Vinyl Record Day

I would be remiss if I didn't mention that today is Vinyl Record Day with blogswarm postings across the blogosphere. You can find a summary at The Hits Just Keep On Comin'. Thank you Edison. My love of vinyl began with my mother's Elvis Presley 45's and then the first record I bought was Chuck Berry's "My Ding-A-Ling" probably at the Clark's department store in Murfreesboro. I later ended up with so many records I was able to sell off half of my collection to pay for a trip to London for me and my wife in 1998.

I Probably Could Google This Stuff And Get Answers

Why do people paint tree trunks white?
Why do people raise mules today?
Why did Michael Anthony get the boot from Van Halen?
Why does anybody watch Mtv these days? And yes; I'm not a fan of The Hills.
Why listen to commercial radio in Nashville?
Why does it always seem like I'm riding my bicycle into a headwind?
Why do the junkiest trailers always have vicious dogs chained out front?
Why am I writing this and why are you reading it?

I think I'll go outside and play now....except that the head index is surface of the sun right so blogging seems like the thing to do today.

Here We Go Again

The title would perhaps be more approriate if Whitesnake were reuniting, but the big news is that those geriatric geezers plus a Wolfie, Van Halen, are planning on a reunion tour again.

5th Grade High Murks updated

It's back to school time and with my eldest daughter starting 3rd grade and my youngest beginning kindergarten my thoughts are wandering back to when I was elementary age. This led me to a murky place in my memory called 5th grade Mitchell-Neilson Elementary School. The disappointment I felt at the beginning of that school year is still fresh today. I got Ms. Murks as a teacher who was known throughout the school as the meannest 5th grade teacher there. Even her name sounded cruel. Plus, there was that Ms. in front of her name. Even by the 5th grade I knew it meant divorcee. That just showed me she couldn't get along with people. I figured it was going to be a miserable year.

 

I quickly figured out that I had been mistaken. Sure; Ms. Murks was mean if your definition was that she didn't allow us to goof off. She was problably considered mean by the classroom troublemakers with whom she always dealt with decisively and swiftly. Her crackpot theory about how potable water was running out and how we would have to recycle our urine to drink did scare me at the time, but I don't think it was mean. Her one avenue of meanness was this: she was mean in the fact that she always expected more than our best. The classroom television show is a good example.

 

Each classroom had a televsion. We'd watch a few local public television offerings, but they usually cast out blank black screens at us while we daydreamed of viewing cartoons. When spring came my class got exciting news. We were going to produce a news show filmed in a real studio that would be seen by the entire school! We got to pick how we wanted to contribute to the show with the knowledge that Ms. Murks would have final say. Many of the kids were just dying to get on camera, but all I wanted to do was help out with the graphics and art that would needed in the backgrounds.

 

I was crazy for drawing back then. My parents even sent my drawing of Tippy in to those "Can You Draw Tippy" people. They sent us a brochure, but I didn't get to attend art school. I settled for making up and illustrating comics with my friends and endless doodles of Kiss on stage. I had a blast working on the news show graphics. That squegee sound of the magic markers! The smell of   them too. Construction paper and cardboard scissor cuts. Laughter and expectation were the rule. And then Ms. Murks took me aside and got mean.

 

I had to put down my markers because I was a marked man. She wanted me on camera. And not just to be a reporter. She wanted me to be one of the anchor people for this production. This was something I didn't want to do. I wanted to be behind the scenes and not powdered with makeup and baking under studio lights. But Ms. Murks was persuasive in her compliments, argument, and her unyielding will. I was fated to become a reluctant star.

 

The day arrived for our trip to the studio. I had written my lines on the cue cards and practiced at home and in class. We weren't going to have the luxury of multiple cuts. We got in a bus and headed a few miles down the road to the old Critchlow School. A low budget television studio of sorts had been set up in the back. I recall it as a basement, but it might not have been. The thing I remember most is the red hot studio lights. While the segments were short; it was torture being under the glare of those things. We filmed our show, trooped back to the bus, and headed home to Mitchell-Neilson with everybody badgering Ms. Murks about when we'd get to see it.

