Bicycle runs over dog: no winners

I ran over a dog today. I was on my bicycle. While it wasn't a pretty site it could have been worse. It seemed to happen in slow motion, an inevitable chain of events tied together by the laws of the universe with physics and gravity colliding to make a meat sandwich out of my right palm and cutting my ride short. The dog ran off whining under a culvert. But neither the dog nor myself were the first thing on my mind as I came loose from the clipless pedals and began the trajectory toward the pavement. The number one thng is the bike. Now to the bike snobs out there it might just be a Trek 1000 that's been upgraded just a bit, but to me it's a best friend and my only thought was I hope it's okay. A quick glance over my shoulder as I fell told me it might make it through this trauma. I jumped right up after I hit to inspect it and other than the chain popping off it looked to be okay. I noticed that flesh was hanging off my hand, but it was only 9 miles back to the house so I could tough that out. The chain grease mixed well with the blood and I got the chain back on and headed back for a date with some hydrogen peroxide and gauze. And damn; I was having such a great morning. Not a cloud in the sky and little Sunday traffic to deal with and then, BAM, one stray dog ruined my day...not that his day was likely improved by being run over by a bicycle. Note to self: now you know why all the bicyclists you know wear glovess, and it might be a good idea to pack a small first aid kit in your bike bag.

Obligatory Bang!

I've fearlessly engaged in bottle rocket wars. I've held lit roman candles as they sputtered and spewed. I've used gasoline to start campfires. But I won't play with firecrackers. I can't stand them because I fear them. I distrust their tiny fuses. I don't like their miniaturized explosions. And like many things in my life this fear can be traced back to my summer vacations in North Mississippi. Because my maniac cousins were into firecrackers in a major way.

I spent, from the age of 4 - 18, every 4th of July in Ripley, Mississippi visiting my grandmother and assorted aunts and uncles and cousins. If enough cousins were around it would be both fun and terrifying. It was fun to hang out with Alton Ray, Mark, Tony, and Lisa who were around my age, but you had to watch your back around the older cousins. They liked to tease and antagonize the younger kids and they took special aim at the only child from Middle Tennessee.

It was the usual stuff: they liked to call me names, dangle me over the side of a rowboat and threaten to drop me into a catfish infested pond, beat me up, and I'm sure many other things I've thankfully repressed. One method of antagonizing lives on in my memory every year coming to vivid life with the snap, crack, and pop of whole neighborhoods shooting firecrackers. My older cousins were firecracker obsessed.

They'd load up on them at a tent just outside of the First Monday flea market and spend the next few days with lighters ablaze firing them off on the gravel driveway, on the front porch, in the backyard, and even in the house if all of the adults were gone. These were rarely controlled demolitions. They always gave me the impression of chaos in action with their repeated attempts at lighting the temperamental fuses of the colorful tightly wound cheap firecrackers. They'd scramble away and then warily approach the firecracker if it didn't explode and try again.

This always left me wondering, "Why didn't they ever blow their hands off?" Because this was what was supposed to happen to kids who played with fireworks. My mother and the media were authorities on this subject. Every year you get the same reports of how firecrackers can injure you. You can get burned and mangled. You might lose a finger, a hand, or an eye and be disfigured for life. This wasn't going to happen to me since I wasn't allowed to play with any fireworks nor was I about to since I was even more scared of getting my butt burned by my switch toting mother than of the fireworks.

Obedience is a crime when you're a kid. I was nothing but a wuss to them. "He can't play with firecrackers! He's just a wussy. Hey, momma's boy, does she hold your hand in the bathroom." This; I could handle. I didn't mind my teenage cousins and their taunting too much. Back then; if you give me a Hot Wheels car, a comic book, and a Popsicle I was content. They really got my attention when they started sneaking up behind me and setting their firecrackers off. I did what any sane person would do. I'd leap up in the air scared out of my skin which would bring such laughter to my tormentors they'd end up crying which was convenient for them since they would then accuse me of setting off the firecrackers. If one was to do a film of my life now would be the time to cue up the Benny Hill chase music as my mother would come into the frame carrying a maple switch while I pleaded for the life of my bare legs while motoring around and around grandma's tiny house.

