like to double check with all of you. He was telling us about psychedelic drugs designed to make you hallucinate about very specific phenomena. Like greek gods. Like you would take a hit of acid (??) and then talk to Athena and her posse. Or Zeus would come to you as the swan, and try to anally seduce you. Or something.

He told us about two friends of his who live very far apart who both took the same drug at the same time, so that they might converse with Yahweh, the god of the Old Testament, as that was the drug's design. Both apparently did, and independently reported back to Chris that Yahweh, in fact, looks and sounds very much like Woody Allen. He told them he doesn't really run things here anymore, and he also told them that the key to the universe was in three or four numbers, which neither friend could remember exactly. Plans to converse with Yahweh again are imminent, apparently. We sense a steaming pile of horse hockey has been fed to us, but we are reserving judgement. Maybe we'll send a drunken text message to Apollo someday in a drugged out fog and he will tell us that love is like a rock to be thrown at a wall, repeatedly.

By the way, we have divined from reading Morgan's blog (look to the right side for the link) that her Moroccan adventure is beginning. We are v. proud and excited for her, and are sorry that we could not bid her a fond farewell in person. Morgan is, in a world filled with far too much asshat-ery, very excellent. Take care Morgan, and may the wind always be at your back.




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Bless those who've sickened below, bless us who've chosen so

Earth dogs and metal merchants, listen up. Christmas is over, and we are glad. Not to be all bah humbug on shit, but too much insanity to end an epic shitstorm like 2005. Train rides, shopping, more shopping, Xmas parties, thump. Still, Xmas with the Moms was nice. Sitting around reading books about the Revolutionary War until the midnight hour. We would wake up late at night and give Ellie the German Shepard (and ourselves) little snacks. Ellie loves her cheddar cheese, sure. And potato chips. But especially she likes crunchy veggies like celery and carrots. We think she is weird, but we delight in giving her what she wants. She is that kind of dog.

Did you know Mom #1 makes the best Prime Rib in the world? It's true. This was also the last Xmas we will ever spend in the NW burbs. Hmm. The parents will be living in Kentucky year-round by then, and off we will go for holidays into the woods. Won't that be interesting?

Last night we were proud to note that the Chicago Bears are in the playoffs after creaming the Green Bay Packers. Mom #1 is stoked. We super do not care about football around OGFP anymore, but there was a time....Anyway, we are glad for civic pride, etc.

What are you doing on New Years Eve? Our associate over at TinyLuckyGenius aka Jessica the Good is playing records at the Bottle with the Juan MacLean. We think NYE 2005/6 is going to be a special night. Off the charts. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Something like that. Keep your fingers crossed, and come by the Bottle for the traditional toast of champagne and Mickey's.




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Christmas Under Siege

Welcome Fox News viewers who wandered here by mistake. Please take off your shoes so we can cut off your feet with our big shears.

Before the period of radio silence surrounding the holidays commences, we want to wish you and yours a merry merry whatever the fuck you are doing this year. Take it easy on the egg nog, bitches. That shit will make you barf all over your Grandma's tea cozy.

Here is a list of five good things that happened to us in 2005:

1. 2005 World Champion White Sox.
2. Canadian Mist.
3. Thanksgiving trip to Kentucky.
4. Rinse FM.
5. Finding a mint copy of Sonny Murray's "Sonny's Time Now" at this weird store run by 2 art/hippie casualty chicks for like 2 bucks.

Let's hope the '06 lowers the boom on the wackness.




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But we know it’s just a lie, scare your son, scare your daughter

Is there anything better in the world than a 7-layer burrito from Taco Bell? We think we might have to go back for dinner. Either that, or Ronny's Steak House for the $3.99 customer appreciation special. Our winter belly must be sated! Steak, baked tater, salad and corn-on-the-cob for that unbelievable low price. When you come to town you'll have to join us. Much respect to Ronny's!

We are very sad to learn that Rock Records of 175 W. Washington Ave, CH ILL 60622, will soon be closing. Everything in the store is 40% off. We stopped in to pick up the new Lil' Wayne, and lo and behold almost all of the box sets, including the Albert Ayler Revenant number we have been eyeing for months, have been sold. Born to Run box, we missed our chance! So, we contented ourselves with some Nick Drake we were missing. Rock Records holds a special, weird place in our hearts. Our first job after moving to Chicago was there. A little over 3 years, in fact. Our last day was December 31, 1999. That was 2 years too long, but life back then was hard. We so were chronically not getting laid. We had not yet learned to dress indie rock. We looked like an immigrant with our short hair and bad sweaters. We were writing a novel, which we furiously burned one night in a rage. We threw quarter-sticks of dynamite at our neighbors one time. We saw one male bum trade another male bum a blow job for a 40.

We saw many amazing things over the years at Rock Records. We saw one of our co-workers get impregnated and sire children for not one, but two other co-workers, one of whom was such a bad alcoholic we couldn't believe his body could even go through the normal male sexual response, much less produce sperm. We saw Rich have a seizure, and we put a pen in his mouth, like our First Aid class at summer camp had taught us to do. Luckily he did not swallow his tounge that day. We helped Jasmine Guy shop for CDs one fine morn, right at 9 AM as the store was opening. She bought a lot of R&B and we carried the little hand cart for her. She was very beautiful. We told her so, just kind of blurting it out stupidly, and she smiled and touched our hand and thanked us. That moment means a lot to us for some reason, looking back on it.

Another day, we saw Noam Chomsky looking through the N.W.A. CDs. Totally not kidding. We wanted to have a mini-debate with him re: whether or not language is inherently known to all human babies, but refrained. Carol Marin and Ron Magers came in together one day, which if you live in Chicago, is really cool. Ramsey Lewis had a splendid 15 minute conversation with us about his 1969 album Another Voyage, among other topics. Total gentleman. The Mayor came in, twice, very red-faced. President Clinton drove down Washington in his motorcade and waved to us as we jumped up and down, totally hyped. We remember the weird official dudes who methodically took all the trash cans away and welded the manhole covers shut. We remember the Christmas party the day the House voted to impeach Clinton, and listening to the hearings on NPR in the basement over the next few months.

Once, when we were taking out the trash in the alley back behind 175, we saw a limo pull up and into the back door step, head as big as a TV-set, Luciano Pavarotti. "Holy shit", we said out loud to ourselves. "That is Luciano Pavarotti." He looked at us and audibly sniffed. Later, we snuck upstairs to listen to him rehearse with his orchestra in the Musician's Union. We remember him not singing much, but really putting the group through it's paces.

The best part about Rock Records, what we really treasure as far as memories go, is what we recall of Emil. Emil was the maintenance man for the entire building, record store and Union hall. Emil had been a string player in some of the best bands in the world (cello, we think?). Emil was in the Army, in France and in the actual real Glenn Miller band when Glenn Miller's plane was lost at sea. That was the most popular band in the world at that point in time. So Emil was in the Beatles, bascially. Emil could have joined the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, even auditioned for Sir Georg Solti. But he craved variety, so he did session work. Amazing. Emil toured with Sinatra's band, and was paid handsomely for it. Emil played on Motown Records that you have heard eighteen million times. Emil had met Stevie Wonder when he was a young man. Emil had played some sessions for Curtom. Curtis Mayfield! Damn! Emil knew who LeRoy Hutson was. "You bet. And the Natural Four. Those guys were great" (!!). Emil had gone to every Chicago Bears home game since 1947. He had met George Halas many times, and expounded often on the beauty of watching Gayle Sayers at Wrigley Field, and what a nice, gentle man Walter Payton was and how hard he played. Emila and his wife went to about 20 movies a week when we knew him. That flick where Master P sold cell phones? Emil saw it in the theatre. We haven't seen Emil in many years, but we hope he and his lovely wife are well.

Rock Records, RIP. You will be missed.



