Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Who the Hell are You?!
Where are my Damn pajamas?!
President?!... of What?!!!
-Senator John McCain, Arizona
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
It was the Pittsfield Elks Club, I think. It was about 1980. In what was their first professional gig as a band, Jet, the 3 man predecessor to the mighty rock n' roll juggernaught that became Pavlov's Dogs, was about to break the the champagne bottle over the bow of their opening set. It was a set of songs that would set the nation on a rock n' roll Odyssey of minimal proportions. The occasion was Carla Starbird's Wedding. Bigfoot's Pop, you see, was buddies with Carla's Dad. Having to pay for the wedding, and too cheap to hire a real band, he got Jet. Actually, he got BF's Da, and Jet came along for the ride. His Dad had a group of guys that were pretty slick with the Country and Western, and he figured ol' Jet would appeal to the younger people in the audience. How prophetically wrong he could be. Anyhow, after they got their lead guitarist a new pair of trousers (he had peed in his first pair out of stage fright) and wassled up one of the first of their many drummers, they found themselves opening with the theme from JAWS, transitioning right into Day Tripper by the Beatles. They were an immediate smash! Actually, they were moderately and politely received. In either case, the proof is in the pudding. Recent reports indicate Carla and her current husband are still happily, joyfully married. I'd like to think Jet played some small role in that.
The rest, as rock critics say, is History. Mr. Myk and his rag-tag band of scruffy lads from Liverpool (Palmyra Maine actually) would soon turn the music world on its ear, as Serious Attitude, Squeaky Mice and Pavlov's Dogs. They would go on to not show up at Buckinham Palace (where Bigfoot would famously claim that the P-Dogs were more popular than Jesus), not show up at Madison Square Garden, and most notoriously skate out of their gig at Newport Maine's Sesquacentennial Celebration. Bobby Johnston eventually checked himself into rehab, Val the little drummer gal got married and/ or preganat, Spot travelled the earth like Kane on Kung Fu, and Myk joined the Jesuits. It was like Bryan Adam's Summer of 69, on bad Pot. Only Bigfoot Chester eventually continued on as the surviving member of the Pavlov's Dogs. After years of constant touring, he can currently be found not showing up for gigs all around the State of Maine and New England.
So, on the eve of the 14th of February, 2008, let us raise a glass of something fizzy and say Happy Anniversary to the members of Pavlov's Dogs, wherever they may be (ah'm, Nursing Home...cough). Let us please pray for another fine year of not showing up for gigs.
And always remember...'ours go to '11'...
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
You are dead to me".
The agony of this one is so fresh that even 4-5 years later, I hesitate to speak of it. Once again T-Bone and I at his crib, a bit older and long in the tooth, but none the less. The game goes into extra innings, and against the Yanks, you know by now how it goes. Since it's to painful to relate on paper directly, I will express in Haiku, how it ended for the Sox that year:
Pedro, out of Gas
Coach Grady burned the Biscuits
Aaron Fuckin' Boone.
St.Louis, October 2004-
'Ground ball to the pitcher's mound, stabbed by Faulk, he has it, flips to first, and the Boston Red Sox have won the World Series. For the first time in 86 years, the Boston Red Sox are baseball's champions. Can you believe it'. Answering Joe Castiglioni's rhetorical question, no I could not Fucking believe it, I can't fucking believe it. Paraphrasing Neil Armstrong on what he must have actually, REALLY said when he landed on the Moon, ''Jesus Fucking Christ, I am standing on the Mother-Fucking Moon. Holy Fucking Sheep-Shit"!! It was that unbelievable. Much has been written of it in the last few years by better writers than me, and I can assure you it's all true. And I lived to see it. Me and ol' T-Bone smoke the cigar again and get out the special hootch. I toasted my old Paba. Good stuff....It's good to be from Beantown....
...Until this last week. The mighty undefeated Patriots, undeniably now a dynasty, were sure to romp and stomp the hapless Giants of Gotham, and so sweet it would be. It has been the best era in Boston sports history. The Red Sox,champions agaion in 2007, have won two Titles in the young millenium. The Patriots have recently won three Super Bowls and were a couple of plays from going to the prom last year. The Celtics are now the cream of the NBA East and with the newly aquired Garnett and Allen have old cynical codgers like me at least peeking from the corner of our eyes, just wishing. And the Bruins...well, three out of four ain't bad. Anyway, it seemed no harm could come to any denison of Dorchester or Citizen of Southie. That was until I went and bought those damned cigars. I should have known better, I got cocky. The Pats snatched defeat from the jaws of victory and squandered a perfect season. As the final seconds ticked of and the stunning realization dawned on us that they indeed were not impervious to a higher power, I gathered up my jacket and shoes, gave ol' T-Bone a nod, threw my unsmoked cigars in the trash and went out the door to drive home, not even ever have gotten a chance to get drunk. Alas, there is next year, as there always is. There will be more cigars to smoke and more Polish Vodka to toast. As for me, though, I'm taking a little break from sports for a while. One shouldn't take things too seriously. It's only a game. There are more important things in life, you know...
...but in a few weeks, pitchers and catchers are reporting to Ft. Myers Florida.