photo posted from my iPhone
Mines a bearded lady. Ken’s is a lesbian.
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“Can you turn down, I’m trying to talk over here!” yelled a guy on the outside edge of the crowd. Apparently he was serious. The Flagpoles were in another San Francisco back yard playing a party. We all looked at each other and turned down.
We’ve gone across the Bay Bridge to play a house warming and were asked to stop after our second song.
“We don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with the neighbors,” he said, hoping we’d understand how bad we sounded when the amplifiers were plugged in and turned up.
The Flagpoles sound great in the living room at 604 where we practice. It’s something in the wine and the 20 pack of whatever’s on sale and the hip shooter of Jim Beam that makes an appearance out of Doug’s pocket unannounced. No one is there to listen. I can get all the way through a song playing one fret too high on every note and no one complains.
“Sounded groovy me brutha’s,” Collin will say. “Say, Jon, what was that dynamite sound you were getting?”
Playing out is a considerable challenge, especially when your mind goes blank under stress. People in the crowd may notice the bass players hand is sitting idle on the neck as he watches the guitarists roll through chords of a song we’ve played hundreds of times. He’s craning his neck forward like a cat when the yarn first begins to move.
“What is that movement over there?” the bassist is asking himself. He is shellshocked. The last chorus comes around and suddenly it floods back and he pulls on those strings like he’s an electric basket weaver. The sudden wave of low end makes the rest of the band look around in confusion. Perhaps a speaker blew? Oh, it’s Rolston, he just remembered the song. And, end.
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Why not drink?
Everyone in power is reckless, why not me?
Do I watch too much porn to appreciate my wife?
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photo posted from my iPhone
This was at the end of the street. I guess the pot club does home delivery now. As J Stew said, “As if potheads need help being lazier.”
photo posted from my iPhone
It’s like an I.Q. test for Harvard students.
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photo posted from my iPhone
Bowl-A-Rama in Portsmouth New Hampshire has a dot matrix printer and gives you a copy when you turn in your shoes. It looks as old as the scrolls found in jars in the deserts of Israel. But it works just fine. If we didn’t make fun of old things, maybe there wouldn’t be so much pressure to get new things. It’s the little jokes your neighbor makes about your old Ford Granada wagon that makes you want to get a new Volvo with heated seats. That’s why, upon contemplation, seeing this score card paper with the perforated edges makes me happy. Bowl-A-Rama may have Dance Dance revolution in the arcade room, but they don’t follow every trend.
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cid:04D2E12B-B608-4BAA-999C-15D40DBF826A/100_4847.JPG
That’s a picture from this afternoon. Or perhaps the description of a picture in a language I don’t speak. The phone is not revealing it’s secrets.
There are some wonderful videos in this phone as well. I’m supposed to be a mobile blogger but nothings working. Dear readers, please be patient b
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photo posted from my iPhone
For the last year or so a fellah’s been set up in one of Rusty’s sheds welding. I’m guessing he strung this horse up the pole. He went down to the donut shop with Rus for coffee a few days back and dropped dead of a heart attack at the door. Boys, we’re getting that age. Get your LDL’s checked.
photo posted from my iPhone
Drop shadow. Hand painted. Not bad.
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We brought Doug over to brainstorm names for the chai cart.
“Do you have any hard liquor?” he asked. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his pointer finger. He was serious. Work wouldn’t start any sooner. We scrambled through cupboards and came up with an old bottle of Blavod, the black vodka. He took four fingers over ice.
“Chai harder. Don’t Chai this at home. Chai little pony.” He was sitting on the roof of my shed as we grilled hamburgers. The shed has steps up to it’s flat roof. Doug was like the Lord, sending decrees down from on high.
“I’m going Chai-yakking this weekend. Chia-m sorry you can’t make it. You va-chai-na.”
The mere whiff of something up in the 80 proof range had his mind firing like a night vision sniper. Deadly accuracy.
“I’ve been watching Mad Men. I should be getting paid a lot of money for this.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For this: Big Trouble in Chai-cart Town. The Chai-ing Game. Fast Times at Ridgemont Chai.”
“Come get your burger. It’s starting to burn,” I told him.
