My Radio Station @ Yahoo

Hey guys. If you need something to listen to, I've got a radio station set up over at Launch.com/Yahoo Music. I've spent a little time setting up the rankings and all that so it should be pretty good. Just beware, they throw in randoms every now and again so I can't take responsibility if something terrible shows up in the mix! (Click the title link for this post to get there...)

Fisher Price: My First Concert

I was reading bulletins over on myspace and one caught my eye, entitled "1st Concert." People who replied had listed their first concert experience. I added Lollapalooza 92 as my entry. I had just turned 14 and went with my buddy Andrew and his brother Clinton, who years later actually became my brother as well... in-law, that is.

But then I started thinking about it. I was completely skipping over two of the defining moments of my young life. At age 3-6, not sure which one, but sometime around there because I remember I had one of those big UVa bandages on my head, one of my "Egyptian turbans" as my Mom called them (I was big into Egypt, ninjas and dinosaurs as a kid), I saw the man himself, Ray Charles at Danville's Harvest Jubilee. I remember 2 songs in particular, "Georgia on my Mind" and "Baby, What I'd Say" and he wore a white tuxedo while the Rayetts wore their trademark slinky black dresses. I think this was right before the infamous Diet Pepsi commercials. Anyways, I left the concert that night and immediately envied the piano lessons that my sister received. I still sat at the piano picking out little tunes, etc., and when I was old enough, age 7, I joined Ray and my namesake muppet as a pianist and never once looked back. When I was 17, I bought my first vinyl record, a 45 single of "Baby, What I'd Say" with "I Got a Woman" on the B side from Sammy, the Downtown Record Man. I almost wore out the grooves with my dad's old 45 portable player, which was the classic 1970's brown-on-beige. I owe a lot to Ray. He taught me that handicaps ain't shit and for a kid like me, that was a big lesson to learn. I even liked the movie, although I think it glossed over some of my favorite Ray stories, like when his mistress scratched scars into his legs with her fingernails while he recorded "Georgia" because he was numbed up on heroin and needed to feel something in order to play, even if it was intense pain, or another about how the pilots used to let him fly the tour planes, basing his steering on the difference in sound pitch between the wings.

However, there's another first concert, about six months before Lollapalooza '92. C.O.D. at Playground Pizza, Danville, Virginny. I was a 13 year-old burgeoning skate punk who'd just discovered Mad Dog 20/20 (on a Boy Scout camping trip, no less) and Newports. It was New Year's Eve. My mom dropped T, Jay and I off at 8PM and one unlucky parent was going to pick us up on their way home from the grown-ups' party at 12:30AM. Where does one begin to describe Playground Pizza?

Do you remember the scene in "Dazed and Confused" when Mitch first goes to the Emporium? That's about as close a comparison as I can make, but in 1992 instead of 1976. Restaurant booths and pool tables full of hustlers in the back with the all important cigarette vending machine, arcade machines off to the left and a small but serviceable stage in the middle, back-dropped by a huge ball pit, in which several kids I now know were probably conceived. The entire place was painted yellow and red, like some kind of Chuck E. Cheese/Mickey D's nightmare. I forget which bands played but the headliner was C.O.D., fronted by the aptly named Sparky. He used to babysit me when I was a kid and no one else was available. Seth, the neighborhood cool kid/dealer, who we called "Dragon Man" due to his gnarly leg tattoo, was on drums.

Now, imagine me, the little brother of the high school's captain of the cheerleading team/soon-to-be salutatorian/goody two-shoes, hanging out with neighborhood's bad kid royalty and others I didn't know from across the River. To me, these guys had their own mythology growing around them. I was in all ways seen as the "good" kid, no more than a wee pup, but now I was smoking cigarettes, wearing my best flannel shirt (1992, people), talking ollies and kickflips while taking little baby hits off of Fast Johnny's stolen bottle of Wild Irish Rose. I'd been listening to grunge and was really into Nirvana and what not, but I'd never experienced it first hand. That night, I moshed for the first time, letting the primal angst of the 3 chord punk wash my sins away (I know, corny, but I was 13, people.) I was introduced to some of the bands that later became my best friends, Afghan Whigs, Mudhoney, Motorhead, L7, Picasso fuckin' Trigger, Pavement, The Ramones, it was an eclectic mix. Some rednecks tried to squash me like a bug in the pit and I later found out that Sparky and his little brother Matt had chased them off in the parking lot after Spark pulled his boot knife out for show and tell. I'd never felt so honored in my entire life. The older kids really took care of us pups, looked after us, hazed us when we got out of line, taught us how to wash our hands with really hot water so the smoke smell would come off and how to jig our wallet chain so it wouldn't snag on chairs. But the music just went straight to my head; it was almost what I imagine heroin to be like. "Oh shit, this is IT!" I don't think I ever experienced it in that pure form again but I've been in love with rock and, er, roll ever since. I consider that night to be something of a birthday in a different sense. My life as an underground punk kid became almost a second persona in the years to come.

