1.3.2015
(below is a reprint of an all-time great venue announcement from 9 years ago this month)
There was a show
on in the 70's hosted by Spock Nimoy called "In Search of..." and on the show
he explored strange things in the universe, like the Shroud of Turin,
haunted houses and if plants could communicate with each other, to name a
few. I sure wish the show was still on the air, because I'd call up
one of the producers and have 'em bring a crew over to my place as there
is some seriously unexplained shit goin' on.
Or so my landlady would like me to believe.
Here's
the story: Kitchen sink faucet has a drip. I notice it only because
there's a coffee cup under the tap and the drip begins to fill the cup
and thus begins to to make the classic drip-drip-drip noise.
Additionally, it's the hot faucet that won't tighten and hot water is
leaking. I'm thinking about wasted $$. I'm not totally useless so I
get out my toolbox, turn off the water, unscrew the faucet, replace the
washer and reassemble. The drip stops.
For a week or so.
Yes,
the dang drip comes back and this time the drops of hot water are
bigger and the frequency of drips is faster. I did what I could so I
called my landlady. She said, "I'll come over with a plumber. Is the
dog tied up?" I told her we didn't have a dog. Cats. We had cats.
"Is the cats tied up?" I said no, but please don't let them out when
you come over, because we will be at work and you will have to let
yourself in. Then I said, "While yr at it, please call me and tell me
when you are coming over." We had a problem with a workman coming over
when we weren't home and landlady didn't tell us. Workman stomped flat
some plants in the back yard, left tools, hardware and trash around and
left the fucking gate open when he left. I didn't care for that. I
wanted to know when people were coming around.
She
called and said she'll be over in about an hour and asked if the dog was
tied up. I reminded her we had cats and told her I wished she would
have given us more heads-up than "an hour" so we could get prepared for
work to be done. As it was, I remembered there were a couple dishes in
the sink, but oh well. Turns out: Not "oh well."
I
got home and found the cats to be okay. I looked at the sink and the
drip was gone and the dishes were in the sink. Funny. I figured that
I'd wash the dishes and so I turned on the water, soaped up a sponge and
picked up a glass. The glass was broken. Cracked. It was on its side
in the sink and it must have broken when tipped over. And as I don't
lay glasses on their sides when depositing into the sink, I guessed that
the idiot "plumber" didn't empty the sink when doing his "work" and
knocked the glass over, breaking it. Shit, I thought, but oh well:
It's just a glass. Then i picked up a bowl to wash it and in it was a
jagged shard of broken wine glass. Motherfucker, I thought, he broke
two glasses. I looked for other broken pieces and they were nowhere.
Not in the recycling bin, not in the garbage can and definitely not in
the sink. Holy shit! He broke them, then hid the evidence. But he
didn't know he broke the other glass and therefore didn't hide it. I
had to call landlady and ask her about it.
I called and
asked. She said she standing by guy whole time. He did not break. I
said they were not broken when I left and broken when I got home and
most of one broken glass was hidden. She said not hidden, did not
break. I asked her to ask the "plumber." She called back and said he
no break no hide. I said I didn't break them and she said maybe the
break themselves. I said, okay, then one cleaned itself up and threw
itself away in a place I couldn't find and she said yes. Maybe it break
itself.
True fucking story. True. Actually happened.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Thursday, January 22, 2015
River Thames (REDUX)
1.3.2015
I've been in a war with my college roommate for some time now. I don't know for sure when or how it started, but I know I just won.
Early in our relationship, when we were, in fact, college roommates in a dorm, we would spent every weekday evening in front of the tele watching reruns of "Hill Street Blues" on WGN. A great show, to be sure, but commercial television always had something going against it: Commercials. I've hated them forever, despite the irony of working in commercial post-production for many, many years. I made the most of the commercial breaks by calling every toll-free number , stating my name as my roommate's name - Phil - and ordering the money-back-guaranteed, free 90-day-trial of whatever product was advertised, all the while Phil sat listening to everything I said. He only shook his head and waited for Hill, Renko, Belcher and Capt. Furino to come back to us.
