The place was Lynn Street, Murfreesboro circa 1974. I would go to the edge of my gravel driveway. Ricky, from across the street, would go to the edge of his driveway. We would then have rock fights that sometimes lasted for a half hour or more. We weren't mad at each other. We just liked hitting each other with big chunks of limestone. Somehow our parents were oblivious to these gravel grudge matches.
Dirt clod fights were also a staple of my youth. It seemed like there was always a convenient construction site nearby with lots of choice dirt clods to chuck. The trick was to spit pack the dirt around a huge rock for a potentially lethal dirt clod rock combo. It was brutal and bordered on ritualistic, but we all loved it. If there was a big mound of dirt there you could also become the "king of the mountain" if you could endure the commanding dirt clod pummelling you would get trying to gain the summit.
Which makes me wonder? There are wiffle ball, kick ball, and dodge ball leagues for adults these days. Why isn’t there any adult dirt clod fighting leagues. What’s the matter with us grown-ups? Are we all too soft for such a sport? I’m sure there are plenty of us that could use a good dirt clod to the face, but it I guess it just wouldn’t make us feel as nostalgic and happy as the other things mentioned. Plus my neighbor across the street always runs away when I go to the edge of my driveway and start throwing rocks at him.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Prefer The Powder, But This Will Do
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Post #666 Artists I Just Don't Get
This is the 666th post here at the Stew so why not make it a hate-filled one.
Marah - I really tried to love their Springsteen imitation 1st album, but after force feeding it to myself for several years it's just gruel
Flaming Lips - proof to me that longevity will eventually get you a hit (the Butthole Surfers principle), but their Okie lysergic emanations are as dull as a dust storm
Coldplay - leaves me asking why the world needs two Radiohead's?
Aaron Neville - sure the dude could lay me out with one head butt from his enormous skull, but his girlie falsetto is just plain weird - Yma Sumac territory.
Black Crowes - always struck me as a sub-par bar band imitating Humble Pie.
Love / Arthur Lee - Arthur's Lee's recent death inspired loads of tributes and glowing praise for his work. I liked Love's take on Bacharach, but beyond that it leaves me cold.
Janis Joplin - I never liked her because of her infernal screeching, the obsession with whiskey, and becoming an icon when she died young of stupidity.
Nine Inch Nails - Trent Reznor was seen as some sort of goth/industrial God by the 90's Mtv set while I saw just another opportunistic heroin addict.
Yo La Tengo - Another band I really tried to love, but I just can't appease the cognoscenti that adores them. To me they are so deathly dull and completely smothered under the weight of Kaplan's own rock critic cred.
Pearl Jam - I'll give Vedder props for publicizing artists that are much better than him and his cronies in Pearl Jam, but musically they've got to be tops on this list. They are the worst.
special: just about every band on Dischord Records save Minor Threat and Fugazi
emo although it is better than screamo
the San Francisco sound of the late 60's
Marah - I really tried to love their Springsteen imitation 1st album, but after force feeding it to myself for several years it's just gruel
Flaming Lips - proof to me that longevity will eventually get you a hit (the Butthole Surfers principle), but their Okie lysergic emanations are as dull as a dust storm
Coldplay - leaves me asking why the world needs two Radiohead's?
Aaron Neville - sure the dude could lay me out with one head butt from his enormous skull, but his girlie falsetto is just plain weird - Yma Sumac territory.
Black Crowes - always struck me as a sub-par bar band imitating Humble Pie.
Love / Arthur Lee - Arthur's Lee's recent death inspired loads of tributes and glowing praise for his work. I liked Love's take on Bacharach, but beyond that it leaves me cold.
Janis Joplin - I never liked her because of her infernal screeching, the obsession with whiskey, and becoming an icon when she died young of stupidity.
Nine Inch Nails - Trent Reznor was seen as some sort of goth/industrial God by the 90's Mtv set while I saw just another opportunistic heroin addict.
Yo La Tengo - Another band I really tried to love, but I just can't appease the cognoscenti that adores them. To me they are so deathly dull and completely smothered under the weight of Kaplan's own rock critic cred.
