Video: Putin Kisses Boy's Stomach -- As Astonished Crowd Looks On

I love the Drudge Report. Sometimes it makes me want to commit seppuku in the corner bathroom of a very public place, but I still read it every day. I have no idea how the internet works anymore, apart from my fantasy baseball teams. 2nd, 4th and 11th place, in order of importance. I still want to carve my initials into Ann Coulter's skull, though.

P.S. Last week saw Al Gore's environmental flick, and homie is making a move towards the electorate. Kind of a wave from the fruit stand across the street, really, letting folks know he's still there and not having anything much to do with Howard Dean these days. Story in the new Rolling Stone this (next?) week where he makes some shart comments about Senors Bush and Cheney, and we'll see what his next few moves are.

Superman movie? Who else wants to see it? Get in touch.

If you've sent me email you expect to be answered in the last few weeks and I haven't replied, don't take it all personal like. Internet connectivity is still tenuous, so use ye olde telephone, eh?

The White Sox just keep winning, bashing the shit out of National League teams right and left. Unfortunately, so do the Tigers of Detroit (remember them? Tyrus Raymond Cobb? George Kell? Jack Morris? Larry Parrish? Lou Whitaker?), who *seem* to have the whiff of destiny this year. I know that smell pretty well after 2005. Which would be okay by me, honestly. Their fans have had a rough time of it the last decade or so.

OK, I'll try and update more often. Bye.




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First you think your fortune's lovely

Reading tonight at the Quimby's. It starts in about 25 minutes, actually. The Copy Max, where I'm at now, is the place to go when all the public libraries are full of computer users. Right across the street from the bookstore on Milwaukee near the six corners of ass.

This dude at the computer to my left (#6) is freaking out because a paper he wrote for a class is missing in the hard-drive and noone here can seem to find it. I feel bad for him. I write mostly in note pads these days, to avoid Mac/PC complications. How challenging it is to go back to pen and paper after having spent years type-type-typing away as the main feature of the compositional process. Miles and I were talking last night about getting typewriters. Maybe that would be boss.

Not much to say. Been working on this piece to read for the Quim, done busted my prose nut, and now I'm kind of on Veggie Patrol, giving a once-over to ABC's The Note and chillin' in the A/C. Maybe I'll type my reading on the web so you can oogle it, or maybe not. I'll let you know.

But swing by tonight if you can. It's for a good 'cause.




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Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy

Eckhart Park Library smells like chlorine 'cause there is a big pool here. I used to work for a computer place right across the street...and spent a few years there in various positions of "responsibility". It was the best money I ever made, by far, but in retrospect I integrated myself into the new economy of the early oughts by being incredibly skilled at slacking, most of all. I was laid off in early '02, but we all know what that means. I made myself irrelevant and therefore disposable.

Speaking of which, there is a reading at Quimby's on Monday June 19th at about 7 PM or so. The line-up is fab, and the $5 (suggested) cover goes to worthy charities, including a food pantry and rape crisis center. Writerly entertainment by Hopper, Amy Phillips, Brian Costello, Jim DeRogatis and, for some reason, little ol' me. I am trying to write a new piece just for the occasion, featuring the usual melange of disparate topics:

-my alcoholism and the merry-go-round called denial
-concepts of time and space in established musical forms familiar to this listener, but due to data shifts in his recently psychotropically medicated mind, how they have become rather "far out"
-Scott Walker's lacerating new album
-the fact that Sunn0))) was in the NY Times Sunday Magazine recently, and how this could be a sign of the impending apocalypse
-Mark Twain's sense of the bawdy
-the utter inability of language in America to signify anything other than our intellectual and emotional distance from one another since the *spectre* of global terrorism cemented itself as a political tool
-the utter decline of hand-jobs and/or "fingering" in the sexual repertoire of adults over the age of, say, 25.
-Turkish pirate films featuring dogs named "Kurt"

Some of these are lies. But, it shall be no less ambitious than the GodSpeed You Black Emperor/ Moby Dick piece we promised so many issues of Hit It Or Quit It ago.





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They go down to the lake of fire and fry; Won't see 'em again till the Fourth of July

Dog days of summer, hoo boy. They are here. Actually, this week has been overwhelmingly pleasant, Chicago weather-wise. You can't ask for better than mid-70's with few clouds and minimum humidity. So we'll count our lucky stars.