Last time I was in Danville, I saw a flier advertising a C.O.D. reunion show on a Sunday. I talked to Spark, now a bluesman extraordinaire, and he said that yeah, it was happening, but unfortunately, I was unable to stick around long enough to see them play. I can't say I'm always the brightest boy...

Funny quote

"I do perform cunnilingus... but it does not define me."
-Craigslist post

Who knew?

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~jimknapp/goats.html

(Just so you know, that goat ain't dead.)

Blogging Rights

I've decided I need to give the blog a little bit of focus. Not really that it matters since I'm pretty sure nobody reads this thing anyways but it's good practice. (It's kinda disturbing that my grammar has gotten so bad. sorry.) So, I'm going to start posting reviews of the shows I see, whether as part of the official entourage, guest listed, or as standard concert-goer. (I will, however, cop to any impartiality.) So far this week, I've seen two shows, The Pixies at Merriweather Post and Telograph (formerly known as Walken) w/ Lucia Lie and Transoceanic. I'm going to write separate reviews per show and post them soon. The Pixies show review will also include my internal debate over whether married people should still be allowed to sit in the lawn section.

Ron Howard and Cinderella Man

I don't like Ron Howard, the movie director. I've never really liked anything he's ever done, including "Happy Days." His movies are always devoid of anything interesting, dumbed down to the lowest common denominator, mostly by painting all characters and conflicts into archetypical roles of good guys vs bad guys. There's never any shades of gray, and that is where humanity resides.



His latest movie, "Cinderella Man," is the Ron Howard movie that bothers me the most. In the movie, heavyweight champion Max Baer is portrayed as a pompous bastard, who claimed he was going to kill Braddock, the titular character played by Russell Crowe, with a single blow to the head and committed several other taunting, "dastardly" maneuvers to psych out Braddock during the run up to their heavyweight championship fight in 1934/cinematic climax.

However, while true that Max Baer once killed a man in the ring, the movie did not do Baer justice. For instance, the movie didn't show that in real life Baer lived with so much constant guilt over the 1929 death of boxer Frankie Campbell that he paid for Campbell's children's college educations. According to Wikipedia, the real Max Baer once said, "I never had a fight out of the ring. I never harmed anyone outside the ring. I loved people."

In Baer's defense, many people, including Baer's own son, Max Baer, Jr. (better known as Jethro from "The Beverly Hillbillies"), have come out against Ron Howard's portrayal of Baer as the bad guy/monster. Max Baer deserves to be respected and revered as one of the few World Heavyweight Champions who won more than 50 fights by knockout. In 1933, Baer defeated German boxer Max Schmeling, who was sponsored and favored by one Adolf Hitler, in the 10th round when the referee stopped the fight. Baer became an instant hero in the Jewish community and a champion of his heritage. (*note the Star of David in the top left corner of his commemorative stamp in the above picture, issued by the United States Postal Service.)

Finally, there is a more personal reason for my acrimony towards this Ron Howard movie in particular. Max Baer is my father and I's namesake. When Max Baer fought Lou Nova in the first televised prize fight in 1939, my father was still in the womb. Since my grandmother had pretty much run out of names after giving birth to 8 children before him, including 5 boys, she decided that she would name him after the winner. Even though Lou Nova won that fight, my grandfather pleaded with her to go with Max instead. Thank god for grandfathers, I say. I mean, Lou?

This is one of my favorite stories to tell, mainly because I love thinking about my grandmother, a tough broad in her own right, hanging the name of her 9th child on a heavyweight prize fight. That sounds like something I'd do. It also gave my dad a great childhood nickname, "Little Lou," making me "Lil'er Lou" when I was growing up, and fostered his love for the sport that he eventually passed on to me, father-son bonding at its best, over a bell and 2 pairs of glove (the family dog referreed the "fights.")