Pearl Jam - I'll give Vedder props for publicizing artists that are much better than him and his cronies in Pearl Jam, but musically they've got to be tops on this list. They are the worst.
special: just about every band on Dischord Records save Minor Threat and Fugazi
emo although it is better than screamo
the San Francisco sound of the late 60's
Monday, October 09, 2006
Bloggers And The Decline Of Western Civilization
Niall Ferguson's recent Vanity Fair commentary "Empire Falls" takes as its main thesis the parallels between the Western world of today and of the later Roman Empire. So there are several quotes from Edward Gibbon's The Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire used, but this bit stood out:
The minds of men were gradually reduced to the same level, the fire of genius was extinguished.… The name of Poet was almost forgotten; that of Orator was usurped by the sophists. A cloud of critics, of compilers, of commentators, darkened the face of learning, and the decline of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste.… This diminutive stature of mankind … was daily sinking below the old standard. —Gibbon, Chapter II.
"A cloud of critcs, of compilers, of commentators" sounds like the Roman Empire was perhaps eat up with bloggers.
The minds of men were gradually reduced to the same level, the fire of genius was extinguished.… The name of Poet was almost forgotten; that of Orator was usurped by the sophists. A cloud of critics, of compilers, of commentators, darkened the face of learning, and the decline of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste.… This diminutive stature of mankind … was daily sinking below the old standard. —Gibbon, Chapter II.
"A cloud of critcs, of compilers, of commentators" sounds like the Roman Empire was perhaps eat up with bloggers.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Wally's World Of Work Part 5
Another installment where Wally takes us through his wonderful college era part-time jobs. When last we met I had just been laid off by Cummings Signs.
After getting laid off by Cummings I didn’t work for some time. I concentrated on college and my punk band The Dislocated. I gave up my Toyota truck; at least some kind people came by in the middle of the night and got it. When the unemployment checks stopped coming I took a job delivering phone books. I got to drive out to the boondocks and brave homicidal dogs and crazy rednecks that preferred to not get their phonebook. I passed out what I could over 2 days time, collected my money, and returned to the ranks of the unemployed.
Here’s where my memory grows sketchy. Did I work at the skateboard shop before going back to McDonalds or was the skateboard shop a job I took in between 3rd and 4th go around at the golden arches. Either way the skateboard shop was a dream job. Business was slow, but I got to work a job that revolved around my favorite hobby of the time. Young skate rats would get out of junior high school and come hang around until I closed up at 6 pm and then my crew of Gonz, Black Belt, and myself would thrash the streets of Murfreesboro until midnight. I only saw the owners on payday. The rest of the time I was completely unsupervised.
Which was not the case at McDonalds. At this point you’re going to want to ask me why in the world I would go back to Mickey D’s. Glad you asked; here’s why. The skateboard shop had closed due to lack of business so I was unemployed again when my punk rock buddy D.D. Blank asked me to go to New York City with him. All I needed was food money. So I needed a job and I needed one fast. The late, great Smooth Gray was now an assistant manager at the McDonalds where I had gotten my first job.
So it was a cinch getting on there again. Smooth was raking in the dough since he’d been smart enough not to accept their offer of going salary. He was putting in lots of overtime while attending college, but the dude was a joy to work under. There was also a cute restaurant manager named Stephanie and another of the assistants was a girl I’d gone to high school with named Rhonda E. So I wasn’t too bummed out about being a fry clerk again. I knew it was just temporary until the big trip.
This McDonalds was a zoo. The employees didn’t seem quite as serious as those back in 1985. There were lots of harsh words between workers including one night when this really big girl stuffed a smaller guy into a trash can. There was also lots of dating among the workers. So I got stupid and started dating a little punk rock princess named Iva. It was such a scene that even Black Belt enjoyed a spillover effect as he started going on dates with some of lovely co-workers. It was during this go-around that the naked guy came through the drive-thru one night.
It was very late and only one drive-thru window was open. An older lady was running it. I was in the back doing some pearl diving when she came running to the manager’s desk. “A naked guy just came through the drive-thru,” she exclaimed. The story: he drove up and requested a coffee while pointing toward his seat. He opened his coat to reveal nothing on underneath. He then asked my co-worker if she saw anything she liked. She just snickered and told him that she’d seen better. The dude gets embarrassed at that, turns red and drives off. I was just glad I wasn’t working the window that night.