 

A week or so later and we got to watch an uncut version. It was exciting to see ourselves on screen. Everybody laughed when I paused to wet my lips while reading a segment. Ms. Murks assured us they would edit that part out. That part was gone when it aired in front of the school later. Ms. Murks also made sure that all of our parents got to see it regardless of their schedule. My mother came after school one day and watched it with me and was naturally very proud of me.

 

But I didn't want her praise. The person who really deserved it was the meanest teacher in 5 ^th grade. Ms. Murks wasn't cruel; she was the coolest. When nostalgia really grips me I wish I could stumble across a videotape of that fake newscast. I wish I could hear Ms. Murks as she read us stories again. I have vivid memories of her reading a book about the first ascent of the Matterhorn. How great it would be to eavesdrop on that for just a few moments.  I never have gotten back that little hologram toy she took from me one day when I was goofing off in class, but that's a small price to pay for everything she gave me.

Update: I discovered there was listing for Ms. Murks in the phonebook so I gave her a call. I thanked her for being such a great teacher and we caught up on things. It was a delight to hear her voice again and find that she is doing quite well and is devoted to landscaping her house as a hobby. I learned the book about the Matterhorn is Banner In The Sky in which the mountain is fictionalized as the Citadel. You can bet I will be re-reading it soon. No word if there are any videotapes of the television shows floating around, but she did say they helped the city of Murfreesboro get a grant back then so I'm glad to have played a role in that. So call up your favorite teacher and thank them. You'll be glad you did.

Sting Was Screaming In My Ear; Peanuts! a short fiction

I needed to go by the square. DD came along with me. It was like old times. Timeless and aimless. We turned a corner off the square and found the store I needed to visit. Remember when this place used to sell fresh hot peanuts? Not really. It was back in the late Eighties. I didn't think you liked peanuts back then. Sure. Who doesn't love hot peanuts? People that are allergic to them. Man; I'd love some of those peanuts again. Come on. We walked back around the corner. Are you ready to go back in time? What? I'm serious. Concentrate on 1989 and follow my lead. I led DD back around the corner and my only thought was of peanuts.

We could smell it before we hit the sidewalk. The fresh peanut smell wafted up by a summer breeze. The store front had changed. Fake bricks had been replaced by peeling white painted boards. A small sign that simply said NUTS was nailed above the door. It gave off a ring as I went inside. DD remained outside. Inside it was just as I remembered.

It was grungy. The hot peanut smell dominated the place. Snacks hung on shiny steel coils by the cash register. You could see the square from a window behind the counter. Long vanished stores appeared in the shimmery afternoon heat. I strained my eyes to see a calendar on the wall in a corner. August 1989. A tiny Asian lady was behind the counter. I'd like a bag of peanuts. She said okay. And then she began to ask me about my life. Questions such as why was I wasting it? What was my future process plan? At this moment; all I want is a bag of peanuts.

The bell rang. DD walked in. I give up. I'll take some peanuts too. The lady put the bag on the counter. That will be $14. O....kay. Now I remembered why this grungy little store closed. Cheap nuts at gourmet prices. But; I hadn't journeyed to 1989 for nothing. I had a twenty in my pocket my wife had given me for some errand I had already forgotten. I pushed it across the counter top and the little woman looked at disdainfully. That money is not real. The President's head is too big. I'm not going to take that. You better come up with something real or I'll call the police. DD and I threw our American Express cards on the counter. It was no good. We hadn't had them since 1989.

We left the store and the past empty handed. We felt a little nausea as we returned to 2007. Around the corner and back and now the store front was fake brick with a guitar shaped sign above the door. I needed some picks. I browsed the guitars and found an Aria Pro Thor Sound just like the one I had played back in the punk rock band days. It even had some of the same stickers on it: Black Flag, Vision Skates, a mod target, and The Most. The clerks were obnoxious and into progressive metal. I slipped on peanut shells and knocked over a drum kit.

The end.