Even so, after this terrible attempt at a boxing flick from Ron Howard, people who've already seen "Cinderella Man" look at me sideways when I tell my favorite story. "Wasn't he a pompous bastard who bragged about manslaughter?" It kills the narrative and makes a mockery of someone who I feel proud to call my namesake. The story feels almost ruined at the hands of someone who writes worse dialog than George Lucas. Nooooooooo!!!

Benefit Message from John G.

This just came in from my friend and former guitarist John G. in LA. I'm definitely going to be there:

if any of you don't have special plans this saturday, i highly encourage you to check out this event below. marlee is the young daughter of my friend steve. she has a brain tumor and will be enduring chemo for a while. the roadside grill is just up the street from case asia in rosslyn.
the traegers are good peoples..
-john

Marlee, the Traeger's tough little girl, starts aggressive chemo on Monday.

Benefit Concert for Marlee Traeger
featuring 2 Barefeet
Saturday, June 11th @ The Rhodeside Grill, 9PM.

Me and the girls will be there. Hope everybody can come out!

For now, I'm off to drink too much with French people and laugh too loud at jokes in an accent I'll never understand but will unexplainably start speaking in by the time I go to bed.

Unbuckled via DCist.com

This is my pick for local show of the month. It's going be a good one, brought to you by the veteran bloggers at http://www.dcist.com.

Unsettling image of the day

What's a little pirate talk among roommates?

11:32PM: Today was pretty rotten.
11:33PM: Yeah, it'll be nice when it's over.
11:38PM: Aye, on that note, I be taking to me berth, ye scurvy dog.
11:39PM: Ha-ur nuts.
11:46PM: Har, just a bit o' the bore spots me liver.
11:48PM: HBO cancelled Carnivale.
11:50PM: Yar, I knew that 2 moons ago, matey.
11:53PM: Ye'll get no more talk from this old cap'n this night, ye motherless mongrel.
11:51PM: Do u have a steering wheel on ur shorts?
11:55PM: Aye, and a pocketful of swag to steer her by.
11:56PM: Go to sleep you old salty dog.

Mt. Rushmore National Memorial

Mt. Rushmore National Memorial

I was doing some research this morning, cleaning up a certain state left by a certain someone, and came across this article on the construction of Mt. Rushmore. 90% of the mountain was carved with dynamite! I remember being 8 years-old, driving through the mountains and finally realizing that all of those diagonal drill marks in the rock were blast holes. I thought that was impressive. We blew up part of the mountain and now my parents could drive through it. But to actually carve a face with dynamite?

Final thought of the day...

When did I get so wordy? I used to be concise. I used to have style. I need practice. Jessie, hope you enjoy all of the reading material! Good night.

Thursday night boredom

I know I'm writing a lot tonight. I don't get paid until midnight so I'm stuck inside until at least then. I've only got $27 left without dipping into the "Max goes on a real vacation" fund, which I've already plundered twice since its birth last month. I would go get a beer with Old Man John at the Grog & Tankard but I'm not sure they'll let me in after last month's debacle. It's all Colin's fault anyways; he never should've let me in the sound booth. Herb has probably forgotten it by now, but what could worse than being turned away from the Grog? (For visiting Danvillians, it's the DC equivalent of a Clucks + The Temple combo.) I'm also reading "Straight Man" by Richard Russo, which, while only on page 140, has already made it onto my list of top 5 books I've ever read. Reading something I enjoy always makes me want to write.

I figured tonight I'd write about something that has been bothering me for a while about my hometown. There's a lot of reasons why I would never move home. For instance, here I can walk down the street with my wild, red mane and not have to constantly deal with people looking at me like I'm crazy. Here in DC, I've always got something to do. This can cause a bit of an overload from time to time, but it passes. I love my neighborhood, with its odd cast of characters, namely Homeless James and Yellowbelly, the cat who thinks he's a dog and inhabits a block of sidewalk outside my window. But, to face the truth, my job is really boring, rent is sky high and always climbing, the traffic can drive a man either to insanity or Buddhism, and it's a big pond. Hard to shine in a bid pond all the time.