Most of the time that’s what I did. Once they figured out I was unfailingly accurate at the cash register I rarely had to flip a burger. I would get to sit at the first window, collect money, and fold Happy Meal boxes. It wasn’t too bad except for the occasional jerk customer or too. I was accused of shortchanging a dude once after he tried to pull the “I gave you a twenty instead of a ten grift.” The owner’s wife who liked to pretend she was a manager was there that night and to her credit she pulled my register, counted it, and found that he was lying. He was irate, but not so much as the dude who’s Camaro got hit one night.
This proud mullet wearing dude was in a white Camaro with his wife and kid and was waiting for the line to move. A car came around to the speaker and tried to order something, but I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. After a couple of attempts he puts his car in drive and pushes the petal to the floor slamming his car into the barrier pole in front of my window, bouncing him into the Camaro. This was shocking enough to me, but when the guy and his passenger get out and push their now smashed automobile away from the Camaro, jump back in, and then haul ass out of the parking lot we’re all in disbelief. The Camaro driver is steaming and I get a great story to tell now when I drive through a McDonalds.
I went on my NYC trip, but since I was seeing Iva I kept working at McDonalds. As the summer wore on things went wrong with me and the pet rat loving waif and our relationship hit the skids. Just as that soured so did my working relationship with the restaurant manager. Things were still cool with Smooth, but he cut back his hours so I didn’t see him much. I finally quit over ketchup. Ketchup packs to be exact.
Customers in the drive-thru always asked for more which would slow the line down. When I was running orders, instead of taking them, I decided to expedite matters by throwing as many ketchup packs as I could into the customers’ bags. After being admonished for such a high level of customer service by Stephanie I decided to call it a day. This time I swore I’d never go back and I’ve kept my word.
Next on the list of crappy jobs are a couple more restaurant gigs. First up is Demo’s in Murfreesboro where I was hired on as part of the original start-up crew. I didn’t want to wait on tables and I didn’t know how to cook much so I went for the busboy position. I made it through one day of training and never went back. They were nice enough to mail me my check. One food I could cook was pizza so I landed a position at one of the many Middle Tennessee Sir Pizza restaurants. I toiled there for a few miserable weeks under the thumb of a couple of older women that liked to smoke cigarettes while they made the food. Food service as a part-time job was beginning to seriously gross me out. Retail was calling my name.
The next installment will be all about that corporate behemoth Wal-Mart since for two short years I was a Wal-Martian.
After getting laid off by Cummings I didn’t work for some time. I concentrated on college and my punk band The Dislocated. I gave up my Toyota truck; at least some kind people came by in the middle of the night and got it. When the unemployment checks stopped coming I took a job delivering phone books. I got to drive out to the boondocks and brave homicidal dogs and crazy rednecks that preferred to not get their phonebook. I passed out what I could over 2 days time, collected my money, and returned to the ranks of the unemployed.
Here’s where my memory grows sketchy. Did I work at the skateboard shop before going back to McDonalds or was the skateboard shop a job I took in between 3rd and 4th go around at the golden arches. Either way the skateboard shop was a dream job. Business was slow, but I got to work a job that revolved around my favorite hobby of the time. Young skate rats would get out of junior high school and come hang around until I closed up at 6 pm and then my crew of Gonz, Black Belt, and myself would thrash the streets of Murfreesboro until midnight. I only saw the owners on payday. The rest of the time I was completely unsupervised.
Which was not the case at McDonalds. At this point you’re going to want to ask me why in the world I would go back to Mickey D’s. Glad you asked; here’s why. The skateboard shop had closed due to lack of business so I was unemployed again when my punk rock buddy D.D. Blank asked me to go to New York City with him. All I needed was food money. So I needed a job and I needed one fast. The late, great Smooth Gray was now an assistant manager at the McDonalds where I had gotten my first job.
So it was a cinch getting on there again. Smooth was raking in the dough since he’d been smart enough not to accept their offer of going salary. He was putting in lots of overtime while attending college, but the dude was a joy to work under. There was also a cute restaurant manager named Stephanie and another of the assistants was a girl I’d gone to high school with named Rhonda E. So I wasn’t too bummed out about being a fry clerk again. I knew it was just temporary until the big trip.
This McDonalds was a zoo. The employees didn’t seem quite as serious as those back in 1985. There were lots of harsh words between workers including one night when this really big girl stuffed a smaller guy into a trash can. There was also lots of dating among the workers. So I got stupid and started dating a little punk rock princess named Iva. It was such a scene that even Black Belt enjoyed a spillover effect as he started going on dates with some of lovely co-workers. It was during this go-around that the naked guy came through the drive-thru one night.
