10.31.06

Keeping it on the Download.

Billy Bragg's Workers Playtime album has a unique distinction in my musical collection. No, it's not the greatest album ever... That honor goes to either Menudo's landmark Reaching Out or Fabio's After Dark opus.

Mr. Bragg's album released almost exactly 16 years ago (shudder) is the only musical release that I've acquired in cassette, vinyl LP, CD and digitally. I bought the cassette when the album was first released, the LP when I bought a turntable and it was one of the first CDs I bought when that now archaic technology first reared its $14.99 head on the shelves.

The last listen it got was on my 40 gigabyte iPod, where it currently resides with approximately 700 other albums or nearly 7900 songs.

This large volume is both a blessing and a curse. In one way it consolidates a portion the approximately 1200 CDs I own in a convenient device that weighs about as much as run-of-the-mill paperweight, but it also changes the way I listen to music. Rather than listen attentively to a whole album, appreciating the craftsmanship that went into it, I put it on shuffle play in the house and have frankly forgotten what the f*ck I put in it or who is singing half the songs.

Even worse is that tendency to listen to snippets of songs here and there. With that much music at one's disposal it's tough to resist listening to 28 songs in a fifteen minute drive.

Stephen V. Funk, host of this week's feels like the lone holdout on the iPod front. Homeboy is still cruising the aisles of the local record and CD scores, rather than inviting a friend over with a full 80 gigger to poach his eclectic bounty.

Heh. Half of me wants to throw on side two of the Velvet Underground & Nico album on the ol' turn table, but I know as soon as I do the Fletchmonster's peanut butter-coated paws are going to slap that stylus right across "There She Goes Again" to "the Black Angel's Death Song."

Stop by Mr. Funk's viridescent blog and try to get him to switch to the dark side. As for me and Mr. Bragg? This might be the end of the road. If they have to jam the microchip of Workers Playtime up my ass for me to enjoy it, I think I'll pass. The cassette's long gone, but I think the record's still on the shelf.

The Last(?) Temptation of Prego

Every once in a while a stranger knocks on my door holding a raffle ticket or something. My stock greeting is:

"This better not be about Jesus."

Today an older gentleman knocked on the door. I was raised to respect my elders, so I gave him a cordial 'hello' instead. I was wondering what was up, though. Perhaps he was coming over to complain about Barky the Mutt, who was yelping his fool head off in my yard.

"I'm the pastor of the church on the corner. We have a chicken barbecue today and..."

(F*ck... here we go. 'Your dog is quite the nuisance. We're wondering if you could throw him in the basement for the day.' Okay... prepare respectful response.)

"...we'd like to invite you to join us. I have some free tickets for you if you'd like to come."

(Wait. Scratch that. Yes or no question.)

"Uh, sure. (What the f*ck did you just say? He's a cleric. DECLINE! DECLINE!) That sounds great." (Aaaaaaarrrghhhhh. It burns. It burns.)

The Fletchmonster and the O-Dog peek their curious heads in and say hello.

"Hi guys. So, three tickets?"
"Well, my wife will probably join us."
"Oh, sure," he says as he hands over four tickets.
"Thank you," I said as he departs.

Now part of the reason I agreed to take it is that we've scavenged a summer picnic or two. Sometimes I'd be taking the Fletch or the O-Dog out of their car seats and some friendly church broad would offer the kids a hot dog.

"Sure, what the hell - uhh... heck."

(The last time this happened, the Fletchmonster pissed in his chair so we had to take our church dogs to-go.)

The other part of the reason is that every once in a while, the missus and I try to make it through the weekend without having to cook. Friday? Fish fry at the in-laws. Today? Jesus Chicken.

When Mrs. P comes home from work I fill her in slowly.

"What do you want to do for dinner?" I offer a loaded lead-in.
"I don't care. What do you want to do?"
"Well," I reply, "we've got an invite."
"Oh, cool. Who?" She inquires.
"We'll that's the good news."