Tour Day France

The title is my little nod to Bob Roll. So what do I think about how this year's tour went down? The doping...no surprise. I'm actually fairly astonished they didn't catch more riders doping. I'm glad that Rabobank pulled the Chicken from the race. I know a mountain climber needs to be skinny, but that dude's skeletal physique creeped me out. I really, really hope that Contador rode clean, but his ties to the Spanish doping scandal don't cheer me much. Finally; I'm really happy for Leipheimer winning the time trial today. His mild manners often make him seem to be a rather pedestrian cyclist and his performance today showcased a killer instinque that I knew had to lurk under the surface.

Bad Back

Out of commission for a week due to a sprained back muscle. Damn you, Kelly Clarkson! But at least I was able to go for a bike ride today.

Fridays Used To Mean Partying Now It Means The Soup

It's Friday night and once upon a time that meant party time from roller skating in 7th grade to shotgunning beers to holding court at a trivia bar the impetus was for excitement and socializing. Now it's about late afternoon bicycle rides, quiet night of reading, and hoping I can stay awake during The Soup. My life is beginning to suspiciously resemble a Dave Barry column.

Before you click away figuring you've stumbled across the usual middle aged lament on faded youth and boredom; DON'T. I like my Friday's as they are now which means that 10 years from today I'll probably be spending them doing something completely different. It's the nature of living. Change is the one constant. My Friday's past are filled with occurrences that I can't ever see happening again. Some of them are truly one of a kind while others are things I've outgrown. So here's a list of old school Friday's.

1. I once sat in a law office on a bored late night with DD Blank probably after running off some Anti-Society copies trying to list every episode of The Brady Bunch. We'd just look it up on the internet now.

2. I used to drive around aimlessly drinking beer with ZZ Top cranked on the car stereo. Dazed And Confused; yeah that was youth.

3. I used to hang out in gamerooms playing pinball extremely well and shooting pool very poorly. The only gameroom I check out now is the one at Chuck E. Cheese with my kids.

4. It was lots of fun to speed through M.T.S.U.'s campus back in the day which made us so many friends with the campus cops. Is there even a thru road there now?

5. Skateboarding all night in Nashville. We'd wait until midnight to hit the hills beside the state capitol building. I might ride down the driveway and pop an ollie every now and then, but skateboarding all night is definitely out these days.

6. One night it was me, DD, and the Wolf as we cruised the 'Boro listening to some Public Enemy when DD yelled at some punk in a VW bug to move his ass. He proceeded to chase us all over town until he finally caught up to his, jumped out of his VW, and then threw a punch at DD as we pulled away. The guy might have been in for a beatdown, but his punch was so girly we were too busy laughing to even think about retaliation.

7. Sometimes back in the Mazzio's Pizza days I'd get off work at 1am, head over to Bob & Ronnie's apartment, shotgun several beers, and then watch The Song Remains The Same until the wee hours of the morning. Once a bunch of the ladies who worked there came over too. And guess what...we did the same thing as usual while they sat on the couch bored.

8. In my much younger days I'd get my mother to take me to the Riverdale football games where I'd spend the entire time smoking cigarettes while wandering around trying to meet girls. Football game? What football game?

9. One truly singular event I'm glad to say has never happened again nor will it: attending the 1988 New Year's Eve party thrown by the infamous Milnars. I still don't have a clue how I got home. There was driving involved.

10. Though this probably happened on Saturday and perhaps it's only apocryphal - it's the party mentality personification. It began in the afternoon with lots of wine and miniature golf. Next up was throwing super ball off the roof of the Hilton's parking garage. Then it was on to the inside of the Hilton riding up and down the glass elevators. Next we climbed up to the roof of the revolving restaurant. This would be enough to satisfy most, but from there we went to Centennial Part and drove around there after hours. Then it was back to Murfreesboro where we climbed the fire tower out on Tiger Hill, watched the sunrise, and then got breakfast at Krystals.

I just can't see that sort of stuff happening again. I've been there and done that. And I don't want to do it again. Time to pick up where I left off in the novel I'm reading and wait for The Soup to come on.