It was very late and only one drive-thru window was open. An older lady was running it. I was in the back doing some pearl diving when she came running to the manager’s desk. “A naked guy just came through the drive-thru,” she exclaimed. The story: he drove up and requested a coffee while pointing toward his seat. He opened his coat to reveal nothing on underneath. He then asked my co-worker if she saw anything she liked. She just snickered and told him that she’d seen better. The dude gets embarrassed at that, turns red and drives off. I was just glad I wasn’t working the window that night.
Most of the time that’s what I did. Once they figured out I was unfailingly accurate at the cash register I rarely had to flip a burger. I would get to sit at the first window, collect money, and fold Happy Meal boxes. It wasn’t too bad except for the occasional jerk customer or too. I was accused of shortchanging a dude once after he tried to pull the “I gave you a twenty instead of a ten grift.” The owner’s wife who liked to pretend she was a manager was there that night and to her credit she pulled my register, counted it, and found that he was lying. He was irate, but not so much as the dude who’s Camaro got hit one night.
This proud mullet wearing dude was in a white Camaro with his wife and kid and was waiting for the line to move. A car came around to the speaker and tried to order something, but I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. After a couple of attempts he puts his car in drive and pushes the petal to the floor slamming his car into the barrier pole in front of my window, bouncing him into the Camaro. This was shocking enough to me, but when the guy and his passenger get out and push their now smashed automobile away from the Camaro, jump back in, and then haul ass out of the parking lot we’re all in disbelief. The Camaro driver is steaming and I get a great story to tell now when I drive through a McDonalds.
I went on my NYC trip, but since I was seeing Iva I kept working at McDonalds. As the summer wore on things went wrong with me and the pet rat loving waif and our relationship hit the skids. Just as that soured so did my working relationship with the restaurant manager. Things were still cool with Smooth, but he cut back his hours so I didn’t see him much. I finally quit over ketchup. Ketchup packs to be exact.
Customers in the drive-thru always asked for more which would slow the line down. When I was running orders, instead of taking them, I decided to expedite matters by throwing as many ketchup packs as I could into the customers’ bags. After being admonished for such a high level of customer service by Stephanie I decided to call it a day. This time I swore I’d never go back and I’ve kept my word.
Next on the list of crappy jobs are a couple more restaurant gigs. First up is Demo’s in Murfreesboro where I was hired on as part of the original start-up crew. I didn’t want to wait on tables and I didn’t know how to cook much so I went for the busboy position. I made it through one day of training and never went back. They were nice enough to mail me my check. One food I could cook was pizza so I landed a position at one of the many Middle Tennessee Sir Pizza restaurants. I toiled there for a few miserable weeks under the thumb of a couple of older women that liked to smoke cigarettes while they made the food. Food service as a part-time job was beginning to seriously gross me out. Retail was calling my name.
The next installment will be all about that corporate behemoth Wal-Mart since for two short years I was a Wal-Martian.
Drag Racing Bass Playing
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Soulfish Stew Is Trippin'
High school. Damn, it's been 21 years since I roamed the halls of Riverdale. 21 years since I ate two orders of french fries and two chocolate milks for lunch every day of the school week. 21 years plus since I overflowed toilets, kicked bricks out of the walls, and set the fire extinguisher box on fire - this all happened during the difficult sophomore slump year. 21 years since lots of stupid crud mattered. For starters why was everybody obsessed with the slang term tripping?
The reason I'm bringing this up is because I started taking the time to actually look at my old Riverdale annuals this past week. I originally wrote about getting my yearbooks back in the month of May and I doubt very many people saw the post since Soulfish Stew was in the middle of an extended vacation/hiatus then. I promised back then that I would have more on the subject and I'm not one to break a promise to my loyal readers. If you want to read the original Yearbook Staff missive feel free, but for now the first little bit will get me to where I want to go.
My mother, who just turned 70, is getting married again. That's weird and cool at the same time, but even weirder was getting my old yearbooks from her house over the weekend. She's moving so the less she has to take the better. I hadn't looked at the yearbooks in years and I've only given them a cursory glance so far, but their nostalgic voodoo is strong. Feathered back hair, concert shirts, braces, freaks, geeks, jocks, preppies, old teachers, and the living and the dead peer back in black and white along with a few pages of faded Kodak color scenes whose meanings have changed, faded, or intensified. The banalities left by most of the "signers" of my yearbooks will make great fodder for a future post, but for now its only randomness that percolates through the years's filters.