"Okay. What's the bad news?" She asks.
I bow my head solemnly, keeping a straight face: "And now we pray."

"My Aunt Jo and Uncle Rob?"
"No," I laugh heartily. "The church across the street!" I knew she'd be agreeable. She's not a church-goer either, but she doesn't look out for lightning whenever she steps near one. Besides, that's one of the four things she's in charge of: laundry, the bills, small talk and jesus. I'm in charge of good times and taking out the garbage (which she's in charge of picking up the slack).

The afternoon progressed, we digested lunch and once the bellies started grumbling again we rustled up the kids for the churchy dinner. O-Dog was a little tough to rein in, since he was having the beginnings of a meltdown. We approached the entrance and my wife starts falling behind - a maneuver that indicated she didn't want to go in first. 'F*ck that,' I thought, on to her little game. I stepped aside and said, "Go ahead. By the way, that guy there's the one that gave us the freebies. Thank him again."

Common courtesy falls under small talk.

Anyhow-lellujah, we went in, smiled politely at everyone, bought raffle tickets for the 'theme-tray' acution (stuffed the smoked salmon bucket with tickets) and sat down to feast.

Now we go out to dinner a LOT, but seldom attend these types of functions. I couldn't help but notice how friendly and welcoming everyone was. Even the crack-heady looking lady and her bag ladyish friend with the beard were real sweethearts. I looked around and saw a lot of families with their kids, elderly parents et cetera... all enjoying the churchy meal.

For a fleeting moment, just a f*cking milisecond I thought, 'This is actually nice,' and was toying with the idea of telling the missus, 'You know, maybe we ought to pop in here on Sundays.'

(Aaaarrrghh.... nooo.... beelzebub.... mmmmust.... fight... pious Flandersy... gasp feeling.)

I held my tongue, as I mulled it over. Then it happened. I wiped the grease from the Fletchmonster's cheeks, put the napkin down and started fiddling around with the table top literature.

After-school art program. This looks cool for the O-Dog. Underneath? A churchy brochure... pastor this, pastor that... 'Christ-Centered. Inclusive. Committed.'

Oh yeah. I forgot about the christ part. All of a sudden the thought of nursing the muscles after Sunday morning hockey in a pew listening to the preachings and teachings of a two-thousand year old corpse made me take a couple steps back. I thought about all those creepy-ass crucifixes on southern roadways and those weepy freaks on TV...
(Grrrrnnahhhhh... That's it. You're one of us, sinner. You're nobody's bible-bitch. Nyyyyyyaaaaawww...)

At that point, the O-Dog's meltdown finally materialized and we had to kowtow our asses backwards out of the place. Of course I was gracious and thanked the pastor heartily for the meal and neighborliness, but the Religification of Prego?

Thank you for the tasty meal from thy bounty, dude, but not this weekend...

(Flames flicker. Head spins.)

And I didn't win the salmon basket, either. Damn.

Roundtable on Bumpin' Uglies

Sex is interesting, but it's not totally important. I mean it's not even as important (physically) as excretion. A man can go seventy years without a piece of ass, but he can die in a week without a bowel movement.

- Charles Bukowski

Throw in your two minutes cents on the topic at metaphorvoodoo for this week's .


Me? Yeah I dig it... Unfortunately in the midst of the throes we are usually interrupted by one of the little men, suddenly awake and screaming from their bedroom:

"Mommy! Mommy I want you!"

"So do I, you little bastard. Just let me keep her for 20 more seconds."

The Aftermath

Three days later and there are still hundreds of thousands without power locally... We've been lucky on our block. Sh*t. I even got my cable back today. Some households will be without power until next weekend.

I ventured out today to take a peek around town. I think these pictures speak for themselves. We're hearty bastards here in Western New York, so a little bit of snow doesn't stop us. The storm wasn't too kind to the woodier residents, though. I actually felt sad taking these pictures. Multiply this scene by sh*tloads upon sh*tloads of city streets. It's going to change the 'look of the land' for sure.