Hey, Enthusiasts! It’s spring!
For, like, two weeks already.
In my defense, there aren’t four seasons in Florida. There’s six months of “almost too hot.” and six months of “far too fucking hot Jesus Christ my balls are epoxied to my thigh with sweat .” Spring and autumn don’t happen here. Or winter. Florida is just varying degrees of summer.
So what brings about this realization that the civilized world has entered spring?
News reports. Pictures of cherry blossoms. Also, it’s 93 degrees and 50% humidity out there; last week, it was lovely. Something’s changed.
Did you not hear me when I said “Florida?” Every summer is like this. Remember when all the Avengers were fighting at the airport and Paul Rudd got real big?
Like being up his ass. That is what Florida is like from April to October. Hot and so, so, so sticky.
Did you begin this post with a point or is this one of those times you just started typing?
Spring cleaning time, Enthusiasts! I have had–for what seems like weeks now–some tabs open on my desktop that I meant to have something interesting to say about. Failing that, something funny. Failing that, I figured I could half-ass a dialogue or a list or something. (Loyal readers will know that TotD is the reigning champ of half-assing dialogues and lists.)
But, Jesus, I’m beaten. I got nothing. Here we go:
Someone’s selling a speaker cabinet that Phil that Phil supposedly used for the Europe ’72 tour. The back looks like this:
The front looks like the front of a speaker cabinet. I told you: I got nothing. Wait. I got something.
Get the hell out of there.
Soup, why are you living in Phil’s speaker cabinet from 1972?
“You heard of the Tiny House movement, man?”
“I win, man.”
And so on.
Brent’s daughter, Jennifer Mydland, made her performing debut the other day in her dad’s hometown of Lafayette, California. She’s got a lovely voice, and she had two of the longhairs that hang around TXR as her band.
She sounded like this:
I hate to end this cheery section on a sour note, but I have to upbraid JamBase for burying the lede of this story.
SHAKEY ZIMMERMAN. There’s a name that brings home the bacon and then sexually satisfies the bacon. You lead off the first paragraph with that, JamBase. Maybe that’s your subhead, even: LOCAL MAN HAS AWESOME NAME. I expect more from you, JamBase. Don’t be like Live4LiveMusic.
Rock Scene! was a magazine that came out sporadically in the 70’s; the best I can figure out is that it was New York’s version of Creem. The great Lisa Robinson (whose book There Goes Gravity is one of the better Rock Books ever written) and her husband ran it; he was a producer for Lou Reed and Vladimir Putin’s favorite band, The Flaming Groovies. The covers were colored, and glossy, but the pages instead were newsprint and the pictures–and kids bought these things for the pictures–were black and white. The magazine folded in ’83. It doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page.
But never underestimate the Rock Nerd. Some kind soul found the whole run, all 54, and scanned ’em into the cyber for everyone to look at. You should look. Why won’t you look?
Stop hassling people.
I need to pump up my clickthroughs.
Did you just cut your leg off with a chainsaw and exsanguinate?
The thing about the clickthroughs?
Can I please talk about the magazine that no one remembers from 40 years ago?
Go check it out, Enthusiasts, if just for the uncut hit of 70’s weirdness. Look at this bullshit:
(I guarantee you that when Gene read these reviews, he thought they were good.)
Plus the site is well-designed, and you leaf through the pages with a very satisfying FLICK sound.
This has not been on my desktop for long, but now I am getting rid of everything, and so you should read this article about Alligator (the guitar, not the song or reptile) by the great Jesse Jarnow. The only question I have is this:
Alligators have teeth. Sure, they also have claws, but the claws aren’t the star of the show. Teeth are the headliners. If we were playing a word-association game and I said “alligator,” you would say “teeth.” If you said “claws,” I would be like, “Shit, this motherfucker’s crazy.”
It saddens me to say this, but I now must now take anything the great Jesse Jarnow tells me about reptiles with a grain of salt. 2017 is about losing your innocence.
Stop being weird.
He is deliberately emphasizing the wrong part of an alligator!
I swear you only write so you can come up with sentences no one’s said before.
Oh, anyone can do that. The trick’s making them make sense.
You’re stalling because you don’t want to talk about the commercial real estate guys.
Ugh. The first real estate deal ever made in New York was when the Dutch bought the place from the Manhasset. We are told that the price was $24 worth of beads. What is not mentioned are the broker’s fee and hidden charges that brought the real amount up to 40 bucks. Since then, one of New York’s primary economic drivers has been trading parts of itself to itself. Sometimes other countries will come and buy parts of New York–the Japanese in the 1980’s, the Chinese now–but mostly the city sells itself to itself.
Like any business, there is glamour. You could sell a condo to Doctors Oz or Phil. But most of it the dreariest slog you can imagine: negotiating 30-year leases on office buildings in Long Island City; selling warehouses in Bayhurst. Someone has to do the due diligence on a dental building in Staten Island. Not gonna be me.
And, apparently, some of these guys (they’re all guys) listen to the Dead. One of them listens to the Dead and loves Trump, but I don’t think we can blame all commercial real estate guys for the lunatic beliefs of a fringe few. Still, though: maybe we should stop letting them in the country for a while. Just until we know what’s going on.
And now I am clean, reborn; pure again in the eyes of the Christ.
You shut several internet pages.
PURE IN THE CHRIST.
I hate you so.