However, life in Danville can be so effortless and friendly most of the time. It's cheap to rent, even easier to buy, my Dad and I could fish every weekend, I could help my bear my mom's heavy load, and there's little to no traffic. Then other days, I just say, "Fuck it. Why I don't just move to LA or Sydney like I've been asked and be done with it?"

Nevertheless, there are so many things that really bother me about the town. Like any small Southern city, it has its secrets, some more plainly in view to be solved than others. For instance, the rich in Danville tend to go out of their way to create extravagant, albeit racist, places for them to socialize. After the Great Grove Park Firing of 1998, I worked for a few summers during college as the head lifeguard at the Danville Golf Club. I know I'm a lefty bleeding heart, whatever you want to call it, but it seems to me like the Danville rich have set up almost a Southern plantation society on West Main Street. Racial restrictions are quietly enforced. The workforce is mostly comprised of minorities, I'd estimate about 80% of the staff. Many employees complained to me about outright racist remarks and prejudice. I've never felt like such a hypocrit working anywhere else in my life, even Vocus, whose largest client is the NRA. There are many good members of the club, people I know and respect, and I think that more than anything makes me angry that they allow this continue.

Another instance of this behavior is the new North Main Theater. I wonder if this is the lead wave in an era of gentrification along North Main Street. It just seemed to me at the opening that the rich had finally built a place for them to hang out other than the Golf Club and the Danville Art Museum/Last Capitol of the Confederacy. The sponsors could have a chair named for them for $1000, or a closet for $5000. During this part of the opening speech, I imagined a whole cast of characters lining up for a "Mr. So and So Memorial Men's Lavatory." Nevermind that the joint used to be a porn theater in the 1970s. All of these rich old men strutting around, bragging, "I was here the day they finally shut down" or "I used to come here back when I was 18! It hasn't changed a bit!" High comedy. But I'm a musician and performer. I appreciate that a high caliber performance space now exists and the opportunity for culture in a mill town has never been better. The jazz I saw that night took me to a place full of caravans and ribboned tambourines. My friend is opening a restaurant in the same building and there's an art space on the second floor. I know the people involved. They are, for the most part, wonderful. I guess I just think about these things too much. But the underbelly always bothers me. Let's see what happens, I guess. There's more to the story of that place being built than is immediately apparent. See what I mean? This town is full of secrets. But, honestly, I'm always an optimist. Please, I hope something good comes from it.

Anyways, that's off my chest. (I might add some more to this post later, but for now, something shiny has caught my eye and it demands my attention.)

gas station love

My friend is on the road. She's been there for a while but I'm pretty sure she still checks in to read whatever BS I've written. Here's her blog: http://www.theroadrevisited.blogspot.com

Anyways, she really likes this story so I thought I'd post it here. (Hopefully, my mom doesn't read this either; she might take it personally. Just in case, Mom, this story is fiction. It is not true.) If I can write a few more of these, I'm going to publish them all in a collection called "My Journeys with Women Behind Counters" or at least that's how the joke goes. I think I wrote this about 3 years ago and it shows. Oh, to be 24 and in love. Ridiculous. Also, I know almost all of the sentences have only 1 space after the commas. Cut and Paste failed me there but if I get some time, I'll fix it.

Gas Station Love
by
M. Rolfe G. (*aside* That's my real middle name. For those who never knew, that's the big secret.)

I worked up the street at Locus, Inc., a researcher and all around wage slave, when I first met Claudia. I stopped by the station for the usual $10 in gas and a pack of Marlboro Lights, "in a box please." Claudia stood behind the counter with its bulletproof plastic divider, playing the part of petroleum temptress, replete with long dyed blonde hair with a hint of black roots, a lightly dusted but freckled face and eyes that twinkled when caught in the fluorescent light overhead. We had one of those great conversations that’s all winks and eyebrows. Exactly what we talked about doesn’t matter, but it was something about me looking too young to smoke and then her surprise at my advanced age after thoroughly inspecting my I.D. I think I might even have snuck in the usual "I’m in a band, we had a gig" routine but I don’t think she understood. She spoke in a very thick accent, which I originally thought to be Eastern European. I soon found myself imitating her. "No, no, no, I not too young," I said, sounding something like Ivan Drago’s wife from Rocky IV. She gave me a weird look and a smirk as I hastily made for the door to get back to work before I was missed.