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You will do what looks good to you on paper, we will do what we must

We're not going to tell you the website url or how we stumbled across it the other day, because we are still trying to bleach the horror of it from our minds. Do you remember the Encyclopedia commercial kid? With the glasses and shit who looks like every nerd you went to grade school with? He has a sex blog. And there are totally, like, pictures of him eating chicks out. Additionally, the Encylopedia commercial kid SPEAKS GREEK. It is fucking insane. Jesus on a popcicle stick. It has ruined us. It has deeply troubled our sexuality, almost as much as the Jodie Foster flesh-tube creamed corn dream. You think you want to look but you don't. We'll be like Grover in that one book everyone had as a kid trying to stop you page after page as you march across the internet plains to explore for this dude and his monstrous blog.

Best office time-waster ever: Google Earth. Whoa, doggie. Are we the last people on Earth to discover this? Damn Stan! Any address on earth, flying from one location to another....we're not going to give anything else away, except that it is amazing and your soul is incomplete until you download it. Selah.



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You're number one with a bullet, that's money well spent

You know when you're down and out, and work is a bitch and time ain't flyin' and winter is turnin' in your mind like a non-stop Mobb Deep song, and hate and bitterness is on the menu and the salad bar is closed, and your new crush isn't working out and things are two steps from chronic? You know that feeling?

Well, there is always Fugazi. It is the tonic that cures that ass thong show nice, guaranteed. They never fail. Once every two years we get a major jones and step to the Fugazi for like a month solid. A different record every day, maybe a viewing of the Instrument Doc or two, a visit to the Embrace record, until we regain our flow. Last night, Jessica sold us her old copy of Steady Diet of Nothing, the first Fugazi album either of us ever bought, and an album we have only ever owned on cassette. We listened to it about an hour ago, on our headphones at the corpo-wack job, and our winter rut feels two steps back, already the wind is at our back, and momentum has us on the righteous.

We have a deep personal history with this band. We have seen them mucho times in concert. We have seen people unabashedly weeping at their shows. For some of us, it's the feeling closest to church we can imagine, apart from various natural wonders we have seen. To expand the religious metaphor a little, what Fugazi gives us is a very specific feeling that no other band or artist ever has, really. It is something like fervor. They set fire to the heart. They put a sword on your shoulder and tell you that the divine right of kings is also yours. That the mantle of your life is sturdy, and if you give it care, freedom is yours. The whole game is that simple. Pretty hard for a band, some songs and a few guitar lines to accomplish, but this band does. Maybe its age specific. We know lots of people that Fugazi has this effect on. For the rest, we feel a little pity.

Sean O' Bra. He's the one that got us hooked. Our lives would have been vastly different if Fugazi had not put the fire into our hearts. Sean just had a spare book of matches laying around handy. Thanks, Sean-O. We hope the ether is treating you well. Without you, we might have grown up to vote Republican. Middle class resentment might have turned our hearts charcoal black.




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If no one had ever told you/ That you were any good

At about 11:35 AM CST this morning, we realized exactly whose hump channel we had been rutting in our dreams last night. At first we were surprised, then mortified briefly before realizing that this was not totally out of the realm of possibility, and now we are kind of cool with it. One time we accidentally let it slip who we had had a sex dream about when we were in high school, and that was a great social blunder which we immediately regretted greatly and have not repeated. So, don't ask.

Not to be all TMI up in hizzle but sex dreams are not an average OGFP phenomenon. In fact, we can count on our hands how many times this has happened during our slumber. The first time involved a school bus, Jodie Foster with a flesh tube filled with creamed corn that we were trying to....lay seed in. Deep scars from that one, folks. Some of these dreams have indeed have been pleasant as hell, but always brief, killed by the alarm clock. That means we have never, um, consummated any of our dream bangs. We have heard it is very rare to be a 31-year old American man and have all zeros on the nocturnal emission scoreboard, but we can't be sure. Perhaps we can start a little commentary info swap, eh boys? Certainly the insomnia has something to do with it. Perhaps different stages of our life which were later noted for their v. frequent sessions of self abuse took care of things. Ponder with us.

Did you know that the city of Chicago has a Dept. On Aging? Yes! We saw one of their vans on our lunch break. Why does the Aging Dept. need vans? What are they out there doing? Grabbing old ladies off the street and taking them away for study? "Hey Grandma! By order of John Stroger, President of the Board of Cook County, we order you into this van! We need your toenails to feed to the Mayor!" It's totally fucking insane.

But it is not the only weird vehicle we have seen cruising around in our fair city. How about the school bus cut openly in half and filled with scrap metal we saw driving down S. State St. one day? We used to compulsively watch out for it, and see it on the roads occasionally, like Bigfoot. How does one go about cutting a bus in half? It was not neat cutting, either. It was all uneven and jagged and shit. And so much scrap metal fits into it! We have seen armies of gleeful bums with a train of shopping carts filled with all manner of product, hooked together, well over a football field long, cruising down Milwaukee Ave. at 7 AM on a Sunday, as if it were the most natural thing to be doing in the world. How do you turn a football field of carts onto another street? Where could they possibly have been going? Ponder with us.




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And in this corner, weighing in at 850 pounds, Guns N' Roses

You know it's a REAL busy day at the office when OGFP taps that ass twice in one day.

Hi. We were just listening to the Larry Levan Live at the Paradise Garage double CD Strut put out a few years ago and were amazed at the skills therein. Anyone know where Larry is buried? Motherfucker could fade in a Cher track and we don't mind. We fucking hate Cher with a passion. No reason. Hives. Blanching. Anyhizzy, we should dig him up and ritually smoke whatever is left of his corpse so that we might harvest some of his power. If Emperor can do it, so can we. Totally like that genius scene in How High where Method Man and Redman dig up John Quincy Adams so they can past the test or whatevs. Would people look at us weird if before our DJ gigs we started huffing from a plastic bag that contains the earthly remains of Larry Levan? Surely not. Surely they would understand that we can't fade shit and the levels are totally wrong and srkkkkkrrrrrr the record skipped, and goddamn it! We need Larry! We will snort and freebase Larry In A Powdered Form if we have to so help us God!

Washington Correspondent Bebe Rebozo reports strange things happening in our nation's capital. Apparently winged monkeys have kidnapped Laura Bush and taken her back to Chile. Dick Cheney is being forced into a new job, ahem, position: to sodomize Great Danes for the rest of his natural life. Then he has to unroll the lipstick gently with his hands and fellate away! If you own a dog, you know what we're talking about. Dogs with boners are hideous.

Hi there! Secret Service, welcome. Ignore that box of explosives in the corner by the money mak- we mean home canning kit. The bombs are for a road we are building underneath the mountains in Utah. It's to let out the Mormons. We hear they are freezing to death by the hundreds and starting to eat each other, and we don't mean in a sexy way, because they can't ever take off the holy undergarments so how the fuck do they have so many rugrats? Anyjuice, we are worried about Orrin Hatch. Is he going to make it? Can the Mormons maintain without all devouring each other? Get back to us on that.




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The hearse seems to be the illest whip in the town.

What a weekend.

To the chick who referred to our blazing new haircut (thanks Anne) on Friday night as Hitler-hair, we have a bullet-spewing metal cock we'd be glad to let you suck. We look like we have an audition for the Stone Roses tonight, actually, and look v. cute, if we do say so ourselves.

Um, to the girl who was talking to us while literally drooling from a combination of booze and Xanax on Saturday night, and asked us to make out in the Empty Bottle photo booth, we are so glad we abstained. We saw your friends literally carrying you out the door, and we hope everything is all right. If some dude gave you roofies, we hope his fuckstick is in the process of falling off. We are needy, but not THAT needy. We don't have to do the whole Evanston/Oak Park trustfund put-something-in-her-drink pity-bang to feel good about ourselves. Not yet, anyway.

To the folks at Wound Up HQ, sorry about making your parents watch the White Sox DVD during your wife's graduation party. Whoops. A little whiskey and some champagne and we temporarily lose ourselves. Oh, and the cheese was delicious. As Mr. Donohue kept saying to us, "you are going to eat that whole plate, aren't you?" Uh, affirmative.