Trippin'. That's what almost everybody wrote in my 1984 junior Lance And Shield. I was a trip. We had some tripping times. Keep tripping this summer. What a trip it's been. It was a term that had vanished from my mind which led me first to wonder how that could have happened. Perhaps the hippie stank of such slang couldn't co-exist with the punk rock credos slamdancing through my head. Whatever the case I had forgotten and now it appears that I'll have some explaining if my children ever start reading the entries left by all of my classmates - who were most of those people anyway. The signings make it appear like we were all drug crazed partiers obsessed with goofing off and having fun at all times. Where are all the entries about how we studied hard and hey; hope you enjoy your summer readings.
The truth is that we were all about having fun and goofing off as much as the teachers let us get away with in those days. And this was a trip. When something broke the spell of boredom we would have ourselves a tripping time. And speaking for myself; all without the use of extra stimulates. I was also, to believe the entrants, always doing wild and crazy things, always bringing in rock and roll magazines, into rocking my life away, a sharer of Willy Wonka candies, a Van Halen fanatic with multiple references to seeing me at their next concert, and just a generally cool dude.
A few entries stand out. The Gonz took up a whole page talking about all of the great times we'd had in the year and how much better it would have been if L.G. hadn't been around. L.G. was the demon spawn girlfriend of the dude with the wicked mullet and the Trans Am, Jeff, who would take us to see Ted Nugent. Not that I would ever forget about going to see the Nuge, but Jeff's entry in my annual is all about going to the concert later that night of April 20, 1984. It was going to be tripping to see Ted so all I needed to do was relax while Jeff drove us all to rocking land. That's a memorable signing with its at the time contemporary event juxtaposing sharply with all of the "wow we had some tripping fun" entries.
The sweetest entry and the one that got me choked up in the usual sentimental Wally way was by a girl I barely knew. She was a senior in '84 and I can't recall how in the heck I even knew her. She wrote that it was almost over for her and that I had another year to go. And that it would go fast. The word trip was not involved in her post. I probably scoffed at the notion then of time going by quickly, but now that it's been 21 plus years since she wrote those words I understand what she meant and I marvel at how her grown up view contrasts with all of the childishness vividly on display. What a trip.
trippin'
1. v./adv. (derived from "tripping") To act like someone who is hallucinating or on an acid trip. To do something that others find strange. "Girl, why you trippin' . . . he ain't all that!"
The reason I'm bringing this up is because I started taking the time to actually look at my old Riverdale annuals this past week. I originally wrote about getting my yearbooks back in the month of May and I doubt very many people saw the post since Soulfish Stew was in the middle of an extended vacation/hiatus then. I promised back then that I would have more on the subject and I'm not one to break a promise to my loyal readers. If you want to read the original Yearbook Staff missive feel free, but for now the first little bit will get me to where I want to go.
My mother, who just turned 70, is getting married again. That's weird and cool at the same time, but even weirder was getting my old yearbooks from her house over the weekend. She's moving so the less she has to take the better. I hadn't looked at the yearbooks in years and I've only given them a cursory glance so far, but their nostalgic voodoo is strong. Feathered back hair, concert shirts, braces, freaks, geeks, jocks, preppies, old teachers, and the living and the dead peer back in black and white along with a few pages of faded Kodak color scenes whose meanings have changed, faded, or intensified. The banalities left by most of the "signers" of my yearbooks will make great fodder for a future post, but for now its only randomness that percolates through the years's filters.
Trippin'. That's what almost everybody wrote in my 1984 junior Lance And Shield. I was a trip. We had some tripping times. Keep tripping this summer. What a trip it's been. It was a term that had vanished from my mind which led me first to wonder how that could have happened. Perhaps the hippie stank of such slang couldn't co-exist with the punk rock credos slamdancing through my head. Whatever the case I had forgotten and now it appears that I'll have some explaining if my children ever start reading the entries left by all of my classmates - who were most of those people anyway. The signings make it appear like we were all drug crazed partiers obsessed with goofing off and having fun at all times. Where are all the entries about how we studied hard and hey; hope you enjoy your summer readings.