I have to hand it to them. My elder cousins were masters of this sort of psychological terror. This was bad for me, but still not the worst. The worst was when they just let their subconscious meanness come to the forefront. Then I became a firecracker target. I'd be sitting on the porch sipping an iced sweet tea watching the dump people ride by on their odd bicycles trying to make it through another hellishly hot Mississippi afternoon when I'd hear a sizzling sound slicing through the air headed straight toward me. Where there was one, there were more.

Lucky for me I had some factors on my side. My cousins aim was horrible. The firecrackers were also really cheap and a good third of them would be duds. Of the ones that weren't; most would pop before they got to me. I was also very speedy when frightened. But enough of them exploded either on me or close enough to inspire my cousins to send firecrackers launching my way every chance they got. They did it guilt free because once the first firecracker fusillade fell they always offered to give me some so we could have a proper war knowing damn well I wasn't allowed to touch them,

My cousins let me have it over this for years until I took part in their bottle rocket war when I was around 13. By then my mother must have decided I had been obedient enough and needed to cut loose. Which is what I did. I went crazy on my cousins decimating them with pinpoint bottle rocket precision; the woods behind grandma's house lit up with bursts of burning destruction. Once this happened all was forgiven. I never had to worry about the firecracker terror again. Not that I was about to get into firecrackers myself. There were too many miles of bad road there.

So have fun this 4th of July. And please; no sneaking up behind me with a firecracker.

Lack Of Action

Yep, I've been noticing a lack of action here too. And I humbly apologize, but life is hectic right now. I'll eventually get back to some semi-regular posts awash in nostalgia and current day angst, but for now: how about a band from Georgia I like:

Paris in the klink and other random things

I will cop to doing one great Paris Hilton imitation: I find something completely inane and say with a falsetto voice, "That's hot" and the room explodes with laughter. Well, I made up that last part. And while I did watch some of the first season of The Simple Life; it's not like I go out of my way for Paris Hilton info. Lately such info has been everywhere. It's in the air you breathe and that air is downright poisonous. My workplace was filled with people chortling over the heiress crying in the back of the squad car when she went back to jail. And as usual I was living out a Minor Threat song. I was "Out Of Step" with the world again because I actually felt pity for Paris. Sure she's a billionaire whose ego surely needed deflating, but c'mon...releasing someone from jail and then hauling them back a day later is uncool.

Other random things:

I never (gasp) watched The Sopranos. But the buzz from the series has penetrated my subconscious - Last night I dreamed me and the wife had to eliminate a couple of gangsters. We got into an argument about whether we should bury them or chop them up.

Our son Liam doesn't talk much at the age of 2. His sisters were chatterboxes by then. But last night at the dinner table after Emily made a rude noise Liam looked at me, grinned, and said "Daddy, Emmy pooted." So he can talk if somebody farts at the table.

So I didn't see the end of The Sopranos; I did see the finale of Ned's Declassified which was one of the most consistently entertaining kid's shows around. You gotta love a show where we're told they all lived happily ever after.

The Dangers Of Being A Critic

In my in box this morning: a comment on an ancient review I wrote for Blogcritics about a band called Ninja Gun. The main man, Jonathan Coody, of the band lobbed this grenade at me:

I don't mean to be the guy who gets a bad review and lashes out at the douchebag who served it up, but here goes...I'm sure your failed attempt at "success" in rock'n'roll could have been the catalyst for your bile, but I think it's kind of pathetic for a hack/failure like yourself who really has nothing to say to write some review to probably impress a small group of nerdy hack friends. If you came to our show looking for a bunch of illiterate punks in cowboy boots trying to pimp out some form of fashion, then I'm sure you were both confused and let down. You see, people of your ilk can only comprehend superficiality. Originality is most likely lost on you. If it wasn't, you would be contributing something to culture by creating. Unfortunately for you, those who can't do...review. Oh yeah, Nashville sucks. I would get my lame family and get out of there as soon as possible if I were you. Here's a news flash genius...country doesn't live there. Never has.

