Bring Dynamite and a crane, Blow you up start all over again

We were sad to learn of the death of Lou Rawls over the weekend. He was the ultimate in class. Mom #1 and Mom #2 used to watch his Telethon every year, and we loved it too. Did you know Lou Rawls made over $200 Million dollars for the United Negro College Fund? Mad respect that.

We used to have this DJing trick where we would go from Black Sabbath's "Supernaut" to "You'll Never Find" within three songs. We know Lou would have loved that one.

A few times we wrote joking pieces of musical criticism that referenced Lou Rawls, but we want you to know that our love for him is very serious indeed. In fact, at one of our lowest personal moments ever, when we were treating ourselves with serious disrespect and much of the humanity in our hearts was gone, we heard Lou Rawls on a distant radio. The horror within us was turned to gladness immediately, as if Lou had turned on a light switch in our heart. Ever since that night, we have had a bond with Lou that can never be broken.

You might think Lou Rawls is some kind of bland showman, just another guest-star on Love Boat or Fantasy Island re-runs, as somebody said at the bar the other night, but you would be wrong. We don't know if Lou Rawls is going to have a public funeral or not, but we would stand in the snow, in the rain, in a hail of bullets to honor him. Thanks, friend. You will be missed.




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The train from Kansas city is coming into town

This was a great weekend, folks. Truly epic. We played hooky. We've seen some horrible things and taken them to heart. Furthermore, we've used them to goad ourselves into making some serious decisions about our future, and are getting prepared for new journies.

We've bought some truly alien looking stuffed animals at the Village Thrift. We've eaten massive amounts of Thai Food. We've rediscovered the fact that Club Foot is, in fact, paradise. We've discovered that we have a vast and deep appreciation for the law. We've traded multiple photos of pinball machines with our friends, gotten our swerve on, and had a freaking blast.

We are on some super-takeover shit in 2006. Fuck the brutality of 2005. Everyone we know got beaten with the ugly stick in the '05. We are so over that shit, and we hope you are too.




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Just a little house, not very much out on the prairie. Lying on the couch so out of touch.

Holy cow, last night was crazy. We have not really "gone out" in the past 6 months or so. We have done some drinking at home and in the living room (the Bottle) but not other venues so much, for fear of tipping delicate social balances. We brazenly decided to go to one of our very favorite bars for many years now, Club Foot (Augusta and Honore), at about 11 PM, but we knew no one there and left after two drinks and lots of staring at our feet. There was this super-cute foxy pants by the pool table but she was paying us no mind. She had red hair and the cutest pigtails and these darling glasses and some major firepower under her sweater, but you know. Whatever. As we were leaving, we saw Michelle, our promised New Year's Kiss #2, just coming in. We left anyway. We'll collect on that smooch later.

So then we walked to the Rainbo and what do you know? Myopic Associates! Full of drink and merriment! So we joined them. And we drank. And we drank until we were Drinky Crow. Jon and Adrienne can hold their A-L-C-O-H-O-L. We tried to flirt with random cuties, but we have largely forgotten how to flirt in our last few months of self-imposed social isolation. Blurting out "you are pretty" doesn't really suffice, nor does offering ourselves up as a chaparone to the photo booth. That kind of thing worked when we were a little younger and a little prettier.

When the bar closed, we went back to Adrienne's house for tarot readings and more of the sauce. Boy, it was great. Since we are seriously thinking of trashing our boring corpo-wack job and going back to the bookstore full time, last night was extra special. We have a second family at the bookstore, and it is good to be back among them. We would tell you what happened in our tarot reading, but that would be illegal! Instead we'll celebrate the fact that we can go out among friends and end up around a kitchen table, very late at night, fate literally laid out like a feast before us, with not a care in the world. It is very good to be alive.




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Does any one know where the love of God goes, When the waves turn the minutes to hours?

Thanks Becky! We have liftoff.









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Keep on singing little boy, and raise your arms to the big black sky

I've never seen a dead body before, and I've never really wanted to.

Last night at Mark and Ericka's was fun. We watched the stupid college football game, smoked cigarettes and drank Miller Lite from cans. We were telling stories and laughing, and then Texas won and I went home. Just in time.

I was ear-witness to a fatal car accident right in front of the Bottle last night at about 11 PM. I remember Chris helping the young Asian lady who had almost been hit, saying over and over "I'm fine, I'm fine" and the weird old stoner dude twitching around being freaky saying "I could've been hit, that could've been me". I remember running to the guy lying in a heap in front of the laundromat and thinking that he could be helped. I remember Rob and then the cop telling me that nothing could be done for him and later, back in the bar, Rob telling me that his brains were all over the sidewalk. I guess I didn't see it because I thought he could be saved, and I wanted to do something. I can still see him in my mind, eyes half open, body twisted sideways as if sleeping on his side, bike a metal ruin beside him. I can remember wanting to check his vital signs, begging the cop and then Rob and then the fireman to do something, to fix what was wrong with him. It was awful. I've never felt so guilty. I stood there stupidly watching the firemen pry the other guy out of his decimated Cadillac (sp?) with crobars, and then I went upstairs and made myself a very stiff drink.

