The Good, the Bad, and the Inexcusable

I attended the Forecastle Festival in the great city of Louisville this past weekend and had quite a time.
I went for Dr. Dog. Or as Velocity Weekly calls them, "America's Gomez," which I don't think is a stab at all. I dig Gomez, as well.
I was able to be front row for the show that started late, due to sound problems. The sound check was very short, much better than Groovatron, but that's later in the blog.
Dr. Dog came to please.
Their infectious tunes and soulful singing woo you in close enough to blast you off with a steady stream of rocking out. My friend, Eric, said they reminded him of the Who when they "went off."
That's good. That's great.
I was pissed about the sound problems, though. But, like the true rockers they are, the band persevered. Periodically throughout the set, the guitarists, stage left, would go over and ax kick their shitty amps that were shorting out without missing a beat. It was so rock and roll.
I can't wait to see these guys again.
And now to Groovatron.
What the eff?
Okay, there's this movie Electric Apricot, by Les Claypool. It's a mocumentary about jam bands. There's a scene when they are in the studio and the drummer, played by Les, takes hours to tune his drum set. There might also be in a scene in This is Spinal Tap like when they sound check for like hours.
Any who, Groovatron spends twice as long to sound check, as they did to perform. They all sing, I think. They shouldn't. Their music sounds like Frank Zappa throwing up on Miles Davis. And that's putting it nicely. Their vocals could use a complete overhaul, and by that I mean stop singing all together. I saw this band on a campground at a Phish show, once. That's where they belong, campsites. Free campsites.
Their "fans" were the type of college kids with semi long hair, maybe even dreds, still wearing hemp, and probably tripping acid thinking they are counter culture. Kids are idiots these days. I guess they need a band like Idiotron to lead them.

Growing and Showing with Cinema

I am not ignoring the fact that by now every blogger in the world has written about The Dark Knight and Heath Ledger's performance and everything else that goes along with it. 

I know mentioning the movie might already be overkill. That in mind; I'm still going for it.

Every-so-often a movie comes along that contains the zeitgeist in which it is released. Dark Knight not only set box office records, featured a posthumous performance, and contained more special effects for IMAX theaters; it set the pace for US. It serves as a marker in time of where WE are. Amid upcoming elections, Olympics, war, and the shit hole economy, everyone was able to stop for a moment and  say, "Yeah, there we are." 

That idea has been echoing in my mind since Sunday when I saw the movie. 

I guess it's the same type of feeling when Jaws came out for the first time and had everyone afraid and buzzing. Or when The Wizard of Oz was finally converted to film. There was a new take on life and on the way films were made. We realized we had advanced. 

I guess what I'm comparing it to is when you are growing up and you mark your height on a wall in your house that you have been doing for years. You can see the lines and the date and actually track your growth. 

It's been some time since WE have stopped to measure ourselves, but I'm glad we did. Maybe next time we can use another significant event to mark it in the future. Until then I'm okay with the movie metaphors. 

Great films, great men, great yearning.

Why?
Why was I not born early enough so that I could have grown up in the seventies? I'm not going to say that I would rather live then, but I certainly would have loved it.
Okay, maybe that's a little vague. I mean, what's my reasoning, right?

Two names:
Frank Serpico and Popeye Doyle.

Damn, even those names are bad ass. If I had kids, I would definitely consider both full names.
Frank Serpico Aud and Popeye Doyle Aud. Maybe I'm getting off track.

I love the wardrobes of these movies. French Connection features European attire. Many of the characters are donned in Italian and French cut suits, jackets, and shoes. I love the fit. Their clothes actually correspond with their body type. It's so efficient. Oh, and the popped collars and overcoats just scream espionage.
Serpico features the same type of fitting attire. Although, Serpico has more flair than Doyle. Serpico is a chameleon. His array of hats alone impress me. I love the scenes when he comes in looking like a common hippy and the next day he's a rabbi. Genius! Serpico's transition from a clean cut rookie, to a mustached patrolman, to a long-haired bearded bad ass detective is amazing.

The color schemes are also what get me. I am now looking for that type of brown that's like an orange, but meaner. If I can find it in a jacket I will wear it now. I don't care if it's 94 degrees Fahrenheit! I'm wearing it and I'm packing a heater under it, too. That's right, a piece.

And doesn't anyone wear hats anymore? Everybody wore hats back then. It was so super spy cool! I' m bringing the hats back. I'm going out for the Fedora, the Bowler, and the Popeye Doyle. Yes, a cooler time when you could go into the brothers' bar and hear some nasty funk on the jukebox and cars were tanks. Yeah, want to be a seventies detective, but a name change would definitely be in order, maybe Sweeny Aud.