Days or weeks later the goods would arrive: Hair Club for Men™ demo videos, applications to Space Camp™, DiDiSeven™ stain-remover samples. A Clapper™. A Salad Spinner™. A Bowflex™ (Phil got kinda riled at that one.)
That we haven't lived together for some time has certainly slowed the frequency of me shipping him random things, but the dog still hunts: I sent him a package last week that contained an item costing $7.50 and requiring $6.50 in shipping, but it was worth it: I didn't know or care if Phil had a ball-pein hammer because he was gonna get one.
He got it a week later and called. "You've outdone yourself," he said, "never in a million years would I guessed that the box addressed to 'Assistant Herb Strewer Phil' contained what it did. I can think of a thousand uses for it and what's more, I know how to spell 'pein' now."
Missio Accomplishio.
Tonight - WISH (by request)
Hey! That used to be the Radium "after work" bar.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I've been in a war with my college roommate for some time now. I don't know for sure when or how it started, but I know I just won.
Early in our relationship, when we were, in fact, college roommates in a dorm, we would spent every weekday evening in front of the tele watching reruns of "Hill Street Blues" on WGN. A great show, to be sure, but commercial television always had something going against it: Commercials. I've hated them forever, despite the irony of working in commercial post-production for many, many years. I made the most of the commercial breaks by calling every toll-free number , stating my name as my roommate's name - Phil - and ordering the money-back-guaranteed, free 90-day-trial of whatever product was advertised, all the while Phil sat listening to everything I said. He only shook his head and waited for Hill, Renko, Belcher and Capt. Furino to come back to us.
Days or weeks later the goods would arrive: Hair Club for Men™ demo videos, applications to Space Camp™, DiDiSeven™ stain-remover samples. A Clapper™. A Salad Spinner™. A Bowflex™ (Phil got kinda riled at that one.)
That we haven't lived together for some time has certainly slowed the frequency of me shipping him random things, but the dog still hunts: I sent him a package last week that contained an item costing $7.50 and requiring $6.50 in shipping, but it was worth it: I didn't know or care if Phil had a ball-pein hammer because he was gonna get one.
He got it a week later and called. "You've outdone yourself," he said, "never in a million years would I guessed that the box addressed to 'Assistant Herb Strewer Phil' contained what it did. I can think of a thousand uses for it and what's more, I know how to spell 'pein' now."
Missio Accomplishio.
Tonight - WISH (by request)
Hey! That used to be the Radium "after work" bar.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Bring Good Things
1.2.2015
I gave up on competitive discus throwing too late, and my aching shoulder reminded me of it constantly. And since it was my coffee cup and beer can hoisting shoulder, it was a real nuisance. Sometimes it really hurt, and my neoprene-shrouded Miller Lite® can didn't quite make it to my beer hole and instead bobbed just out of reach while I grimaced in pain and died of thirst.
After a few months of discomfort and dehydration, I sought out a shoulder doctor. I found one and he too was a former discus thrower and he knew what I was going through. He first suggested an X-ray, which he did with his phone, and it concluded I had bones in my shoulder. He somehow expected to see bones, which was comforting. He didn't see anything that indicated the source of my pain. "We've got to get a look at the soft stuff," he said, and I was off to the MRI.
I got stuffed into the big, loud cannoli MRI machine and was left in there as the techs flirted with each other a while then broke for lunch. I had my eyes closed the whole time because although I'm not claustrophobic I wasn't taking any chances. And because my eyes were closed for an hour or so and because I dig white noise, I nodded off for a while. The randy technicians must have returned because a metallic voice from the speaker in the machine said, "Are you sleeping?" I said yeah. "Drool fucks up the imager," the voice said. "Did I drool on my shoulder?" I said. After a while the voice said, "We're good," and the clanking stopped and the tray I was on retracted out of the "imager."
I forgot about the entire ordeal until the doctor's office called me in days later. The doc showed me a weird video and said it was my shoulder and he didn't see anything ripped or torn or shredded. I said good but that's what it still feels like. He said wait here a second.
He returned with a huge hypodermic needle and he said, "this is my new recipe," while injecting it into my back. He must have put the whole quart in, because I felt like I was smuggling a water balloon under my skin. "The sensation will subside shortly," he said, and started a stop watch.