To the people at Shoe Fetish at Division and Campbell, your Jordans are fake-ass. That laser etching ain't fooling no one. OGFP knows our shoes. We have the realness in our quiver. We have been told that we are wearing what doesn't belong on this earth. We have been told that we are wearing ghosts on our feet. People feel on our shoes that much. We have taken off our shoes and had them passed around the club as if they were some crazy Catholic relic like St. Peter's foreskin or some shit. We were excited as hell, too, to see the shoes you carry. Jordan Fives in aqua/white colorways? Damn! We wanted that shit for the club. Oh well. A little more crilla for the Bloody Mary fund.




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Never sleep because sleep is the cousin of death.

The office potluck. Our hands were going from plate to mouth to plate so fast we looked like a fucking magic trick. Fucking goddamn fuck. People around here know how to cook. Our job often causes us violent visceral stomach reactions, but not due to the vittles. No, the vittles are choice. Jerk chicken jerk fish? Got it! We brought the Harold's. 2 buckets of Fried catfish and hot sauce. Other delicacies:

-Green pepper and ranch dressing pizza. We know it sounds scuzz. Trust. We could eat a whole one ourselves in about 5 minutes if left unattended.

-Mashed potatoes layered with cheese, chives, sour cream, bacon and more cheese.

-Taco salad that tastes like the entire menu from Taco Bell in a 12x12 tray.

-Homemade tiramisu and cheesecake.

-Five different kinds of "real" pizza.

-Crazy good Mac & Cheese with the bread crmbly things at the top that we like.

-Green Bean and Campbell's mushroom soup casserole with fried onions.

-Collard greens slow-cooked with onions and pig neck

-Cornbread.

You see, we work with black folks who know their soul food. We only hang with people that shop at Moo & Oink from now on. Not to bag on all you fellow honkies out there, but do not bring that weak shit to the office potluck. Sushi? Are you fucking kidding? Does this look like the Breakfast Club around here? Do you see Anthony Michael Hall giving Emilio Estevez a reacharound in the copy room? Is Molly Ringwald auto-fellating a flare gun under the bosses desk? Leave the coldcuts and mini-sandwich and stir-fried rice with pineapple and pine-nuts (??) at home for the family dog and the two year old to choke theyselves with. It just takes up room on the table that could be available for the vanilla pudding with wafers and the chocolate chip cookies as big as salad plates!

Four v. full plates and an ice-cold Budweiser into the lunching hour and we are ready to crawl into the corner of the confrence room and cry.




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Canine ate seven sick five year olds.

The Board of Directors over here at OGFP are proud to announce that their phone lines are back open and waiting to take your call. Have you missed us? Sorry about that.

They are also contemplating a name change, just for the off season. Details emerging.




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He went out one day and made an alter out of a stump.

This morning we were going through our blog, obsessively correcting grammatical boners and spelling errors and times we have slipped up and unintentionally dropped the "royal we" thing (thanks Morgan, for reminding us about that snappy euphemism)(and by the way, while we have an aside, is anyone annoyed with the whole "we" deal? Our friend Marky "Wound Up" D was first on the block with this steez, along with Gollum of course, and we snatched it right up and appropriated. Call us ridiculous but we kind of like the thin veil of anonimity it provides. What do you think? Let us know if we should park it while it's hot. We're not totally opposed to first person). Then we realized we were freaking hella stupid. Who cares?!? Noone reads the damned archives anyway. We know you jerks are here for the now, so we'll try and provide.

Okay, so you know all those stupid MySpace lists? Name 25 SST bands and everyone chimes in via message board (St. Vitus was ours, natch) until you are down to MinuteFlag and someone slips up and mentions Redd Kross? One going around the other day was for the movies of Christopher Walken, and we got to thinking. Now, don't misunderstand, Big Shot. We love on some Chris Walken. From More Cowbell all the way back to Deer Hunter and shit. But it is our contention, boldly proclaimed and to be expounded on further, that Mr. Walken is not, in fact, the greatest cinematic scenery chewer of all-time. No no. That honor belongs to Powers Boothe.

Recently you would recognize him as Cy from HBO's Deadwood or the bad Senator in Sin City but think back, dear viewer! The sherrif in U-Turn, Curly Bill from Tombstone, the FBI Agent in Frailty, the Rev. Jim Jones from that one TV movie, etc. You know the guy. He doesn't have a whole lot of range. With the only voice we can think of that resembles both a hiss and a croak, he basically has one tonal trick; he is a ceaseless and condescending furnace of menace. That's it. He comes on screen and the film starts to burn in the projector, the popcorn is suddenly black as tar, the scenery melts and your balls jump up from your nutsack into your liver. He's that good. We think of him as one of the finest actors of his time for his work in just one scene from one great film: Nixon.

Now, stop laughing. Noted Conspiracy theorist and crack enthusiast Oliver Stone has a feel for this type of flatly made-up biography picture, and Nixon especially is balls to the walls on the crooked. Filled with camera tricks out the wazoo, fake news clips and endless hoary fabrications on government shenanigans, it is Wacked v 5.0, a pretentious lagoon of portentuous sap. We love it shamelessly, without rancour, and so should you. There are so many great moments in this movie that we don't know where to start. Bob Hoskins as a flaming J. Edgar Hoover, eating cheese out of the mouth of Ricky from My So-Called Life? You did not just imagine that! E. Howard Hunt's (Ed Harris) great speech to John Dean (David Hyde Pierce) regarding said President? May we quote?

HUNT
(lights his pipe)
John, sooner or later -- sooner, I
think -- you are going to learn the
lesson that has been learned by
everyone who has ever gotten close to
Richard Nixon. That he's the darkness
reaching out for the darkness. And
eventually, it's either you or him.
Look at the landscape of his life and
you'll see a boneyard.

Hunt throws a match into the river.

Now that is some lip-smacking pan-seared goodness! But the best, of course, stars our man Boothe. He plays Nixon's new chief of staff, General Alexander Haig. We see your antennas rising out there. Keep with us. Anyhacks, it is Aug. 1974, the game is almost up, Nixon is in the Lincoln bedroom alternately popping Reds, praying with Kissinger (hammy Paul Sorvino butchering the accent, quite obviously having the time of his life) seeing the ghost of his dead Mom (really) and suddenly in comes Haig with some bad news up in the heezy. Nixon has to resign or face impeachment and certain defeat, and Haig has come with the letter. He is looking for outs, and finding none.

Nixon, silenced, looks down at the paper in his hands and
sighs.

HAIG (CONT'D)
If you resign, you can keep your tapes
as a private citizen ... You can fight
them for years.

NIXON
And if I stay?

A long moment.

HAIG
You have the army.

When we saw that scene for the first time, we literally howled for ten minutes, annoying everyone in the very full theatre. The look on Boothe's face is so fabulous and warped that we longed for the movie to go into this super-deranged direction, which it does not, sadly. But if someone has a blown-up picture of this moment, when Hiag says that last word, please for the love of god send it to us. We will give you 100 bux and a big, wet blow job, because it is capital PR priceless.

The moral of the story: if you need to waste 3 1/2 hours and are tired of sewing or knitting or abusing yourself or whatever it is you skanks out there do all day, give Stone and his zanies a try, or at least go check out the vast ouvere of our good friend Powers Boothe. Beats having a job!






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Pacifying Joint

Yo!

If you read this blog and you are in Korea, you need to send us an email or leave a comment RIGHT NOW. We see you out there! We have some crazy tricked-out-as-hell webtracking shit up in this bitch and we are not afraid to use it! We have an audience and we need some particulars. Who reads us out in our hometown of Crystal Lake, Illinois? Sherri Daley is that you? If so, sorry about that time we tried to feel you up during that Mikado rehearsal in high school. We were crazy on two liters of Mr. Pibb and teenhood hormonal rage. Please folks, more comments! If you know us in real life, get in touch. We are trying to make a difference.