White Sox eeked out a slim win against the division leading Tigers of Detroit earlier tonight at the Cell. No, we were at the bookstore. But we were with the south side nine in spirit (and on the radio). Our boys have had a rough time of it the last few weeks, but we have faith things are about to turn around. The pitching staff has to get a few things in order, and Thome has to stay healthy, but October should see us again at the gates of St. Peter, if things stay on the current. Lots of season left to go, and the Detroiters could fade.

Does any one know where in Chicago to get a really good pair of white boat shoes for not a lot of crilla? We're trying to pull our summer look together. Lacoste has some that are manifestly fresh but also totally out of our current financial dimensions. Actually, wearing a pair of white paper bags is out of our current financial dimensions, but we're keeping our options open. Size 12, if you can help a brother out.

Ian of the great Northeast, thanks a million for the bootleg "Theme Time Radio Hour with your host Bob Dyaln" cd's. The timing could not have been better. If you haven't heard it yet, Dylan has an XM Satellite radio show where he picks a theme and then plays songs on the theme and then narrates all over the place. Kind of like This American Life in reverse. Of course Dylan is his funny, caustic, ambiguous self, and the musical selections are righteous. There are spoken word bits, snippets from movies, the works. The Baseball show (of course the first one we listened to) has a reading by Ferlinghetti of a poem that combines the political spirit of the sixties and the blazing nature of the sport in a way that is most happening; you'll never think of Juan Marichal in the same way again.

If you have a feeling that we're watching Ken Burns' Baseball in its entirety again right now in our free time, you'd be right. We know we promised to wait until the off season....but c'mon!

P.S. Happy 666 day! Ultimate metal melange at the bookstore tonight!




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Have you seen my wig around? I feel naked without it.

Opportunity of a lifetime, just missed!

Last night the new Dave Navarro/ Stephen Perkins vehicle (ahem) The Panic Channel played at the Double Door, and their stupid, giant tour bus was in our precious loading zone for 5 hours or so. And with about 30 hoochie-goth suburban community college chicks and plenty of goth/hoodrat yet gender-unidentified fellow dude grovelers in tow, annoyance factor behind the bookstore pulpit was high (and the register area really does look like a pulpit; if you've ever visited the store, you know how much taller we are than you when you buy your Edward Says On Orientalism). At least half as high, anyway, as the squeals that would slice through the bloated summer night everytime the accursed tour bus door opened slightly or one of the window curtains so much as twitched.

To be fair, the roadies were nice to the kids, issuing a few passes when they could and doing a lot of non-commital shrugging ("Can we pleeeeease come on the bus for a second? Pleeeeease? We just want to meet the driver."). After the show, the band paused for a bunch of photos and made a big scene of talking to pretty much anyone who wanted to and signing stuff aplenty with cell phone cameras flashing. But, still.

Dave Navarro is a cultural leech who has done very little for the world at large, aside from boning Carmen Electra for a while (remember that reality show fiasco?), mainlining lots of coke, doing a REALLY BAD solo on Been Caught Stealing (worst rock song ever? Barking Dogs? Ugh. Not to mention the video. Alternative Rock always did suck), and flashing his wang dang doodle in his home photo booth a few times. So, we made sure to call the cops every few minutes and inform them that we were being rock blocked like a motherfucker...but not a ticket was issued, nor even a Chicago po-po cruiser stopped by. Joe Shannahan must have some pull. Today, we're going to call Alderman Manny Flores, and see what we can get out of him as far as future promises go.

We figured if we couldn't combat this unacceptable situation in the usual fashion, we'd get some comp for the bookstore, so we had Nick, the store's adorable yet vaguely frightening 15 year old fake-I.D. toting, felony-having, retail theft ring-leading miscreant/street hustler get said Mr. Navarro to sign a copy of his book (one of which we just happened to have handy on our shelves under Musical/Artist (??)) for us to sell on our online store. Turns out the fuckkin' thing goes for like $40 jojos signed. Can you believe that?

To all the kids hanging out in the bookstore foyer for hours, we ask these pitiful small requests: not so much patchouli. That shit is for hippies and it leaves a pallor over any room. And what is with the piles of empty energy bar boxes and Gatorade bottles everywhere? It wasn't that hot last night. Were you trying to "juice up" for some acrobatic on the bus piss sex? Next time, go to House of Blues! At least they have a hotel.

How was your Memorial Day weekend? Ours kind of sucked incredibly hard. Highlight? Superman trailer. Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor looked cheesy amazing. It's going to rule. And the Mem Day Un-BQ. Thanks Jessica and Matt. One love, baby.


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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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