Thursday, December 03, 2009
Friday, November 06, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
There was this guy, we'll call him Gordy, who was in the mood to go ice fishing one fine day. He gets himself his fishing traps, buys himself some bait and gets out the old ice auger. He gets his'self to his favorite bit of ice and sets up his gear. He starts cutting a hole in the ice, but suddenly hears a booming voice that says, "THERE ARE NO FISH HERE". Non-plussed, Gordy picks up his gear and moves down ice to pick another likely spot. He gets the auger going and the same impressive voice says, ''THERE ARE NO FISH HERE''! This happens a couple of more times: Gordy gets his ice hole started and the booming voice tells him there are no fish there. Finall, he looks up to the Heaven and exclaims, "Is that you God"?!
There is a moment of silence and then the voice sighs and says,......
(wait for it....)
"No, this is the Rink Manager Gordy, THERE ARE NO FISH HERE"!
Saturday, June 27, 2009
I was on a hike!
CRY for me Argentina
Well, KIND of a Hike...
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Where the Hell am I
Who the Hell is the Black guy?
Mary Jo Ka-who?!
-Senator Edward Kennedy
Saturday, April 04, 2009
'Twas an evening in November,
Yes I lay there in the gutter
Friday, March 06, 2009
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The year was 1981, and me in my natuaral prime, had just left my parent's nest. I had established myself and my college career in the swanky, cosmopolitan capital of Maine, and was plying my academic acumen at the University of Maine in Augusta. When I say academics, I don't mean to lead the reader astray and imply I was actually going to classes. Nay, it happened to be more the case that I was actually skipping most of my classes. They were Art classes anyway, and, since Art is impermanent and all, I figured what's the big deal about actually studying. I had, though, met up with a couple of swanky babes at the campus, one Korean girl and one hippy-chick from Vinyl Haven, and we hit it off right away. We used to hang out and smoke Ginch, paint our paintings, draw our Charcoal sketches and ride around town on our bikes, wearing Berets and looking very Bohemian. I lived in a very old, 3 story appartment house on Chamberlain St. and was the only tenant. I had the big old house to myself. Unfortunately, the joint was very haunted by an old lady who apparently died in her sleep there years earlier. This according to the Granola girlfriend of my landlord. Anyhow, aside from that, and a Friday 8am Art History class, life was pretty good. I missed my old Homies in Newport, but if I skipped my Friday class, I could be drinking and jamming by supper time each Friday. The old lady ghost didn't make too much noise, excepting the occasional bump and squeak and I generally had the run of the place, blasting my tunes and mastering my domain.
One paritcular Thursday afternoon, I had just returned from class, and was listenning to the radio. I was enjoying a nutritious supper of Kool Whip and Peanut Butter, right out of the bowl when WBLM announced that the Rolling Stones had announced an extra date for Hartford Connecticutt on their current tour. I knew the Stones were touring, but all the dates in the area were sold out. I had never, at that point, seen the Stones. They were the Holy Grail for an 18 year old Rocker. I had seen about every concert that had come to the area, but Mick and Keith had somehow eluded me. An extra date on the tour might just be my in. Now keep in mind this was 1981. There was no Stub Hub and no Internet. The only way a lone poor boy like me could get such Tix was through the local Ticketron, which was located across town. That would have been fine, except that 1981 was also before the time when I had Credit Cards or ATM cards. I had about $8.67 on me and my bank was back in the Hub, 60 miles away. The tickets were selling faster than shit through a tin horn and I needed to take immediate action. I called my most esteemed crony and band mate, Spot, and told him to saddle up, I'd be in Newport in a half hour. I stoked up the Death Mobile and off I went. I needed to get to my bank before it closed, and get to the Sears in Augusta before the mighty Stones sold out. How I was going to get me and ol' SPot to Connecticutt with my car and no funds I would figure out later.
I put the D.B.'s 400 cubic inch engine to the test and soon was in Newport picking up Hughie and my cash. We skeedaddle back immediately to Augusta, blasting Exile on Main Street as loud as my 8-Track would blast...."Yeah, hear the women sighin', all down the line"...It was destiny. We would be seeing the Stones, the greatest show on Earth,the Glimmer Twins, Keef Riffhard, my musical hero. Nothing could stop us. Nothing, that is, except a State Trooper. A Sate Trooper, who coincdentally was my parent's next door neighbor, Duane. He unsentimenatally and uncerimoniously wrote me a big ol' ticket for speeding, 88 in a 65, I think. Worse than that though, he cost us precious time. Tickets were selling out rapidly as we waited there on the side of the highway. By the time we got to the Sears, the line was a big stinky phalanx of stoners winding all the way into the automotive section. The ticket office window was so far away, I could barely see it. Spot and I chewed our nails and waited with baited breath, hoping there would be two with our name on them. Alas, as you may guess, as we approached the window, verily the next hopeful customers in line, it slammed closed. The Stones were sold out. My disappointment was bitter.
I learned a few valuable lessons that day. First, I hate cops, especially officer Duane, the un-neighborly bastard. Second, I needed a credit card. Third, I was wasting my fucking time in Art School. If I hadn't been at University dicking around, I would have been better prepared for the elementally important things in life, namely, like rabbing my bud' Spot and snatching up those fucking Stones tickets. My time would be far better served, it seemed, back in the hub, where my old band mates were handy, in case the urge to jam struck. Lesson four, I should never mix Kool Whip with peanut butter; I had a wicked stomach ache. So, withtin a very short time, I quit the college life and soon was plying my musical acumen with my old buddies..."too cool for school, too stupid for the real world...hey, I know, I'll start a band...