While he watched the clock, I said, "While I have you, can you tell me something?" He said sure and I said, "All my joints crack and pop loudly. Especially my ankle joints. They sometimes sound like gunshots."
"Yes?" he said.
"Is there anything wrong with that? Is anything "bad" happening?" I said.
"No," he said, "nothing. My joints pop too."
"Well, I'm glad nothing bad is happening," I said, "but it makes it really tough to sneak up on people."
Tonight - Elixir Saloon (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I gave up on competitive discus throwing too late, and my aching shoulder reminded me of it constantly. And since it was my coffee cup and beer can hoisting shoulder, it was a real nuisance. Sometimes it really hurt, and my neoprene-shrouded Miller Lite® can didn't quite make it to my beer hole and instead bobbed just out of reach while I grimaced in pain and died of thirst.
After a few months of discomfort and dehydration, I sought out a shoulder doctor. I found one and he too was a former discus thrower and he knew what I was going through. He first suggested an X-ray, which he did with his phone, and it concluded I had bones in my shoulder. He somehow expected to see bones, which was comforting. He didn't see anything that indicated the source of my pain. "We've got to get a look at the soft stuff," he said, and I was off to the MRI.
I got stuffed into the big, loud cannoli MRI machine and was left in there as the techs flirted with each other a while then broke for lunch. I had my eyes closed the whole time because although I'm not claustrophobic I wasn't taking any chances. And because my eyes were closed for an hour or so and because I dig white noise, I nodded off for a while. The randy technicians must have returned because a metallic voice from the speaker in the machine said, "Are you sleeping?" I said yeah. "Drool fucks up the imager," the voice said. "Did I drool on my shoulder?" I said. After a while the voice said, "We're good," and the clanking stopped and the tray I was on retracted out of the "imager."
I forgot about the entire ordeal until the doctor's office called me in days later. The doc showed me a weird video and said it was my shoulder and he didn't see anything ripped or torn or shredded. I said good but that's what it still feels like. He said wait here a second.
He returned with a huge hypodermic needle and he said, "this is my new recipe," while injecting it into my back. He must have put the whole quart in, because I felt like I was smuggling a water balloon under my skin. "The sensation will subside shortly," he said, and started a stop watch.
While he watched the clock, I said, "While I have you, can you tell me something?" He said sure and I said, "All my joints crack and pop loudly. Especially my ankle joints. They sometimes sound like gunshots."
"Yes?" he said.
"Is there anything wrong with that? Is anything "bad" happening?" I said.
"No," he said, "nothing. My joints pop too."
"Well, I'm glad nothing bad is happening," I said, "but it makes it really tough to sneak up on people."
Tonight - Elixir Saloon (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, January 08, 2015
Elvis is Everywhere!!!
1.1.2015
Mojo Nixon said it best in his 1987 song of the same title.
Yes, today would have been "The King's" 80th birthday.
If he were alive I'm sure that he wouldn't have been able to shimmy his hips in the fashion that so many remembered when he burst upon the newfangled "Rock and Roll" scene. It's also doubtful that he'd be able to execute any of those Karate moves from his early-1970's incarnation. I'd bet dollars to doughnuts, if he were alive today, that he'd be able to put away Peanut Butter and Banana sandwiches grilled in thick butter, though.
Welcome to another year of Thursday Night Social Club. Glad that you're here.
Tonight - Iron & Gold (by request)
C'mon out and raise a glass to the King!!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Mojo Nixon said it best in his 1987 song of the same title.
Yes, today would have been "The King's" 80th birthday.
If he were alive I'm sure that he wouldn't have been able to shimmy his hips in the fashion that so many remembered when he burst upon the newfangled "Rock and Roll" scene. It's also doubtful that he'd be able to execute any of those Karate moves from his early-1970's incarnation. I'd bet dollars to doughnuts, if he were alive today, that he'd be able to put away Peanut Butter and Banana sandwiches grilled in thick butter, though.
Welcome to another year of Thursday Night Social Club. Glad that you're here.
Tonight - Iron & Gold (by request)
C'mon out and raise a glass to the King!!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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