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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