Daschunds and St. Bernards Going Mad in my Front Yard Big and Small

White Sox are sitting on thirty wins and Buehrle takes the bump tonight against the A's from the Bay. Should be "choice". Too bad we're due to be working or we'd be on the south side rooting away for our boys. Looks like rain, anyway.

Current fantasy baseball standings: third, third, third. At least we are first division in all three leagues, but we'd rather be kicking more ass. Hard to do with no home internet and only the library to compute from.

You know how you totally forget a band and randomly take one of their records to work then go crazy on them all of the sudden after they've been broken up for years and the kids don't know about them anymore and then you feel old and cool, like "yeah, I saw them play with Seam in 1998 and it was Beast City"? Fuck, that is what 32 so totally feels like, in a nutshell. Unwound is the obsessed upon, currently. What a doozy band! Go find your Unwound wacks and listen to them. Or go buy some Unwound. Nothing splashy in their rock jams, but always so totally in the cut. If you want to know where to begin, get in touch.

We are also now obsessed with Kiki and Herb after last night's apartment listening party. Thanks, Miles.

Today we were the recipient of a very fine email compliment from a friend, with whom we share a few of our phobias and social anxieties. These phobias and anxieties have kept our friendship with this person in a constant state of flux; weird text message feints and email withdrawls and all sorts of randomness over the years. For some reason, we wouldn't have it any other way. But thanks, friend. It means a lot.

Odd fixture of sobriety #73: Dreams. More on this in coming posts, but dreaming again is weird. Years of alcohol-fueled dead black sleep have left us unprepared for the subconcious (sp?) cannon fire tracing through the late night of our psyche. Do you dream? Are they good? Do you engage in coitus and then ride around alien planets in odd automobiles? We do. And we are not smoking weed, lately.




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Pieced Up, Creased Up, Dressed for Success

Not too much time to blog; at the library peckin' quick and it's freaking amazing out! Summer.

Who saw the mighty wallop the White Sox placed on the Cubby Bears yesterday? Buerhle had shit on cruise control...Pods and Iguchi had Maddux sweating bullets, and the usual Thome Tater sealed it up. 6-1. Hopefully Pale Hose will be administering more discipline on the North Side 9 this afternoon. Go Sox!

Just reached 90 sober days. Last night went to see Country Teasers in the living room. That band is stoopid, hilarious, kinda good/bad, and very very p-r-i-c-k-l-y. Anyway, in order to celebrate the big nine-zero we were planning on wearing all our bling to the show. Cam'ron style. Like, 2 rings, 4 braclets, 12 necklaces, styles from "street grind" to "south florida grandma", all nice and shiny. Like, check us out wearing all this jive shit and drinkin' our Ginger Ale with 2 cherries while you stumble. (Thanks Jill.) But we chickened out last sec.

Tonight for Mahjonng (SP?) and then Club Foot might be a more perfectly suited venue. So if you see that mighty glow, shield your eyes from the glory!

On a different note, rest in peace, Samer. We're thinking about your friends and family today, although we didn't know you well ourselves.




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Demons Present In Flames, Oath of Black Souls Found

Bookstore closing music last night was Immortal's umm...immortal album Diabolical Fullmoon Mysticism. There were two shoppers browsing near U.S. History- General, but two minutes into "Call of the Winter Moon" the store was totes empty. Works every time.

We noticed something funny on the back of said album (CD tray version). You know how the black metal dudes always have on the white face make-up and the gauntlets with hundreds of nails on them and are carrying some kind of huge Medieval weaponry? This album is totally in that zone, except there is a dude that totally looks like he doesn't belong in the band. In fact, he looks like Ian Hunter of Mott the Hoople; poofy hair, shades, everything, and he's kind of lamely holding this pathetic looking mace and def not wearing the requisite make-up. Jon pointed this out to us, and then we kind of wondered aloud...what is it like to be the one dude in the black metal band who is only kind of half-into what is going on?

"Um dudes, you know I think the whole 'huffing dead crows' thing is real cool and all for harvesting the essential power of the animal before shows, you know, for the sake of a 'kick ass' performance, but could you, like, not do it in my girlfriend's car and then leave the corpses in the glove compartment? She was real bummed when she called me from the car wash the other day. Keep that shit in the tour van, bra."

"Hey, could you guys next time not ritually kill my brother and turn his brains into a primordal lifeforce-feeding stew that somehow honors his memory yet feeds your lust for souls? Cause, like, Mom's mellow was seriously harshed the other day. And the kitchen smelled like total ass."