We are fascinated by North Korea. We realize a person in South Korea is more likely reading this blog, but we secretly hope we are being monitored by Kim Jong Il's hentchmen. Go to the national website now (http://www.korea-dpr.com/) and find out some very interesting things about Mr. Il. Not where he got his haircut, but if you dig around long enough you will find a 300 page PDF biography that talks about how a star formed above the town where and when he was born. Same thing happened when we were breech-birthed on a kitchen table in Carbondale, Illinois. True story.

The new Fall album is insane, and by that we mean pretty good. Nothing on a par with the Peel Session box set, of course, but Mark E. really has the drunken-ass rant thing working overtime here. Backing vocals !?! Wigga please!




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Into the face of every criminal strapped firmly in a chair, we must stare, we must stare, we must stare

Last night we went to our first A.A. meeting in a few months, at one of our favorite churches in the Loop. We've been promising ourselves that we would go, especially in the last few days. A.A. meetings make us glad. Not only because we have slightly voyeuristic tendencies and periodically need our own compass to temperence straightened, but because we like to see people at their very best. We are not sober ourselves, and have not been for more than a few days in a row for several years now, but we are honored to be among them, and their example always heartens us.

The leads we love, surely. The heartbreaking fall, the wallowing in pity, the humor of the recovered looking back on the shambled past, the great rising up from shame and addiction and certain death, the misty eyes around the room. But more than that, we love the people getting their tokens and clapping for others and themselves and especially the smoke breaks, when people who have been ordered by their support groups or sponsors to make introductions and mingle with everyone shuffle up to you, hesitatingly making eye contact, ask your name, shake your hand, talk about how the cookies and coffee are, your own sobreity, about how exciting the World Series was, and go to the next person. These are the beautiful moments. Here you have people as fresh as a flower in spring, bright, quivering and so sweetly full with their new hopefulness. As almost never happens in other areas of our lives, the cup of our heart overflows to see them.

We know that in our deepest times of need, when we have been at our worst and harmed or done harm the deepest, even then, that a feast of friends has been there to receieve us, and for this we are grateful, though we rarely express it. It shames us that we are afraid to care for others because of debts of the heart we fear to owe, and sometimes hate ourselves more than we would care to admit. Sometimes, when the love in our hearts turns to poison, we are at a loss as to why they should care at all. There is nothing in our hearts but love for you right now, friends. Though there is no God or even higher power in our lives, we are blessed. Finally, we love A.A. meetings for the most selfish and best reason of all: because the pleasures of bearing witness to dignity outweigh almost all others, and the honor and pride of being a witness is so near to the mercy we have longed for ourselves.

P.S. Our phone is shut off for a few days. Did we say how good we are with bills? Oh, and our computer is dead as a doornail for ever and ever. So if you need to reach us, send us an email or......carrier pigeon?




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Unname everyone. Unname everybody.

Regarding our v. recent weekend mission to Minneapolis, Minnesota, we respectfully invoke our right to silence under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution, so that we might not incriminate ourselves. We can only say that in Minneapolis, Happy Hour is frequent and cherished, and that The Current is the best radio station we have ever heard. Selah.

Last night at Myopic was great. We were once again offered full-time employment, this time w/ insurance (and probably some free pot). We are semi-seriously considering this, despite a drastic cut in our pay. We probably won't end up doing it, but we really hate the Corpo-bullshit-money scam job we are currently desk jockying and kind of randomly grousing-off about it. Sometimes the conversations in our office are so insipid that we want to swallow a goddamned curling iron. And we know that someday, some motherfucker is going to come in here with an AK and a hard-on for blood and start pumping rounds into the salespeople who chained his ass to a huge three-year lease for some shitty credit card software so he can sell his homemade beef jerky and polaroids of his wife's hairy butter gutter. That is not a day we long to be a part of.

It might be more interesting to play with Leonard the bookstore cat and search for books on Chaos Theory for D.C., the howling-at-women wheelchair dude at the corner of North, Damen and Milwaukee who drinks the last batch of the Myopic coffee on winter nights, loaded with about 25 spoonfuls of sugar,and rolls off into the night to god-knows where. We learned last night that D.C. has 2 1/2 storage spaces full of books about sex, and that Myopic Joe is in his will to be the recipient of this stash upon his demise. We aren't really surprised. People relate to the bookstore in that way. And, apparently gay sex is very easily had by male bookstore staff (no pun intended). Don't know about you, but that is a perk we can live with.

Thanks to Hopper for the mix CD. Andy Williams kills "Summer Wind", y'all. We gots to get that shit on TAL. We need to campaign seriously for the artistic return and revalidation of the lost crooners in our cold heartless world. Andy, Neil Sedaka, Lou Rawls, Johnny Mathis, maybe even Slim Whitman.




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There's been a break in the continuum. The United States used to be lots of fun.

Jon Z, we think your troubles re: weird roommate and ex-gf and strange homoerotic missed connections sitches will improve shortly. If not, we'll help you drink it off, buddy. You could even come over and watch Sox Pride: The story of the 2005 World Champion Chicago White Sox which we just bought at Coconuts for $19.95, and help us figure out the equation at the heart of Canadian Mist x our livers x male bonding = asshat. Or you could just meet up with the strange missed connection fag and screw his brains out, just to have done so. We've heard of worse plans.

Rule #1: Never let a good man (or woman) drink alone.

Speaking of the sauce, as soon as we get back from Minneapolis on Sunday, we are going straight from the Terminal to the Myopic Xmas Bash 2005, one of our favorite parties of the year. Maker's! Indian Food! Maker's! Blue Moon! Cake! Maker's! Blue Moon! Maker's! Cards! Willie's homegrown THC bomb! Maker's! Cab ride home! Blurg!

We feel like we can celebrate a little six month anniversary today, give or take a few weeks. Count 'em: 6 months without a sniff of the ol' Bolivian Marching Powder. We were getting kinda wrong on that shit for a while. We haven't missed it. We haven't missed the lack of sleep, the crunchy boogers, the smoking hole in our heads the morning after doing the larger portion of a $40 bag, the fake elation, the bathroom bonding with strangers, the party turned vampire cold, the hysteria of more more moremoremoremore.




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Slap on some pants (Trail mix remix)

We do not use the term "punk genius" at OGFP very often. Ever? You just can't throw lipsmacking lingo of that caliber around like a fully-loaded dinner roll, copy? Anywheat, Sam McPheeters is a certified 100% blueblood smarty guy. Dude made a five-inch record where he performed a speech by American revolutionary hero Patrick Henry, and is featured on the cover in full costume. You don't front on that. You put down the pitcher of Wild Cherry Haterade and the bullshit patties with ketchup and avocado polente sourkraut frommage on wheat buns you have in your messenger bag and you fucking recognize.

Men's Recovery Project, his band of the last decade, was so far ahead of it's time, so far into the deep end of any electro-dirt-think-fuck-rock olympic pool you call essential these days, that it's swimming near the grate and it's sinuses are starting to get that pinched pressure thing, and the bends are coming on soon. And look! Hammerhead Shark! MRP once did a concept record about European spies in the Middle East. Sam's sped up or slooooow over what are the sample songs on the $100 keyboard your Mom bought for Xmas in 1987 in order to "learn piano", only she never did and you ended up turning it into a really fancy homemade bong sometime during college. Your friends still can't believe that shit! Sounded to us like it was based off of some the chapters in Pynchon's V, too. Classy move. MRP is the sound of the major hallmark of our time: the entropy of communication forms into utter gibberish. Grown men talking like infants. People imitating computers. Computers imitating people. People imitating their bowels. Thirty second punk blasts about wearing pants. Funny keyboard noises. Children's songs for adults about job meaninglessness.