The truth is that we were all about having fun and goofing off as much as the teachers let us get away with in those days. And this was a trip. When something broke the spell of boredom we would have ourselves a tripping time. And speaking for myself; all without the use of extra stimulates. I was also, to believe the entrants, always doing wild and crazy things, always bringing in rock and roll magazines, into rocking my life away, a sharer of Willy Wonka candies, a Van Halen fanatic with multiple references to seeing me at their next concert, and just a generally cool dude.
A few entries stand out. The Gonz took up a whole page talking about all of the great times we'd had in the year and how much better it would have been if L.G. hadn't been around. L.G. was the demon spawn girlfriend of the dude with the wicked mullet and the Trans Am, Jeff, who would take us to see Ted Nugent. Not that I would ever forget about going to see the Nuge, but Jeff's entry in my annual is all about going to the concert later that night of April 20, 1984. It was going to be tripping to see Ted so all I needed to do was relax while Jeff drove us all to rocking land. That's a memorable signing with its at the time contemporary event juxtaposing sharply with all of the "wow we had some tripping fun" entries.
The sweetest entry and the one that got me choked up in the usual sentimental Wally way was by a girl I barely knew. She was a senior in '84 and I can't recall how in the heck I even knew her. She wrote that it was almost over for her and that I had another year to go. And that it would go fast. The word trip was not involved in her post. I probably scoffed at the notion then of time going by quickly, but now that it's been 21 plus years since she wrote those words I understand what she meant and I marvel at how her grown up view contrasts with all of the childishness vividly on display. What a trip.
trippin'
1. v./adv. (derived from "tripping") To act like someone who is hallucinating or on an acid trip. To do something that others find strange. "Girl, why you trippin' . . . he ain't all that!"
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Tis The Season For Goblinhaus
Now that October has creeped around the corner and knocked September into the gutter there's no better time of year to visit my pal Shrub's website Goblinhaus. There's ghoulish stuff there year round, but it gets no better than the annual Halloween blowout.
Monday, October 02, 2006
From Michael Landon's Ghost To Arch Hall Jr.
When I first met Wes White he was a thrash metal worshipping double pedal kick drummer with hair down his back and an ever present trucker cap turned backwards. Mind you that this was around 1991 or so. Since thrash metal is a guitar lesson or two removed from punk rock we hit it off splendidly with the Ramones as the socio-cultural bridge. It didn't hurt that I was also into Slayer and Metallica. Soon Wes had joined Toby and me in the Didjits loving Michael Landon's Ghost for several months of punk rock fury in the Nashville rock and roll scene. Later, Wes hooked up with the Teen Idols for a long spell of rock and roll glory after a brief stint in the Stray Cats scratching The Cramps mixture dubbed Hellbilly. Wes became smitten with the rockabilly scene and became an expert at the genre to the point that when cult legend (check the movies The Choppers and Wild Guitar) Arch Hall Jr. came to Pittsburgh recently needing a drummer for a gig there Wes was called out of retirement to man the thump thump hell yeah bump. You can briefly catch a glance of Wes in this Arch Hall Jr. Youtube clip. Wes rules!
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Underground Garage Rock Extravaganza
The best bet for rock and roll lovers this coming weekend has to be the Little Steven's Underground Garage show at the City Hall club down on 12th Avenue South in Nash Vegas. It features: The Rolling Rock and Roll Show w/ THE ZOMBIES (Colin Blunstone Rod Argent), THE MOONEY SUZUKI, THE WOGGLES, THE FORTY FIVES, & THE SHAZAM. Dang and double dang what a bunch of great bands on one bill along with a couple of legendary Brits.
Dr. Shine & Dee Dee
I know I've been overdoing the Youtube bit lately. But why not when there's so much great stuff on there, like the intro to the Dr. Shine & Dee Dee program. I've been digging this religious masterpiece for some time. Dr. Shine can really get going and I love that church is run in some sort of James Brown style with Dr. Shine having his version of Booby Byrd to read out the scripture (and no, that dude is not named Dee Dee - I believe Dee Dee is Dr. Shine's wife). The intro of the show has been garnering some fame with its Top Gun style theatrics.
Great Post From Wayback By Baxter Sez
Baxter Sez namedrops Soulfish Stew in a post about the old Nashville rock and roll scene. It was written during the time I was on a hiatus so I missed it the first time around. It's a wonderfully written piece; much better than my sloppy prose so check it out. Melora Zaner has a way of getting dudes rhapsodic.
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