The life of a Government Relations researcher for a medium-sized dot.com company is not the easy street my waiter friends think it to be. I constantly felt bound to the desk and the lack of necessary creative thought led to the constant reorganization of desk tops, files and even paperclips. For example, I kept a library of print resources in a box under my desk. Once, while in the ninth circle of boredom, I devised a Dewey Decibel-esque system for the ten books contained within. The only reason I continued to smoke was just so I could leave my desk every hour or so. The high point of my day came strictly at 4PM, when my naive employee, Kauser, would challenge me to a game of ping pong, at which I beat him mercilessly. Sometimes, just for fun, I would tease him a little by giving him enough points to hope for victory, followed by a string of 10 points that would end the game. That kid hated me.

However, when not practicing the art of loafing or napping, I sat in my cubicle, occasionally getting to some work in between naps, reading radical left-wing weblogs and checking out prospective draftees for my Fantasy Football league. I know it doesn’t sound so bad, but believe me, at times my brain started to revolt. To make matters worse, in this era of global warming, one of the mildest and most beautiful summers ever had peaked and was strolling towards its end right outside my window, wasted.

My mother, being one of those delightful people who believes in self help books, constantly sent me these "tests" that were designed to tell you your "mood color" or other such nonsense that can determine your path in life. I was always blue or green, which is, oddly enough, the color of my eyes and car, respectively. Around this time she even bought me a GRE 2 month class which conflicted with band practices, smoking, drinking, cussing and generally everything I enjoyed at the time. She loved me and I knew she meant the best for me, she always has. Even still, she often tag teamed with my sister and successfully body slammed me repeatedly, telling me that I was making all the wrong decisions but shouldn’t quit my job because, "Then we’d worry so much about you, it just wouldn’t be safe to leave such a well-paying job that makes you miserable." My sister, 5 years older and finally engaged, started to show the early symptoms of "Newlywed Syndrome," that ailment that strikes so many newlyweds, causing them to feel sorry for those still single, the desire to match/force them into a couple with their friends, and giving advice on how life should be (i.e. like theirs, "perfect") to any single who doesn’t ask. Another symptom of the NWS is that it causes single friends, and little brothers, to hate them.

I usually saw Claudia about once a week or so. I’d stop by for gas and smokes, she’d berate me for smoking too much, give me winks and bent brows and then I’d pay and bail out. We never even exchanged names. One day, I drew the long straw and made the Vocus Development Team Smoke Run, resulting in the following bit of dialogue:
"Oh hey, how are you?"
"Doin’ good, what about you?" *smile*
"I fine." *smirk*
"Well, cool... Hey, I need to get 5 packs of Marlboro’s, in boxes please."
"Oh my goodness, five packs? You smoke too much. Look much too young to smoke so much." *brow arch*
"Hey wait, they’re not all for me. I lost the smoke run straw poll at the office." *grin*
"Ok, ok, sure, sure. I let you off this time." *wink*
Somebody then asked her something in Spanish and she replied "Muey Bueno" in the absolute sexiest voice I’ve ever heard, kind of rolling it together in her mouth and then flicking it off her tongue like a spent cherry seed. At that moment I realized I could love this girl.

Things continued in this manner for the next couple of weeks.

* * * * * * * * *

Towards the tail end of summer, I tried working out everyday, running and lifting weights with the Employee, trying to get in shape and maybe even raise my energy level so as not to fall asleep everyday at 1:30PM. I still saw Claudia occasionally, but always in a mercantile fashion. I left work after one of said workouts and decided that Taco Bell would satisfy my muscles’ needs for protein. On the way, I passed by the gas station and there was Claudia beginning what looked like a walk home from work. I pulled up next to her and said, "Hey Claudia. You need a ride home?"

She glanced over, kind of looked over my Cherokee, purse her lips and said, "Well, I do not know." "Oh come on, I’m no wierdo." I said. Then I gave her the sidelong glance and grin that I’ve been told makes me look about 14 years-old and completely trustworthy. She sighed and said, "Mister, a ride home would be good. What’s your name?" ""I’m Max with an X." "That a nice name, Max with a X. How you know my name?" "I saw your name tag a few weeks ago and remembered." "Oh.. ok."