Some other McPheeters highlights: Shooting Spree and Error, two of the most brilliant and hilarious fanzines ever made. Born Against, duh. And masks. There are so many photos around of Sam and crew onstage in fucked-ass get ups of every description that it defies reason. You might think you are brave onstage in your body suit of carpet samples. Jigga, please. Have you ever rocked a devil mask, plaid bowtie, shirt and sweater-vest and white sox extened to the end of your feet? And that is it? As in ahoy Mr. Flaccid, how is it down there near the shrubs? Slam dunk! Anyway, his label Vermiform is now a thing of the past, and has been for a while now. Which is a major shame to us, but understandable. We hear he writes about music for OC Weekly occasionally, the high irony of which should be lost on noone.

Sam we know you are in the ether. Come to us! We want to interview you for Hit It Or Quit It!




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What poor gods we have made

We had a very special moment after work yesterday. The Commissioner's World Series Championship trophy is an ugly hunk of metal with what looks to be a circle of flagpoles around an ashtray, and some tiny-assed writing that we couldn't read if we tried. Gloriously, right there smack in the middle of City Hall it stood. We must admit that we threw both of our fists into the air Rocky-style when we first spotted it, even from quite a distance. We resisted the urge to roar loudly and do a celebratory dance featuring chest-beating, weird and aggressive hand gestures, the worm, the robot and ballerina twirls (we're a little rusty on our Balanchine, or we'd be more specific), but barely. We did not run up to the case in a full sprint. We walked very casually. The security guard was already eyeing us a tad apprehensively. Then we wished upon high that we had a cellphone with a camera. We would have taken quite a pictoral. Us showing our #1 fingers with the Commissioner's World Series Championship trophy in the background. Us pretending to lick the Commissioner's World Series Championship trophy. Us attempting to mount the Commissioner's World Series Championship trophy in flagrante. Just kidding. Kind of. In short, we did not embarrass ourselves. But we did stand in front of that thing for about a half-hour admiring it in every shade of light and from every angle. Shit you not, yo.

Today the Commissioner's World Series Championship trophy was gone. Yes, we went back on our lunch break for more oogling. The cop who told us it was gone was very sad, saying and then repeating to us "I liked having it around, man." We heartily concurred.

After some reflection, inch by inch, we are starting to come to grips with this World Series thing. That night at the United Center was bonkers. The parade was amazing. But it hadn't really sunk in much. Our brains were so fried with worry and tension that we didn't enjoy it while it was happening. Our baseball souls spent an entire month with their emotional heads in the sand. We have now watched our new 2005 Chicago White Sox World Series DVD 4 1/2 times in the last 2 days. It is the ultimate in baseball pornography. Don't think we haven't entertained the notion of bringing it to work and watching some more. So far we have showed admirable restraint in this regard. Seeing that trophy kind of brought it home. So did our relief that Paulie re-signed. It is going to kill us to watch Frank Thomas leave town. Losing Aaron Rowand gives us hives even if we did get Big Jim. These men are like family to us.

Now we are talking like parents about their kids after the talent show. Sorry.




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Rappers need Chapstick.

Main news of the day: Our captain, Paul Konerko, is Pale Hose for five more years at about sixty mil. That's twelve large a year. Go buy a small island nation, Paulie! The line-up and pitching rotation as it now stands:

Pods lf
Da Gooch 2b
Paulie 1b
Thome dh
Jermaine rf
A.J. c
Crede 3b
Uribe ss
Anderson cf

Rotation:

Burls
Freddy
Garland
Contreras
El Duque or McCarthy

In the pen:
Put 'em away Marte
Hermannson
Cotts
Vizcaino
Politte
and the big boy closing.


What happens if we go out and get speedy Juan Pierre or something for center? Jesus, our heads will explode. It looks like the American League might spend next year kissing our asses, too. We can only hope.

Okay, official OGFP business concluded. You know what's weird? When you see a person all around the city, literally on a daily basis for some cosmic reason, at the Bottle or on the bus, and you never speak to them. You have conversed with them before, though. But, the really strange thing is that they are your Friendster and your friend on MySpace! So you've made some effort at making them part of your social circle, but then go about being totally awkward about things in real life, even sort of totally pretending they don't exist, which is mentally taxing in this hideous way and makes you feel like a social retard. Which is a bummer, seeing as your social circle these days fits in the kiddie pool: the Empty Bottle waitstaff and your roommate's cat, basically. (We used that line in an e-mail yesterday, and thought it kind of snappy. Used with permission.)

P.S. Early Man is the best band we have seen in YEARS, bitch. Last night at about 12:30 AM, as they doth verily approached stage and shredded the last remaining vestiges of our eardrums, the 16 year-old waiting to buy Testament tapes at Flipside that we once were came back into our lives and has not left yet. Welcome son! Enjoy the decreasing libido and slightly disinterested sexual politics of middle age! When your family talks to you it sounds like a foreign language! The President is a fucking bozo and your nation a box literally teeming with dildos! Intelligent Design a motherfucker!




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You'll believe in anything

Goddamn, was that a long weekend. Too much food, too much time in the car and on the train. But lots of nature! Thoreau-esque walks with Ellie. She loves to jump in Lake Barkley, no matter what the temperature. She would run off to chase deer and squirrels and anything, really, when we went out to smoke cigarettes late at night. Something would scatter leaves around, and off she would be like a gunshot, deep into the woods. 15 or 20 minutes later she would come back, staring at us, head cocked, through the big windows, wanting to be let in. This happened four or five times a night, and we loved every minute of it.

Did you know that roads in extremely-rural areas of Kentucky are very, uh, narrow? Scary. We kept expecting head-on collisions. We are afraid to drive on these roads, and easily accepted Mom's desire to be behind the wheel. Good family policy.

There was also a large amount of reading accomplished. Edmund Morris' Theodore Rex, about TR. Bully! Dee-lighted! Denis Johnson's Resucitation of A Hanged Man, which is a weird-assed novel. Read it. The Dante Club, by Matthew Pearl. An Afghanistan Picture Show, by William Vollmann, about him going as a 19 year-old to fight Russian invaders with the mujahideen, and utterly failing. How Life Imitates the World Series, by Thomas Boswell. Hard Revolution By George Pelecanos. We had a little free time on our hands, and no wish to be idle.

Now we are at work, on normal adult time, and it totally blows.




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Thanks for making our first Alaskan tour such a success.

Do you know what heavy is, motherfucker? I mean heavy like deep space black hole shit. Like Joe Preston and all his bottom end. White/Light at the Bottle were completely out of the known universe by Midnight. "Come in, Voyager. We have reached Alpha Centari". Damn. We don't know exactly what that little box was that Jeremy Lemos was squeezing and causing to emit rude walls of sound all the fuck over the place or exactly how Matt Clark was making his guitar yawp like a chattering windmill in a tornado, but we want MORE OF THAT, STAT. Nice work, fellers. Can we get a promo? Kidding!

The other performance was a 30-min Tim Buckley cover by a band featuring Nate Kinsella, we think a dude from Town & Country, noted Bloody Mary technician Robert Lowe and Tim Kinsella (sporting a beard that puts ours to shame...a beard that causes one to consider phrases like, "warding off prison sex" or "case pending review" or "parole board taken hostage"), and some other jazzbozos. Robert was doing that crazy high-ass singing thing and all the others droned away. It was mighty swell.

We have also trimmed the beard away from the neck slightly so as to not look so offensive, as per the request of various associates. We also booked a flight for Minneapolis yesterday afternoon, a trip that we are very greatly anticipating. We have been promised a trip to the Walker.

And Kentucky. Are you ready for the thunder? Talk at you after Turkey day.




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You are the prayer inside me

While we wait for the releases of the official MLB White Sox World Series DVD (Nov. 29), and the Sox official team video, "Sox Pride: The Story of the World Champion White Sox" (Dec. 6), we're trying to make our way through as many Werner Herzog documentaries as we can scrounge up. The White Diamond is about a dude trying to fly a dirigible-like airship through the jungles of South America. If you saw Grizzly Man, this is kind of a companion piece. The ending is one of the most haunting images we have ever seen, and Herzog plays it to the hilt just like he ought. We are not ashamed to admit that we were nearly moved to tears. He is rapidly becoming our favorite filmmaker of all-time. Anywhore, pair that up with Lone Wolf And Cub: Babycart in Peril and you got yourself one hell of a combo meal.