Anyhow, to think I could have been working.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
I was young and dumb
My cousin injected me
I am the Walrus
right...coo coo ca choo...
Friday, February 13, 2009
Tomorrow marks, oh , I don't know, the 27th or 28th anniversary of my first professional gig as a musician. As you will recall from previous posts, or if you have read any of the major Rock History books, it was the wedding of Carla Starbird, a friend of the Bigfoot family. It was a night to be long remembered in infamy, not necessarily for Carla and her Groom, but for the legion of fans of Jet, the rock and roll juggernaut that would become Pavlov's Dogs, the greatest band that never was.
Not much has changed in the last twenty odd years for me. Oh sure, Ive gotten married, become a responsible adult, had kids, grown staggeringly old and boring....okay, a lot has changed. But the fact remains that I will be, once again, be rocking the herd, as of old, to celebrate the anniversay of Jet's innaugeration, this Saturday at the Solon Hotel in downtown metropolitan Solon Maine. Once again I will hear the calls for, 'Freebird'! and, 'one last song'. Once again I will taste the sweet, vindicating nectar of free beer, supplied by the bar tender as a balm for the startling lack of feduiciary compensation for providing the masses with fine classic rock and roll. Once again I will feel the blisters develop on my right ring finger in the third set. Once again I will hear the mind-numbing 60mhz mid-range feedback when I try to sing 'Brown Eyed Girl'. I will play 'Cocaine' for the 1,358th time, and the crowd will say unto me,'Woooooo'! as they do the dance of the old white guy. I will scan the crowd, and eye the babes that now are way too young for me to be eying. I will watch as I play as the bouncers, with glee, throw out drunks into the cold Solon night. It will be good to be back in the saddle.
The reasons that I wanted to get into a rock band were far different when I was a lad back in the scruffy streets of Liverpool. Back in the day, being in a band was chiefly for the money, the fame and the babes. Alas tomorrow, we will not be playing in New York, Boston or LA. We will be playing in Solon Maine. We will be playing at the Solon Hotel, to be specific. If you've never been, think of the saloon in Clint Eastwood's 'High Plains Drifter', only with bigger women and instead of horses out in the front there are Moose and the ocassional rusted out GMC Blazer. Fame we are not seeking. As for the money, my haul tomorrow will not likely broach $100. Gas to Solon from the friendly confines of Orono will likely be almost that much. As for the babes, well, even if I weren't so insanely in love with my adorable spouse, I haven't near the Moxie necessary anymore to put up with the bullshit and conversation required to pick up and/or take home any sketchy babes hanging out at the old Solon. In any case, I'm much too old and creepy for even the skankiset of bar mavens at this point in my life.
Yet, here I am again. I will once again don the Hawaiin shirt and strap on the old Fender Jazz Bass. I will meet up with my old buddies Dan and Linda. We will chill out with some of the early regulars and enjoy a cold beer or a shot. They will ask us what kind of stuff we play. We will set up the gear. We will do a sound check. With a little luck, we will get a free dish of fries or a Chimchanga from the bar's kitchen. The crowd will start to fill in, with a little luck, and soon it will be time. I'll grab anothe quick brew, or a water, we'll turn on the PA and I'll tune up the Fender. We'll scan the song list for a few minutes to formulate a plan that we'll soon abandon after just a few songs. I'll turn on the amp, which will be picking up an annoying transister buzz from the house lights, and I pull a pick out from my shirt pocket. Start with 'Sweet Home Chicago' methinks. We give each other a nod and a wink and the lights come up. It is precisely at that moment that I remember why I keep doing this shit, why I keep on playing the same old songs for the same old people in the same old places, drinking the same old beer and shots. It is at that exact moment I remember why I got into the Rock and Roll game to begin with.
At that moment I remember it. At this moment, however, it seems to be eluding me. I don't know why I do it anymore, to be honest. But I do. Ask me tomrrow at the Solon why I do. Maybe I'll remember then.
Anyhow, keep on a rockin' kids.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Okay, I waited as long as I could wait. I tried to give Him the benefit of the doubt, being a good bleeding heart Boston Liberal. I gave Him 15 days. I waited for the afterglow of the Love Fest of an Inauguration to pass and His approval rating to simmer down to double digits. I waited for Jay-Z, Beyonce, Bono, Aretha, and Oprah to go back home. I even waited for all the sycopahantic Republicans, desperate to stay within the glow of His Rock Star poularity, to sink back into the woodwork of Bipartisan Politics and get ready to rain on His parade. I waited to see who He would appoint to his cabinet. Unfortunately, he would end picking His appointees from IRS's most audited list. I waited to see what His recipe for the Recession would be. It turned out His recipe was a $500 Billion 'Pork' dish, served to the taxpayer on a TV tray, flambe. I waited America. I waited.
I waited 15 days, and now I say to you America: prepare to be Dazzled. Liberals, you're not gonna be satisfied. He's too moderate. Moderates: way too liberal. Republicans: Fugetaboutit!
As for me, Bigfoot Chester, Chief Editor of the SBL#178, seven words America, seven words:
"Don't blame me, I voted for Nader"!