Life feels a little cheaper, and a little more costly today, and 2006 suddenly seems to have started on the wrong foot. You don't have to call or get in touch, because I'm okay, if a little shaken. I just wanted to share.




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Exoskeletal junction at the railroad delayed

Hey, does anyone out in the internet haze have a copy of Mr. Gordon Lightfoot's "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" on the MP3 format? We've seriously been obsessed with that song since we were eight and never owned it for some reason. You could send it to us over AIM. Pretty please?

Did you know that we were once acquainted with a young gent whose Dad went down on that very ship on Lake Superior in 1975? True story. If you clean all that damn semen out of your ears maybe we'll tell it to you someday.




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Be strong, be wrong

Last night we were listening to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck", which we are prone to doing, mostly because it's the White Sox theme song and exciting pre-game intro music, but also because it pretty much kicks some major ass. Ask Mac, Jurko and Harry. About halfway in to our listen, we realized it might just be another wrong song!

You know wrong songs, right? Something in the lyrics is a mistake or just doesn't jibe with reality. Our favorite wrong song, of course, is wrong song numero uno "The What" by Notorious B.I.G. Biggie is laying down post-structuralist discourse on the nature of his, uh, manhood, and spits this timeless refrain: "Honies feel it deep in they placenta." Which is interesting, if you know much about anatomy. If Biggie were alive today, we'd politely explain to him that women don't really have placentas very often. Like only when they great with child. We would further ask him if he is really into pregnant honies. Not out of the question, but maybe a little strange. Honestly, it's a fetish we share. Biggie, we sincerely hope this wish of yours came true at some point during your brutally shortened life! We hope you tore that placenta up, chief.

We know if we did lay any of this honkie gibberish oh him in real life Biggie would tell us to shut the fuck up and clean the Cristal off his pinkie rings and we would be all like yes sir, right away sir. He would then tell us to read John Updike's Couples because at one point Updike compares a woman's recently fucked vag-unit to a kitten lapping up milk which is so heavy image-wise it could crash through the earth from Brooklyn all the way to China or some shit any day now. We say fuck John Updike! (Sasha! We know you are the hard rhymer and can bring all kind of heavy manners up in this. Please refrain from mentioning our existence at the next New Yorker office potluck. BTW, we hear Roger Angell makes a fab trail mix. Give him a headrub from us and tell him we're waiting anxiously for the new baseball tome.)

So you can't get actually struck by thunder. But you can be thunderstruck by relevation. So, is the rest of world wrong? Just AC/DC? Or only us? Is this truly a wrong song? Help us decide. Not being sure is killing us. Oh, and if you have wrong songs of your own, please send them to us with sample lyrics and we will post the best of them here. C'mon, all you rock critics crawling around like pubic lice. We see you out there!




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To complain there was no need, she'd smile in Mama's understanding way

We are very concerned with the fate of the 13 coal miners in Sago, West Virginia. The prognosis for their recovery from the bowels of the earth does not look good.

There is plenty of family history with us and coal-mining. Many of our friends' daddies growing up hauled in the mines, or hauled it across the country in trucks or loaded it into barges on the Missisippi or Ohio, or worked on the railroads, all to light the fires of the world. Southern Illinois is prime coal country. We grew up in the shadow of the huge metal monsters that would tear at the ground ceaselessly, night after day, with wheels as tall as buildings, turning the miles and miles of fields behind our Aunt Grace's house into gravel strewn wastelands, scars hundreds of feet deep into the ground for decades. There are dozens of man-made lakes across Southern Illinois, several that we've swimmed in even, that serve as reminders of who really owns the land down there. Big coal.

People would have their land bought out from under them, literally. In Saline County, where we grew up, lots of politicians made it very stinky rich. Meanwhile, what do you think happened to the misplaced? You got it. Right into the arms of Big Coal. Insane work. No one you know has ever worked harder, or in worse conditions, than miners. They were among the first groups of working Americans to successfully unionize, just for that reason.

Tonight when you go to bed, think about the men in that hole and their families. They need it.



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Because there's no because has become every reason why

Annie, we are very sorry for your loss. So random and senseless the world can be sometimes. Please know that we are thinking about you and sending all the good vibes we can muster your way. We know how it feels to lose a friend.




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The party's already falling apart but we play along it's rolling along

This holiday weekend had some real highlights. If you think we're going to tell you about the really special ones, you can put a butter knife into an electrical socket instead and imagine our joy. Okay?

We still haven't received the new cell phone yet. Yes, we ordered a fancy silver Razr from the folks at T-Mobile and did the whole upgrade thingy. We are so not technology whores 3000 and if you truly know us you can easily verify this fact since we do not own our own TV, the computer is broken and we are the only person in Amerikkka without an i-Pod. We figured that we owed ourselves a treat since the Samsung E-105 was dying about every two days and we were interested in a phone cam so we could take pictures of all the gross people we see making out on the blue line. Sorry, but even if you look like Maggie Gyllenhaal in nothing but a thong and Fredrick's of Hollywood stilettos, when you have your tounge lathering someone else's tonsils on Public Trans you are super on the gross and we are not interested in having your bullshit flavor thrown at us (thanks Miles). Go in a photo booth or something. Have some A-S-S class, cheesecrotches.

Ok, we are now on the job and hating life. Zinch.



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