Speaking of combo meals, we see some in our immediate future. That's right! OGFP is hitting the road, America! Thanksgiving Break 2005, homie! McDonalds in Gibson City, Illinois, we have a date on Wednesday. Big Mac, extra sauce, hold the pickle. The Moms are making us join them on their annual Kentucky country house excursion. Just kidding. No forcing. Fact is, we love our family. Especially the Moms. The rest drive us a little bonkers, but we like Thanksgiving and Aunt Grace and going to the Piggly Wiggly and endless games of fetch with Ellie and shooting Mom #1's .357 Magnum. Let's hope we can keep the drinking problem on the down low, eh?




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Oh, damn!

We want to post photos for you to see. Yes, we do. Really. Of our friends and little things that we see all around this city every day. Because we should pay more attention to the pretty pretty everywhere. But we lost an important part of our camera. Shhhhhh! The digital one the Moms bought us for Xmas two years ago, from Mr. Sony. It's this little grey cord thingy that goes from the camera to the computer for uploading and all that.

Now, we think this is lost for good. Boxes have been searched. We are mostly unpacked at Casa Borracho. No little grey cord, so no photos for the time being. But we are working on it. We saw Joe McPhee earlier this week engaged in the most insane saxophone-off with one of his bandmates. Ten minutes at a time of spiraling free-honk splatter. Brain damage and windpipes exposed. Pictures of that would have been killer.

We are wishing we could make ringtones out of all the songs from Sugar's "Copper Blue" individualized for each of our friends. Blow job song, ahoy! Damn, son! Mould on a dick! I mean, somebody on a Mould's dick! We think. Great stuff!




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Spree!

Yesterday, we were feeling a little depressed. See earlier posts re: winter's approach, insomnia, too many omelettes, too many beers, too much Canadian whiskey, our rapidly growing spare tire. So, we went shopping. Ta-da, bitches! Depression, see yah later sk8r!

A trip to the record store is a beautiful thing. We got the new Bright Eyes. Yes, it is on a Dylan tip. Emmylou Harris backing vocals and everything! Quivering vocals and that. We like it. Devendra Banhart, nice to meet you, hippie dude. We are kind of glad we bought your new record, but we're not sure why yet since we think it sounds like a steaming pile of crap. But we're going to give it a few more listens, since we are currently joined in beardhood. Matt Pike, you are a god in human form. The new High On Fire is blazing like campfire massive. And thanks for the bonus DVD. Y'all ugly. But ears bleeding, dog! Six Organs of Admittance, the first listen was a trip. We guess we should trust Pitchfork more and perhaps buy a banjo so that we can conquer the universe along with your new-folk ass and tour with Superwolf and pull crazy honeydips. Bruce Springsteen Born to Run box set, we see you over there! Not yet but you won't be lonely for long! You will have a new owner before the week is out. He will love you and wear you out, especially the parts surrounding Jungleland and Thunder Road.

Who is our favorite new friend that we haven't exactly officially met yet? Cali. We've never hung out, but look at his site. It's totally proper. We aren't trying to fool you. We don't give out links that are played. Since most of you come here because my agent Jessica Hopper fronts for me once every few days, I figure I should share the love and bring our circle of friends closer together. Although she gets to hang out with Jackie this weekend and I'm a little jealous. Still, cute kids snaps and peeps from The Wire getting haircuts! Ta-da!

Beard report: moderately itchy with a 40% chance of trimming. Stranger/mirror effect diminishing hourly. Opposite sex approval: unknown.

Should we put pictures up on this thing? Comments.




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Mad love to Hookers on Stilts!

Britt! Our favorite attorney! You are in our thoughts! Get well get well!




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Nobody knows you and nobody gives a damn

Despite our best efforts, we are beginning to slide into the deep winter funk. Shorter days = more time for drinking. Bunker mentality. Libidoless brain crash. A needle-like prodding towards making late nate calls to various dealers, to unleash the furies on the imagination and deaden the cyclones in our dreams. To seriously hunker down with a bottle of sour mash and the Iron and Wine back catalog and the, like, 18 books we own about Abraham Lincoln.

We've been thinking a lot about Honest Abe lately. A few weeks ago we had a little public reading at Casa Borracho (note to Miles...totally the new name of our place) and out came Abe's second inaugural from an old book of Lincoln speeches we happen to own. But the book had only about half the speech. We were very surprised at first, then realized the obviousness of it all. Of course the most incindeary section was gone.

You see, in his second inaugural address Lincoln comes right out and says that the Civil War, the most vast and horrific conflict in this nation's history, was its punishment at the hands of the divine, and that our nation was due for it. Read for yourself. This did not sit well with many Americans. I don't know if another politician has ever or would ever have the cajones to tell the American people that it was high time we atoned for anything. Jimmy Carter asked the people to turn down the heat and put on a damn sweater already, and he got bounced very shortly thereafter.

The shrub wouldn't make that speech. He's no dummy. He just kinda talks about a day of fire and the dark corners of the world and the tyrany and evil-doers. He needs to admit that our hands have stirred various pots of tyranny around the world for decades, ever since Teddy Roosevelt set the white fleet sail and decided to use the Monroe Doctrine to justify various colonial adventures. That we have sinned, that our nation's character is stained, that our foreign policies are bearing bitter fruit, that our generation is paying for the sins of its fathers as did the one before. And that the cycle might not end, or if it does that the world will burn.

But enough of this serious business. Like our friends over at Wound Up, we've got some fancy new scanning devices up in this biyotch. Who are you freaks? Leave us some comments. Send us an email. Check in. Do. Konechiwa, bitches!




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The Good, The Bad and the Mundane

We have decided that our ultimate ideal of manhood is Clint Eastwood. Call us old-fashioned, but we are very comfortable with this. You can have your Steve McQueen, Steven Tyler, Bernie Mac, etc. Last night we watched the special extended version of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. We aren't sure how things ended up for Tuco, but Angel Eyes got what he deserved. Clint was squinty, chomping on his cigar, and mowing fools down. We were impressed. We also realize that this blog is little more than tiny capsule reviews of the films we are renting. We promise to get a life.

Oh, on Saturday night, we went to a v. fun birthday party. The theme was lumberjack or whore....which one are ya? We were a mix. A little American Gigolo and some waders. And our new folk-scene friendly beard, which completed the costume. Jim Beam was consumed. Champagne was consumed. We came home and passed out at about 2:30 AM. Party style! For days! Actually, we did pretty good. We were conversational, we avoided Johnny Love's party, we did not have our photo taken by Cobra Snake, and we were tidy. We helped Hopper look for Monkee on Sunday, put up fliers seeking said feline, had some Huevos Rancheros, a Bloody Mary, a nice little nap and the before mentioned Leone. Then we did some drunk dialing, but we won't talk about that. No, no.




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NPR, Bitches!

Guess who got a shout-out on This American Life today? Not you! Not you!




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Chump Flick.

We're big fans of bad movies. Trash cinema. When we plop down our hard-earned ducets at the multiplex, it's usually for serious action crap. Speilberg's War of the Worlds? We saw it twice. Felt the terror. Mr. and Mrs. Smith? We checkity checked it out during the heatwave. Yes, it was awful. Angelina Jolie makes us want to claw our eyes out. No A/C!

We rent crap, too. The other night, Friday night actually, we stayed in and watched Alien Vs. Predator while you were rolling up on some lameass gallery party in your fur, heels and hoochie chains doing that social cocaine. The Friday before it was Jurassic Park 3. We can handle, even relish, good happy crappy like that.