She only lived a few blocks away by the Seacrest train station in a one story, pea soup green ranch home that she shared with her parents and six brothers and sisters. I dropped her off, noticed her mother working the yard for weeds, still dressed in her maid’s outfit, said something ridiculous and unfunny like, "Hey, you both work at places that end with an ‘-o’." She went to get out then turned and asked what I was listening to. "The Replacements," I said, "You like?" "Yeah, they ok. I like the guitars," she replied.

I was nervous, couldn’t think of how to phrase my next question. Why does it always feel like this? The steel brace for rejection built up around my heart but I knew I had to try. "So, you want to hang out some time?" The question kind of hung there in the air for a few seconds and finally after 2 or 10 century-long heartbeats I saw a flash of fire across her brown eyes. "Sure," she said. "How about you give me number and I call you next week?"

I knew what that meant. I know what that always means. You give her the number, she never calls. I put on my best fake smile, tried to look excited and gave her my cell phone number. "202-558-9483. Call anytime." A week went by with no word from Claudia. I stayed away from the gas station for appearances sake. Then, the next Friday, she called. "Hey, Max with a X, sorry I haven’t called. It’s my brother’s birthday. Want to come over for dinner?"

So I went. We had fun for the most part. Her brothers and sisters were very nice and they spoke English very well but her parents knew very little English and Claudia had to act as an interpreter between me and them but mostly I stayed silent. Playing the part of the well-meaning Southern gentleman, I even managed to keep my elbows off the table. I knew very little about their culture, with all I could think being that Columbians probably salsa danced a lot, grew coffee with the help of donkeys, and manufactured over half the world’s supply of cocaine. They stuffed me full of refried beans, rice and tacos, complaining that Mexican food was nothing compared to Columbian dishes. They complained about work and got drunk on some sort of wine punch. We listened to salsa and when Claudia tried to teach me how to dance, I surprised her with my knowledge of a few salsa turns. She shook her hips and showed me how they really went, but I think she appreciated my stubborn white boy efforts. At the end of the night, she walked me to my car, looked up at me, and gave the smallest of kisses. A quick brush of the softest lips I’ve ever touched before across mine, in the kind of kiss that marks you as hers for however long she wants you, the kind of kiss that lets you know you can wake up happy in the morning.

Most often I would pick her up after work, we’d either go play around in the city, usually Havana Gardens, or we’d come back to my place and listen to music, she’d watch the band practice or we’d just lounge about the house. I quit smoking after work, keeping the habit solely for the desk absence it afforded but throwing them out once she arrived. I tried to explain politics to her a few times but she never cared for it. Mostly, she would listen to Miles Davis or Howlin’ Wolf, slowly rolling her hips to the gruff beat of Wolf’s dirty blues. I even started making her mixed tapes, agonizing over my selections and sometimes leaving them with her coworker Donovan, who would hide them behind Cokes in the refrigerator, waiting for her to find them as she helped customers. Every now and again, I’d take her to Old Navy or some such place to get some new clothes, tight little tshirts, skirts and jeans that she loved. Being the type of girl she was, she’d always have to somehow repay me. This usually involved her buying me all sorts of food, spending a few days with me when she had time off, and cooking me all sorts of chicken and shrimp with rice and exotic sauces, real Columbian cuisine.
But what I loved most of all was waking up next to her in the morning. The sway of the mattress as she rolled her hips on top of me, gently tickling the fuzzy tip of my nose until I woke up, ready to drown in the deep brown pools of her eyes. Those eyes gave me so much energy that another day of work burnout and familial oppression was no big deal at all. Those eyes were my Columbian cocaine. (*author's note: GEEZ*) "Wake up, my Max with a X. Wake up, my love..."

* * * * * * * * *

"Mister, your change. Mister, hey-lo? Here’s your change, $5.12."

Suddenly, my eyes jerked away from a spot in space somewhere above the candy bar rack. "Oh sorry, Claudia," I stammered with a slight smile. "Thanks. Have a, have a good one. Seeya around."

She had a slightly bemused smirk on her face and an arch to her brow. "You do too."

Backing away, I excused my way through the crowded line and out the door. I quickly climbed back into the Jeep and made it back to work before my boss even knew I was gone, the Return of the Cigarette Hero, delivering his goods to the needy.