"Hey dudes? Instead of burning down that four-thousand year old neo-pagan early christian church, could we just nail the White Hen in Floro instead? I hear burning Pop-Tarts and Slim Jim's together smell righteous."

In other news, key OGFP NYC associate Doug-E-Fresh is coming to town this weekend. Mosurock is always on point, and we'll be real glad to see him.

In other news, OGFP NYC associate and close longtime pal Mike has a GNR review on the Illinois Entertainer magazine website! You should totally go read it, because M. Meyer is one heck of a scribe. Go here: http://www.illinoisentertainer.com/?p=668

Bye.




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OGFP Phone Update

Yes, the phone works again.

312.375.6165.

Bitches.




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You don't eat, you don't work, you don't grind, you don't shine

There are far too few joyous, triumphant (SP?) experiences in life that chance bestows upon us. Everyone has their faves. Here are ours:

1) Sucking titties. (Duh. Never gets old. Big, small, saggy, jouncy, whatever. Ask any man. Unless we are related to you, we love 'em.)

2) Really good burritos. (The Carne Asada with everything on it at the big La Pasadita on Ashland is as close to culinary heaven as we have ever come, apart from Antoine's in New Orleans when we were 16. Long story, different post.)

3) Record heaven. This is the most complicated and rarest joy of all, and it just happened again yesterday. To wit: you are walking down the street and your spidey-sense starts tingling. It's like a smell in the air, a haze of something in the breeze...records. You know they are close, and they are good. Who knows what it is? A chemical inbalance that corresponds directly to your nerddom? Pure love for the dig? Who cares. Go ask DJ Shadow. Or George Noory.

So there we are, walking down the street. And there it is, the brand new record store, all rough and unfurnished. We just kind of pop in. You know, to check it out. See if there is anything interesting to pick over. The first record we set eyes on is an I-Roy record on Virgin, an import we have never seen before. Oh, yes. The second is a copy of the first Run-D.M.C. record in dece shape, for a buck ninety-nine. Not a re-issue. Eric B & Rakim twelves for less than ten bucks. Eazy-E twelves we haven't seen since the Rose Records in Crystal Lake went out of biz. Not re-issues. More early house than you can stake a shit at. Farley Jackmaster Funk Jamie Principle Cajmere Instant Funk mixed by Larry Levan, it don't stop. Rack after rack of sweetness. This is better than sex, folks.

When the purchase is made, the owner asks us if we like reggae, seeing the I-Roy. Oh, yes sir. We love reggae very, very much, sir. He casually lets it drop that he has "boxes of that shit...dancehall, roots, everything" to bring out in the next few weeks. "Lots of rock, folk, jazz...I have thousands of records." Inside, somewhere deep and fragile, we start to whimper. A little bit of us is born again.

We have bills to pay. We have peeps we owe. So, we know the next few weeks are going to be a hard geo-political course of budget cuts, defecit spending and nerve-shattering financial self-negotiation. But we are so ready. 'Cause there are parties to be rocked in the approaching summertime, and the bad habits you have that DON'T kill you can be a privledge to indulge.




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Rise the erudite and pentient to sky and to send.

Saturday night shift at the bookstore. Not much happening. Since it started raining, the nutters have been staying away.

Good, 'cause we've been blasting the new OM record at teutonic levels. And the Black Lips latest. And Mike Jones, Screwed and Chopped by Micheal "5000" Watts. Swisha House! 10% Sleep 90% Grind. You know how we do.

Aborted DJ session at Tuman's last night. Total equipment failure on turntable #2. Thought about doing the Victrola-style DJ set (a rowdy, filled to capacity house party equipment failure strategy previously employed with some modicum of success), but quickly realized foolishness and let the bartender's iPod rule the night (and play the same Cars song a few times). Fuck it, we still got paid. Bitches! Only track actually played: our traditional opener, Thin Lizzy's "Soldier of Fortune".

No more stitches. Wham! Gone. Now we have these little paper things that look kind of cool, but not really bad-ass. Level of interest from Ukranian lovlies towards your host rapidly tailing off.

Should we get started on Moby Dick again? We're feeling the old tug. Four times now we've been lashed to the white whale since high school, and this would make our fifth voyage on the Pequod. It's our favorite book ever, you know. Things might get a little nautical around here for a while, but we know you can deal. Cali and Betsy's book schedule makes us feel like maybe we can push ourselves a bit, and book club failures in the past month or two has us licking our wounds. Time to represent represent! Call me Rakim!