But here at OGFP, we hate fakers. Gus Van Zant, you are officially fake ass. Mark it down in the prayer books, and bury him with his simease twin, Robin Williams. The Last Days is one of the worst films we have ever seen. Seriously, who wrote this flaming bag off doggy poop? Jim DeRogatis' assistant? Elephant, with all the POV pretentiousness, was bad enough. Here you get a little of that, a little depressed musician mambo, the very boring and good-looking but quickly tiresome Michael Pitt doing a really bad KC impression, and such other teeth-gnashing elements of true bozo verite as Lukas Haas pretending to be a human being, Kim Gordon in a senseless write-in, and an appearance by very special douchebag Harmony Korine. Larry Clark, Mr. Korine and Gus need to get the memo: teenagers and drug abusers are rotten cinematic subjects, even when they are naked and/or having some kind of violent sexual contact. We thought last year's bad Bertolucci French-fuck-fest The Dreamers was the worst we'd seen yet, but we were wrong. So wrong. Wait! The Dreamers! Starring.....Michael Pitt!

By the way, if you've already been served your so new it's steaming issue of Hit It Or Quit It, you know of the genius of Terence Werkney. To the rest of you, catch up!


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Henny Youngman.

Working at the bookstore last night, we were doing some shelving. Mostly when we say "shelving" we really mean "perusing", which is a combination of reading, scanning and pretending to shelve books. For instance we came across a book of jokes by old-school funnyman Henny Youngman, and decided to do a public reading behind Myopic's pulpit-like counter. "I got a million of 'em.....a-cha cha cha cha", etc. See Harmony Korine for details. If you must. Anyway, Henny is pretty much one unfunny motherfucker. Nobody laughed at the jokes we found that were appropriate. Not much blue stuff (we don't usually work blue), but plenty of sexist jokes about wives and "girls" and money. Strange. We thought this guy was a classic. Borscht belt= overrated! There is a website with a few funny Henny honeys, and here are a few:

A doctor gave a man six months to live. The man couldn't pay his bill, so he gave him another six months.

My doctor grabbed me by the wallet and said "Cough!"

More here: Go!

Seriously, he's no Bill Hicks. Beelzebozo. Tuft of cotton candy. Drugs are good. I also do children's parties, by the way....

We are almost done with out journey through the Illuminatis Trilogy. Time and space are currently bending. Howard the dolphin is a wonderful guide. No, we haven't gotten any further in the Vollmann tome. Why do you keep asking?




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Canadian Mist.

Had a date last night with a bottle of Canadian Mist and the Widescreen DVD of Das Boot. Could've rented Brown Bunny, but I've pretty much hated Vincent Gallo since that movie he did with Johnny Depp and Jerry Lewis in the 80's. You say he's a former model and celebrity badboy with a prediliction for self-destructive craft. Delusions of grandeur, bitch. Fuck a Vincent Gallo. I, too, could make a film where the most compelling things happening are Christina Ricci's bosoms. It's called Sleepy Hollow, basehead! Don't hate!

So anyway, Das Boot is about a Nazi u-boat and it's many travails; depth charges, binge drinking by the crew, engine failure. Jurgen Prochnow is the captain (you might also remember him as Duke Leo Atreides from David Lynch's Dune...."The tooth! The tooth!"), and he deserves a semi full of Oscars for what he's got going on up in heezy. Total existential hero getting smacked around. I have this thing for WWII lately. I guess it's a thing. I keep wanting to go buy a first edition of Shirer's Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and somtimes even fantasize that I'm the reincarnation of Omar Bradley. Whikipedia that shit, yo.

Man, I need a trip to the shed with Rollins. I'm totally not understanding this Dinosaur Jr. record. Is that the sound of Lou Barlow having a 'gasm? Weird! I mean riffs are nice, but so many J.? Damn. Give a brother a chorus every now and again! What the fuck am I talking about? I'm a terrible music critic.

It's kind of a bummer when one of your work friends gets the ax. Eric was a nice, clean gent who was a White Sox loyalist and overall dude. We used to go around the corner to Stocks and Blondes and drink beer and jello shots and watch Bulls games. Now he's been shown the door and given his year-supply of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco Treat. Thanks for playing Corporate Circle Jerk! Don't you just hate that shit?




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Best puppetshow ever.

Lick. Lick. Lick.

Quintron/Miss Pussycat were booming at the Bottle last night. Ex-Models not so much. Guitar grind bleed ears. Seemed like there was an electro-dance free for all going on when that organ kicked up, though. Not sure, since we were in the pool room (aka our new living room), drinking Pabst and checking out slutty costumes.

At our advanced age we love Halloween precisely because of slutty costumes. Workout instructor girl in the wrong thong/spandex combo totally rocking the insane bubble butt: marry us. Melina the stone foxy hippy had us biting our knuckles. Melina our secret crush, you are too fine for digits! Tall chick in gold swimsuit and mesh stockings: holy guacamole. Put that in a can and we're all rich! Olivia the disco casualty freaked us proper. It was that kind of show.

We largely avoided Halloween parties this year. Especially the ones at Crobar. We feel good about this. We don't feel like everyday is a Crooked Fingers song anymore. Holler if you hear that.

There is a new Hit Or Quit It out and around. We have written some reviews that grace it's pages. Reckless, Quimbys, Insound. If you really think you deserve a copy, shoot us an email.

According to our editor at XLR8R, we can predict the future. See their website for details.

In other random Chicago Issue news, Johnny Love has asked us to DJ at one of his parties. We are surprised, a little touched, and somewhat baffled. But we shall do our best, home team. What should we play? The thought of such an audio forum makes us ornery. The old Lou Rawls/ Black Sabbath routine?




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Mom.

I kind of mentioned this in my earlier post, but I keep remembering the night almost 20 years ago when my Mom brought home the Sox cap and uniform shirt she had ordered for me from the Montgomery Wards catalog. I was so happy that night that I was almost delerious. Luckily, a little part of me never grew up, and never lost the delerium. I wore that shirt and cap until she ordered me to take it off. Thanks Mom. This has been a rough year for you, especially. For all the gifts you have given me and others, I'm glad you got a little something back last night. I know you were watching, and I know you were glad. Noone deserves it more than you.





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Roll Call.

To the White Sox family I have known...today is for you. To Brian Trembley, the first Sox fan I ever met in 1982, and your dad Gary and mom Betty, today is for you. Congratulations. To Eric Dever and your dad Pete, White Sox diehards for life: today is for you. To the old guy I met two years ago and spent four innings talking to on the concourse in 2004, who grew up in Niles and has lived and died with the White Sox for years: today is for you and your sons.To the 1987 pitching staff of Blaul Motors of the Crystal Lake American Little League, who idolized the Sox everyday win or lose, congratulations. Today is for you. To my 5th Grade teacher Mr. Szucs, congratulations. To Mr. Hawkinson, my favorite English teacher in High School, today is for you. To my Mom, who loved Carlton Fisk nearly as much as I did, and bought me my first Sox shirt and cap from the Montgomery Wards catalog, today is for you. I love you. We deserve this. To the old crazy dude who stands every night by the White Sox bullpen screaming his head off, waving a t-shirt and causing a ruckus, congratulations. To Glen Peterson, to Mike Meyer and your dad Dave, to Kurt Sample, to Jake Austen, to Chris Blum, to Scott Kielbasa, to Todd Price, to Darcy, to Jeremy, to Martha, to Chuck at the baseball card shop, to Scott Browne, to Mr. Weller, to Buck Weaver and Shoeless Joe Jackson, Beltin' Bill Melton, Moose Skowron, Minnie Minoso, Wilbur Wood, Luke Appling, Nellie Fox, Luis Aparicio, Ted Lyons and Billy Pierce, to Comeau who has taken me to so many games over the last few years, to the All Natural crew, to all the diehards I have known; today is our day. We have reached the promised land at last. I'll see you downtown at the parade.




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No, we didn't sleep.