This is the kind of stuff you get to live with if you dare to voice an opinion. And honestly; I find it incredibly funny.

Dragula Music Video

It's amazing the kind of trash one can find on this ethernet thingie: here's a video for my old band Dragula's song "I Drink Your Blood, I Eat Your Skin" made as a class project by our drummer.

CNR RIP

When I was a grade school age every afternoon was spent this way: grab a Coke and a honeybun, turn on CBS and watch Match Game before heading out to play until supper. The double entendre jokes went right over my head, but still I loved that show. Rayburn was like a funnier version of my father, Fannie Flagg reminded me of a favorite aunt, Richard Dawson was cool, Brett Sommers was annoying which gave me something to hate about the show, and Charles Nelson Reilly was the absolute best part of the show. Later; the Dead Milkmen would sing his praises in "Serrated Edge" and I have to say that is one of the things running through my mind this morning after learning of Reilly's death. I'm not the only one: you can check out the tune at Soundbites and Heart On A Stick. Who's gonna play the Dirty Bubble on Spongebob now?

The Dusters To Play This Thursday

Porch Life

I don't have a front porch. I have a stoop, so we sit out on the back deck. I wish I had a porcj with a swing. When I was a kid I would sit out on the porch with my grandmother and watch people walk by, cars drive by, and kids ride by on their bicycles. There would be an iced tea by our side and we could sit for hours not saying anything just watching and waving at the parade. If I had a porch I could bring back that style, because people (even old ladies) don't wave from their front porch anymore. I've learned this from my cycling trips. I usually do at least 100 miles per week and the old ladies won't wave to me from their porches. I'll be friendly and wave, but they just stare at me. Perhaps they all have spandex phobias. I'll keep waving to them though and maybe someday I'll have a porch of my own.

Will Tennessee Be Next?

Florida and Utah are cracking down on the industry that kills millions each year. That's right, I'm talking about used CD sales. Sheesh, if something like this had been in place 13 years ago I doubt there would have been a job for me at Phonoluxe back then. The ridiculous nature of this has to be driven by the RIAA.

The Musical Education Of Lynnster

Lynnster posted a 3 parts plus one series on her musical education recently at the Lynnster Zone. Through the use of memory and Youtube goodness they make for swell reading especially if you were a child in the Seventies.

Part one.

Part two.

Part three.

Part plus one.

Hey Wally, Where's The Beav?

Interesting still frame capture of a letter used on Leave It To Beaver over at Shorpy.

Jonny Master & The Beta Klub

Root, root Riverdale! Jonny Master & The Beta Klub were high school classmates of mine that recorded boom box tapes for years during the 80's and 90's. I managed to even jam with them from time to time. Their musical format is hard to pin down. There's some Velvet Underground at their most shambolic. There's some wide eyed Jonathan Richman innocence. There's a touch of Bob Dylan when they pull out the harmonica. There's cheesy Casio riffs galore. If you're fans of Daniel Johnston type twisted pop you should love Jonny Master.

Their line-up was: Chris on guitar, harmonica, and vocals; Tim played keyboards and sang, and Greg thumped the drums and provided harmony vocals. They played a few parties around Murfreesboro, but as much as I tried to get them to they never played a club show. Their band name got them banned from the Senior Talent show at Riverdale in 1984. All that's left are the many tapes they recorded known to just a very few people (they are listed as an influence by shock rock legends Boo Boo Bunny). So why not introduce them to a few more people. Here are five classic Jonny Master tracks. If you like these I'll post more unless the band objects.


Rappin' Billy
Don't worry about the buses because the buses will wait. Jonny Master's rap song about Billy Graham.

Never Before Will It Happen Again
I don't mind to die as long as it's after I'm dead. A funny and poignant song.

Nannie Found A Baby
Based on the true story of Greg's grandmother finding a baby on her front porch.

I Got A Lightbulb
I got a concept in different thinking, I've got a lifetime but it's shrinking. Chris could write miniature masterpieces.

Cat In The Eiffel Tower
He's been there for half an hour. A really strange and transcendent tale about a cat.