Challenge To The World Series Of Pop Culture

I've been watching VH1's World Series Of Pop Culture with great interest for a couple of reasons. One; because I'm a pop culture trivia nut. Two; because I signed up to take VH1's online quiz to become part of their internet assembled squad dubbed Almost Perfect Strangers 2.0 and when it came time to take the test I was continually barred access by VH1 due to a code typing error. So I'm a little pissed about that deal. Because I know I could throwdown with the teams I've seen this season. So here's my challenge: I'll take on any of the teams on the show by myself anytime and anywhere. As for who I hope wins it: I like the youngsters on Twisted Misters to take the top prize.

Update: The Twisted Misters won it all tonight. Damn, I'm happy when I'm right. Come to think of it; I'm happy quite often.

Harry Potter Marked For Death

No, I'm not talking about the possibility that the little cretin will get offed in the latest book and it appears somebody leaked the whole thing. The title of this post is a reference to an article that Lester Bangs once wrote about James Taylor. Now that I've cleared up that internal joke let's get on to the meat and potato food fight of this post. I don't like Harry Potter and I'm gratified to find that I'm not the only one. I tried. I checked out the first book from the library after my pal DD raved about this new children's book featuring a young wizard named Harry. Hogwarts sounded like a junior high version of Terry Pratchett's Unseen University setting so I figured I was in for something special.

As usual I was out of step with the world - thank you Minor Threat. I found the book to be derivative, poorly written, and ultimately just downright boring. I couldn't imagine why kids or adults were so smitten with it when there were so many kids lit classics out there. Treasure Island anyone? How about The Hobbit. Taste is entirely subjective so I decided to just avoid the subject of Potter though I did write about the brat once before. But now I've found an ally in my Potter playa hating I can be out in the open about my dislike for the magician.

This might fall on deaf ears, but for you adults out there; unless you have children please put the Potter books down. Try some Terry Pratchett or Robert Rankin instead. Their books are well written, hysterically funny, and the magic in them will last much longer than some pop culture aberration.

A Dando Summer Day

It's true. There was a brief second in the Nineties when I thought the Lemonheads were one of the best bands on the planet; even if they were hardly a band but just a mere a protective shell of a brand name for Evan Dando's wistful alt pop ditties. Here was a guy that could make something as mundane as replacing an old stove seem profound. When they delivered a lackluster and spitefull set at the Exit/In I moved on to other things, but there is still a soft spot in my heart for Dando and his stoner chic alt hippie persona. So I dug this first in an announced 2 part series of posts at Jefitoblog. I'm looking forward to part 2 and the moment Rick James enters the story.

Locals Only - Murfreesboro Punk Redux

Yesteryear time: From the original Soulfish Stew fanzine that never saw the light beyond my own bedroom back in the day. The timeframe is roughly 1987 and it's a review I wrote about the M'boro punk band Inner Circle. Stick around for the humility.

Now for more serious stuff like me reviewing a local M Town band; the Inner Circle. Some young suburban punks had been buzzing in my years about how great these dudes be being so I put my rasta boots in my locker and threw on the old combat booties and prepared for a thrashing evening. Oh; what disappointment lurked around the corner in Jabbs. I got mugged by a pillow. The high school aged dudes on stage were much too content regaling us with original garbage-ola that none us had ever heard nor would have wanted to have heard.

It was not even punk. It lacked propulsion. It omitted the angries. The monotone voiced lead singer screamed in a deathly emotionless way during tunes that seemed to dirge on endlessly with guitar and drum solos added in for bad measure. This from a supposed punk band? C'mon guys; just because your rich parents bought you jerks instruments doesn't mean you have to form a band. You'd be much cooler and impress me if you bought me my personal keg of beer. Imported, please.

The high point of the show was their cover of "Anarchy In The U.K." even though I know I could have done a better job of screaming it. I also wouldn't have jumped around like a banana averse dumb monkey and I wouldn't have written four letter words on my jacket to be so not shocking. Enough of this; back to the usual wail.

I hated this band so much that I jumped at the chance to try out to be their new lead singer and then I didn't get the gig. So there's the humble pie part. But I didn't feel too bad when I found out later that the reason I lost the chance to be their new frontman was because I was too punk rock.

Spruced Up

It's an all new and improved Soulfish Stew with more changes to come. I'm going to redo the links column eliminating some and adding some new ones. And oh yeah...I might start posting some regular irregular junk again.