The longest game in World Series history? Are you kidding me? Game 3 was Wagnerian. See-sawing reckless baseball. Bases loaded more times than we could count. Double plays, dudes getting plunked in the helmet, closers closing, lineups flip-flopping like John Kerry at Cape Cod. We were very concerned John Rooney and Ed Farmer were going to have heart attacks. Sox gamers all over the place: Geoff Blum was the hero. Brought in by Ken Williams in a much-debated mid-season trade, he was not previously a, um, fan favorite. Boom. 14th inning game-winning tater. Or maybe Mark Buehrle was the hero. On the radio yesterday afternoon, we heard Buehrle say his arm felt like a piece of meat after pitching Sunday night. That's right folks; just a little more than 48 hours after pitching 7 innings in Game 2, Mark got the save last night. Ozzie made the call for the lefty in the pen and Buehrle was there to man up. Gutsy like John Wayne.

Freddy Garcia takes the bump tonight for Game 4. He faces Brendan Backe, who we aren't too darned afraid of. Report from the United Center at 11.

See Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote. It becomes obvious by the end of the film that In Cold Blood describes Capote as much as Perry Smith and Dick Hickock and their crime. Can a masterpiece destroy its creator? What am I, fucking Richard Roeper? Oof.

As per Hopper's blog, last night we discovered that we aren't as conspiracy oriented as we might have thought. William Cooper does not dominate our conciousness.

Jon Z, we know last night was tough. Good on you for hanging in there. It's almost time to break out the Springsteen. For we can see the promised land.




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Package.

Someone special in a far-northern U.S. city has a package coming their way very soon. OGFP has been busy collecting special items for inclusion. We meant to send a nice Cognac along too, but forgot. Save it for the next one.

Also, we just sent out Mom's birthday card. Two pieces of mail in one day is a record of some sort.

If you watch a disturbing film about Hitler and the destruction of the Third Reich right before going to bed, you are going to have serious nightmares. Not to the point where you wake up in hot sweats, right hand tremoring, moving shadow armies that only exist on paper against enemies set to crush you, but close. Cyanide and the bullet to the temple! Cold! Pure evil doesn't do half-steppin'.

On Wednesday night Mike and I are going to the United Center to watch Game 4 of the World Series on the jumbotron, eat brats, and root on the Pale Hose. If you feel like going, go to Ticketmaster and plop down 15 bux for charity, and have yourself a time. You can even ride the Madison Express to the UC with us.

Tonight is Game 3. Game 2 on Sunday night was perhaps the greatest night for Chicago baseball in 75 years. We'll be telling our Grandkids about Scotty Pods and Konerko's grand slam, and the team from the southside that could. 2 down, 2 to go.

Regina Spektor, you are the soundtrack of my life right now. There might be some good ones, indeed.




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Reader, we know of your dissapointment with us in the past. Too often we have treated you like a one-night stand, a booty call, a FWB dial deep in the night..a careless drunken holler from OGFP, then months of silence.

We are hereby resolving (with certain reservations, of course) to attempt to suck it up and have a steady relationship with this blog. Companionship. Spooning. A Sunday morning shower and brunch and the New York Times on the Web. The works. Okay? We know we have said this before. Can we make it up to you? Do you mind if we sleep with a fan on? We need the white noise.

Last night Milemarker were imperial. Huge. A weapons grade assault on decent volume levels. Note to every other band in the universe: get a second drummer and some light-up satanic symbols for the kick drums. They don't have to play different parts at all, ever, in any of the songs. They just have to hit 'em hard. Trust me. The effect is cataclysmic. Milemarker used to be artsier. They looked and sounded "band". Now they are more like a streetgang. Immediately offensive and a little dangerous. Even though they have a violin playing keyboardist. Get Hustle were good, too. We are still mildly infatuated with Valentine on a *cough* fundamental level, but the free jazz/cabaret/Siouxsie raunch tones stand up on their own.

This show was barely overshadowed by the White Sox victory in Game 1, the first World Series game in Chicago since 1959. Did the OGFP staff wake up at just after 6 AM on Saturday in order to procure tickets, only to be shooed away by Sox security at 10AM? Was he spotted on the Saturday morning news by Mark and Ericka? Did this failure to actually get in the yard sting a trifle? Who can be sure? More importantly, the game itself, and victory. You should have watched it, asshat. The Rocket failed to launch. Crede and Dye hit the taters. The side of beef came in to get the save, striking out 3 of 4 batters faced. We lead the series 1-0. Game 2 tonight on the southside.

A 36-hour date is a truly wonderful thing. All hearts opened and all wines flowed. Shedd Aquarium, Soul Vegetarian, Alcala's. Etc. Etc. And then a little more etc. How much is a plane ticket to Minneapolis? Where can I get more Cowboy Equipment underwear? Inquiring minds would like to know.

36 hours or so until Game 1 of the 2005 World Series, starring your American League Champion Chicago White Sox. Some terms that apply to our team and it's fanbase right now: rare air, deep water, the big dance, unmarked territory, promised land. If you heard Bruce Levine and Ed Farmer's post game coverage on the night the Sox clinched, you have a little taste of the emotions running through Sox Neighborhood (we aren't exactly a nation yet...maybe city-state?) right now. There is more, but I know happy topics can be a bit boring. But you should know by now that we don't let ourselves think about manifest destiny too much at Ozzie for President HQ.

So, forgive us our big smiles today and tomorrow, and hopefully the day after that.

I never listen to the news before I get to work, when I click on the New York Times as the official beginning of my day. A bleary-eyed shower, walk to the EL and train ride don't really count.

This morning I had to run out of my office and into the bathroom and bawl for a good five minutes. I've had a rough weekend, and that is part of it. But Peter Jennings has been a huge figure in my internal life. How to explain? I've been a news junkie my whole life. I had no real father figure in my life and few male role models to speak of, and he was urbane in a way that I longed to be from a very young age, due much to his influence, I imagine. He was my hero. How else to put it? I think I understood the dangers of the world as a child better than most of my peers, and he was the best defense against the worst of those dangers that I could imagine. That might sound quaint or silly, but he has remained in that role, one of the most precious in my life, until now. I can't imagine another journalist will ever make me feel that way again.

In the last decade, I watched ABC's World News Tonight very rarely. It is on in Chicago during my commute home. But, whenever something terrible has happened, he was solace second only to my two Moms.

I was glad he could be emotional, although I know he did not want to be. At some point during the continuous broadcast at the beginning of the Iraq war, there was a young reporter close to sites being bombed, reporting despite the danger but obviously nervous, and Jennings, in a very quivery voice that showed his fear for the reporter's safety and blatant pride in his courage, informed him he could feel free, with the network's blessing, to flee and hide any time he liked. Quinessential Jennings. Professional, measured and compelling. And so truly human andutterly in the moment.

I don't know if I can write and do justice to my feelings about this man. The next time everyone in America gathers around their TV sets to watch as a tragedy occurs with hideous speed, as one invariably will, I, for one, suspect I will feel just a little bit lonelier than I ever have before.

DON'T LISTEN TO ME

Hi. This is a blog. I am a blogger. Blogity Blog Blog.

You know, sometimes it's best not to DWELL, Ozzieheads. I've been doing a lot of dwelling, on the lower side of things, lately. I'm a moron with a callous streak as big as the Grand Canyon. The White Sox are in FIRST PLACE and have the BEST RECORD IN BASEBALL, and I've barely noticed. I've gone to several AA meetings. I've seen a therapist. I feel like I'm improving. I need to.

My "private life" is so ridiculously fucked right now that half the time I feel like saying hello to Mr. Tire Iron and sleeping the big sleep. Then I remember that noone reads this thing, or listens to what I have to say most of the time, which is right and proper, and anyway comedy and sleeping puppies and Harpo Marx make life OK, usually. Carry on, etc. Because I never update this piece of shit, and everyone has given up reading or linking to it, there is a little space for me to belch into the ether. So maybe I'll try and get all Metamucil (AKA regular) on this blogging thing. Maybe, and I know I've said that before.