Danville Register Bee | SATS technology ... makes Danville look to the skies

Danville Register Bee | SATS technology ... makes Danville look to the skies

The funny part about this article, other than the fact that a woman from NASA uses the term "rock star" to describe chartered private jets, is that I wrote this very same article about the SATS program for the South Boston Gazette-Virginian almost five years ago. Then, I was a brash young UVa graduate, recently returned from a summer in Australia, with absolutely no plans for the future. My friend and mentor, Linwood, got me the tryout that led to said article but my dismissal was a foregone conclusion due to me being 5 minutes late and the fact that the publisher was not a fan of my hair style, which I called the "I haven't gotten a hair cut in 5 months" look. However, that did eventually lead to another tryout with a paper in Clarksville, but as usual, I acted like an arrogant bastard b/c I'd just been offered a job making "good money" with a tech company in Washington, DC. The job I still work today. The job that bores me to no end while I'd rather be out in the morning sunshine hunting down stories on Main Street. Fuck.

Childhood Stories #1

I've been thinking that I'd start posting some stories from my childhood. My roommate and I were just outside drinking a couple beers, smoking some cigarettes, and enjoying the cool summer night, the byproduct of tonight's thunderstorm (it was a good one, there's nothing better than reading through a good storm.) Anyways, here's the story that's been bouncing around my head:

My friend Tad and I had been out at some farm party or another, I don't remember which, but suffice it to say, Saturday night in Danville, Va. The only reason I remember it is because the hatch door of my Jeep was covered in blood, the remainder of a free jaw-loosening some redneck received for whatever forgotten sin. As usual, we'd probably smoked too much hillbilly tobacco and drank too many silver bullets and fallen asleep on our pool towels in a field somewhere. As usual, the boys and I all woke up and headed to New Family Restaurant (oddly enough, whose proprietor was recently busted for running a kiddie porn ring).

Later, as we were pulling up Tad's driveway, we found his little brother Ben and our neighborhood collective little brother, Luke, out on the front yard, scratching like idiots, eyes red as baby beets. These two, in the way of true little brothers, were always "challenging for the throne" as we called it. Their games of one-upsmanship got them in various scrapes with us and other neighborhood kids, once found Ben hidden in a pine tree top while the cops hunted him, and had Luke jumping off a pool shelter roof to prove his manhood. We did our best to let them go about finding their way, but tried to look out for them when they got themselves into a bit too much trouble, which happened from time to time.

But this was quite a different scene than we had expected coming home to on a Sunday morning, summer or no summer. Ben's actually rubbing his bare back against a tree trunk while clawing at his chest like a madman. Meanwhile, not to be outdone, Luke's rolling in the mud and raking his legs and feet furiously while emitting a low moan, 25% relief-75% pain. I look over at Tad and all I can think to say is, "Ate the wrong three leafed plant?" Tad, as usual, saw right to the heart of the problem and said, "Nope. These boys been riding the Red Pony. Ben, you boys got into that kid's methadone, didn't you?" I look over at Ben, still itching, body turning redder and redder with each pass of his talons, pieces of bark littering the ground, yet somehow managing to still look sheepish under his older brother's eye and says, "How do we make this damn itching stop? Jesus! How do we make it stop?" After making the few requisite crackhead jokes, I tell Ben, "Look, go upstairs and take the hottest shower you can stand for about 20 minutes. The switch the water over to cold and stand under it until the itching stops." Of course, my prescription caught a sideways glance from Tad, but I had been living with a recovering heroin addict camped on my couch for several months. In that situation, you just tend to pick these things up, but that's a story for another time.

Anyways, Tad later meted out brother justice in the form of a prolonged Figure Four leg lock, replete with an elbow to the knee. I'm still a little surprised when I see Ben able to walk straight. That boy suffered more at the inspiration of Ric Flair than anybody else I know or can imagine knowing. Luke's older sister arrived and gave him the guilt-ridden verbal browbeating that only an older sister can deal without later regretting. Needless to say, the kids learned their lesson and never touched the stuff again.

I don't know why but that story always cracks me up. I'll be sharing this one and a few others if the mood strikes over the next few weeks.

(*note. Blogspot messed up and for some reason truncated the original post. This one is a hastily rewritten version. With any luck, I'll be able to clean it up a bit tonight. As usual, names have been changed as promised.)