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When the Blood was Red and the Lies Were Black and White

The Murphy's Law of Fantasy Baseball is that no matter who you start and who you have on the bench, the guys on the bench are going to get all the hits, homers and RBI's, and you will get no points in your league. You can start a stud like Garrett Anderson for a week of games and he'll hit a buck ten and do little more than take a few nature squats in the left field grass during Take Me Out To the Ballgame. Take him OUT of your line-up and he turns into fucking Joe DiMaggio on meth. Tonight is a perfect example. 3 RBI's against the White Sox, two hits, etc. Current OGFP Yahoo Fantasy League standings: First, Fifth, Fifth. Good news is that the Pale Hose are in First, and have the best record in the bigs. You are trembling with excitement out there with this news. Sorry.

Mere moments ago: tried to turn off the radio because the Halos just put up a three spot in the top of the Ninth to take a commanding lead over the Sox, and Jon quickly chastized us for our bad attitude. We have devotedly listened to the entire game, after all. Now the Angels are piling it on, 12-5 still in the top of the Ninth, and now Jon wants to turn off the radio and we are making fun of him for his Kerry-esque flip-flop. Hijinks are on at the Bookstore! Get the Chess Wizards down here, 'cause we fin to put on Danzig I and go a-raging!

It's cool to have two Moms. Its even cooler to have one who is a cop. (Now at least, a lot more so than when OGFP was a teenage waste bin who played N.W.A. on his stereo in his room as some sort of *statement* about having to clean the bathrooms on Saturday morning, and you know which song.) Mom #1 has half the Chicago Police Force lashed into a law enforcement frenzy over our little, uh, incident on Monday. Chiefs of Police and City Managers have called District Commandants and other powers that be. Of course, the bastard kids are going to get away with it, most likely, but it makes Mom #1 happy to be doing what she can, and a happy Mom #1 is good company policy.

We have come to grips with the fact that the RAZR is never coming back. Gone forever are the series of nude self-portraits that were going to get us a wing in the MOMA. Just kidding.

Fashion tip: Ukranian women seem to be drawn to men with hideous facial wounds. We've spent the last ten months living in a neighborhood where about 2% of the population speaks any non-Slavic language, definitely not getting smiled at by Slav-speaking women, at least those of our age group and um, casual interest. But that seems to have changed. We'll keep you updated.






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Left the Party at 3 AM, Alone Thank God, with a Valium from the Bride

Wow. Getting mugged in broad daylight on the way to work sucks. Having your sunglasses shatter and carve a bloody line into your face from the force of a suckerpunch sucks. Getting twenty stitches under your right eye after a nice long wait in the Emergency Room sucks. Headaches that make you feel like your noggin' is a two week old orange sitting on the window sill sucks. We'd put up a picture to show you, but guess what? Someone else wanted our nice silver RAZR for themselves. Let me keep my wallet and my bag, but they just had to have that phone.

So, if we don't call you for a while, don't take it all personal like. Luckily there were some nice neighborhood folks around to help us back to our feet, call the Five- O, and maybe even be potential witnesses if it comes to that. Bookstore manager Cat totally saved the day...came by and took us to the Space Hospital on Division, stayed with us for the stitching and everything. Sorry Paul Wall, but she's the people's champ. Just do yourselves a favor and avoid Thomas between Leavitt and Oakley if you can. It's a bit salty over there.

2006 has been a real corker, folks. The White Sox are in first place, though, so things could be worse. But, damn it all. Death, disease, computer malfunction, bicycle theft, alcohol withdrawl, psychotropic drugs, assault...the entertainment at Casino OGFP keeps getting dice-ier, if you pardon the pun.




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The martyred sun is discovered by Aries, a fellow craftsman

Whew! Almost a whole week...sorry about the hiccup.

Not too much interesting has been happening around OGFP HQ, anyway. Lots of reading, thinking and stinking. You know the drill.

If you haven't read Sir Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy yet (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass) do yourself a favor. OGFP has a pretty strict policy regarding not wasting our time and yours big-upping kid's books and toddler classics and so on, but these books are sweet to the bone and ultimately very adult in theme. The ending made us cry. Go ask the New Yorker! It was that fine publication's fault that we investigated HDM in the first place. And it's great summertime lit.

Daily bookstore bafflement: Zizek's The Parallax View holding sway over our college-aged youngsters. Why do so many copies fly out of here, or tip off the lips of so many customers wish lists? It's almost summer, people! We know you need your art school propers, but you should be out eating hot dogs or trying to get laid, not pouring over some zany brand of philo that lashes your brain to the Eastern European critical mush bandwagon. Seriously, go dance or something.




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