Back on the Bike

Yesterday was monumental.
Alright, so it wasn't actually monumental, but it was big.
I was able to get back on my bike and ride, baby. I rode like the wind.
After being grounded for just over a week after my toe-splitting wreck I was more than enthused about getting back on my hog. I'm talking about a bicycle, but so what? I can call it my hog. I never realized how happy simple exercises like riding a bike make me.
I spent a week limping around, constantly worrying about my toe getting hit by a swinging door, or some oaf clodhoppering all over it. It was nice to walk normal today and get on the instrument of toe death that maimed me. I showed you bike!
This is going to sound completely asinine of me , but what the heck. I felt like people were staring at me while I was limping with a bandage on my foot. I certainly could not handle a wheelchair, a walker, or any type of physical abnormality. I am shallow. I am vein. I am happy to look and feel the way I do.
I still can't run or play tennis, but when I do I'm going to kick my brother's ass.
Yes, I am back on the horse, back on the bike, and back on track.
p.s.
Yes, the picture truly embodies how I feel about it.

Double Green

I worked last night at my second job. I moonlight as a tex-mex server...lucky me. Last night was my first night back on my feet after my toe-splitting bike wreck. It felt good to wear shoes and move faster than a goofy flip flop waddle.
The night was pretty slow until about 8 P.M. when we got a pop. Big tops and other tops poured in the restaurant. I ended up making more than double of what I normally make on a Thursday night. After I cashed out I counted my loot and shrilled. I couldn't help but tell my coworkers the joyous news.
After I had proclaimed my superiority in tips and sales I felt something grip me tightly. Greed. I know I've said it before, but there is something about holding a wad of cash that makes my heart race and a cold sweat break out. I stared at the green, counted it again, and wanted to go stash it in a drawer and guard it. I wanted more. I didn't want to wait until tomorrow. The more I get, the more I want...always.
I'm like those old Goofy cartoons about driving when Goofy, or a creature like goofy, got behind the wheel and would be overcome with road rage. His expression, posture, and attitude changed. The Goofy character actually took on a demonic appearance. I know that the old videos were a cautionary, "how not to drive" lesson, and they were great.
I need to make a video about being in the grip of a money-loving, greed binge episode.
I can only imagine how a big time drug dealer feels with thousands of dollars in front of him/her or a slutty exotic dancer at the end of the night rolling in dough. I envy them, I envy their greed. I'm green with envy over their green.
I think I might have a problem.
p.s. The picture is from a line of books I absolutely loved when I was younger. I had several.

On the Mend and Loving it.

I took a shower today with two grocery bags tied tightly around my left ankle. Which, by the way, makes like a vegetable oil-slicked sled on the bathtub bottom. I nearly slipped and split something else open.
Oh, yes. Why am I showering with a grocery bag on my foot? Because I split my toe open in a bike wreck and I refuse to take anymore baths with my left foot hung over the edge like a floppy dead seal! A coworker suggested the grocery bag technique. It worked quite well. Just a tiny puddle of water seeped into the tied bag. My foot was safe from infection, losing the bandages, and amputation.
As I dried and carried on with my morning routine, I felt increasingly distraught. But why? I showered standing up. I should feel whole again. No.
This limping around, not popping my toes, effing flip flops thing has finally fried me. I want you mended toe now!
On top of the waddling and the scooting sandal crap the newspaper is finally deterring me from opening it. If I read one more bit about the economy in the crapper, my town's declining resources, or our administration b effing us I'm going to take the showering grocery bag and wrap it tightly around my head until I hear nothing but the calm of my heart slowly stopping.
And to think...today started like any other normal day.

Just a Bike Wreck

I know that it is cliche to refer to your life as a train wreck. So, I will not.

I will instead refer to my life as a bicycle wreck, which coincidentally, I just happened to have on Saturday night.

I'm riding with flip flops on like an idiot, and lose my footing. My left foot shoots like a meat rocket onto the sidewalk. I think my big toe bone acts as a wedge, if you will, and splits the end of my toe open upon impact.

So, I am sitting on my bike looking down at a throbbing, split open toe that's gushing blood. I am a block from my house. I have no choice but to pedal back and leave a blood trail home. Best part; I don't have health insurance. I sit in my living room with said busted toe, contemplating how much a trip to the ER would cost me "out of pocket," or as they say in the health care biz, "self-pay."

I call home to the parents.

I explain the booboo. My Dad asks several questions to evaluate the severity of the wound. Questions like, "How big is the gash? Are you spurting or dripping blood?" Needing medical attention is definitely in order. After my Dad curses me a few times for not having health insurance, we decide Convenient Care is a wiser financial risk.

I go, pay 120 bones, and get out with sticker-like tape holding me together. Now I must limp, keep it dry, and not wear shoes for about four days.

God, there's just something about opening the gash up right after I did it, and looking at my flesh resembling hamburger meat. I felt so inhuman.

So maybe me being a whiny, pansy, baby today is a way of taking back my humanity from the stinking bike wreck of my life.

I haven't ruled out karma or plain dumb luck, yet.