Separated at Birth, Volume #1

Everybody's favorite Cinematic Pirate and erstwhile Rocker, Keith Richard....

and Hogworts favorite House-Elf, Dobby....

'Mif'n f'ck'n mizzlflender, maaaan', says keith

Celebrity Haiku Volume #668, 'the next door neighbor of the Beast'

You must be Joking

I Looove them TeleTubbies!

Told 'em I was Sick.

Rev. Jerry Falwell

Ask Bigfoot Chester: Advice for the Outdoorsman

Dear Bigfoot-

I read a lot of your stuff recently and you seem to go on and on a lot about 'Fly-Fishing'. What is so great about Fly Fishing anyway? Is it so much different than just plain fishing, you know just sitting in a boat drowning worms? I tried it a couple of times with some buddies, but it was about as exiting as watching latex paint dry. What gives? Are there some hidden lessons in it about life or something? I seem to be missing the point. You're usually on the money, so I'd really appreciate some clarification.

Befuddled in Bedford



Dear Befuddled-

Well, firstly, the main distinction between fly-fishing and 'normal' fishing, my neophyte friend, is that usually 'regular' fisherman are likely to actually catch a fish. Well if that's all you care about, you worm dragging, 'meat-fisherman', you might as well pick another hobby like watching the WWE, because you probably won't get it. I might as well explain why to play golf, why to go watch a baseball game, or why to smoke a $10 cigar. It just doesn't make sense, unless it makes sense. Savey? But if you are willing to open yourself up to the subtle nuances of the finer art form of fly fishing, and aren't too hung up on that 'fish catching' thing, there are indeed some lessons you could learn and apply to your every day life.

The first thing I learned from fly-fishing, that has served me well in my real estate endeavors is this: Location is everyting. If you are standing in the right stream, at the right time, with the sun setting just right, a warm can of Milwaukee's Best can taste like a fine Belgian Ale and a Swisher Sweet can taste like that $10 Cuban cigar. Talk about you 'curb appeal'; try Grand Lake Stream the middle of May, when the hatch is good. Another thing I have learned from fly-fishing that has served me well is that I don't really know much of anything. I've been doing this thing a number of years now, both 'living' and fly-fishing, and the main thing I know is that, most of the time, I'm flying by the seat of my pants. Even in the waters I've fished now for 10 to 15 years, on any given day I don't have a clue as to what fly they're biting on. Same in life. Most of the time, for me, it's guess work at best. But mostly, it works out alright. So there you go. Related to that, as little as I know, I find that everyone else knows about the same, maybe less. The more I talk to fisherman I meet along the stream, the more I realise they're full of shit too. And the more they profess to know, the less they actually know. This a very valuable metaphor for everyday life, I find. As a matter of fact, the two main things I learned from fly-fishing is 'know what you know', and 'keep your mouth shut'. For example, even though I said I know I don't know much, at least I know what I do know, you know? Psychologists call that 'meta-cognition', that is, knowing your knowledge and how to use it. But psychologists are also full of shit, I would say, prone to talking to much. Which leads to the main lesson: keep your mouth shut. Ergo, suppose you are slaying Brook Trout, in an unlikely spot, using an unlikely fly, enjoying the hell out the experience. If a fella asks you how's the fishing, keep your mouth shut and say as little as possible, unless you want all the anglers in the local wooded area to be completely up your ass, taking all your fish. Lesson: don't over-share. Less is more. Another lesson in life gained from fly-fishing is to be able to focus. As a guy with a life-long ADHD affliction, I fully realise how hard it is to stay focused. But in dry fly casting, if'n you aren't focused completely on your floating fly, you are sure to miss that magic sound of 'Schluupp' a Salmon makes just before it breaks the surface of the water and sucks down your Caddis. Thus you will never hear the even more magic 'Schluuup, Whhhzzzz, reel, reel, reel, reel, reel sound of bringing in said Salmon. Focus is important for me, at least when I'm motivated by a big enough Salmon. The most important lesson from fly-fishing, though is how to figure out what's important, remember that, and stick with it. For example, I might not be catching anything but a cool buzz form the warm beers in my creel, but that's not the important thing. The important thing is that I'm not at work, I have three more beers in my creel, four more cigars in my front pocket, and did I mention, I'm not at work. As in life, Fly-Fishing is analagous to my favorite myth, the myth of Syssaphys, who was cursed to roll a rock up a hill for eternity, only to have it roll back down when he reached the top. What Syssaphys didn't realise is that it's not whether he ever gets the rock to the top of the hill, it's in the act of rolling the rock. Enjoy the fuck out of rolling the rock, even though you know full well it's a waste of time. Likewise, whether you fill your bag full of fat Rainbows is irrelevent, if you are enjoying the act of not catching fish. Just make sure you have enough beer. It seems to help.

Anyway, there you have it, Befuddled, even though I'm pretty sure you're not going to believe it. But hey, I could be wrong, you metal bait slinging neanderthal fish-killer. In eithe case, be careful out there and keep your Muddler moist.

Bigfoot Chester

Iggy still gets it done...

I hope I'm still this fucking Whacko when I reach retirement age. It takes a bit of time to buffer up, but the clip is pretty good.

www.v8films.com/_projekte/stooges/

'The Dude Abides': 5 Stories Last Week that indicate the End of the World

You don't have to read through Revelations sometimes to realise that the world is going straight to Hell in a $120 Longenberger Basket. The older I get, the more crusty, cynical and resigned I get to that fact. Of course, it doesn't help that, indeed, the world IS going to Hell in a hand-basket. If'n you don't believe me, check out these true headlines from last week. In no particular order, I offer you:

The Dude Abides- The web-site Entertainment Earth is now selling a line of Action Figures based on the cult-movie classic, 'The Big Lebowsky'. Yes you too can now own the 8" likenesses of Jeff Bridges, 'Dude' and John Goodman;'s, 'Walter'. They'll probably go along nicely with your totally mint Kirk and Spock Action-figures you got at that San Diego Trekkie Convention last year. Then you might want to consider moving out of your Mom's basement, Travis.

DubaiLand- There's a new Theme Park opening in India called DubaiLand. Chock full of exiting and cultural attractions like feces throwing monkies, syphalytic beggars, rick-shaws, and more feces throwing monkies, this disaster in the making theme park is completely enclosed in glass. An indoor theme park, you ask. Yes, Dubai sounds like it's average daily temperature is 112 degrees. Sounds like a winner, Mahatma!

Dickens World- Speaking of the most stupid idea I have ever heard, this just took the cake from DubaiLand. Dickens World will be a theme park in London, supposedly recreating the effervescent era of ol' Chas Dickens' writings. Disease, Rats, Rat Catchers, and even more beggars than Dubailand will add a festive flair to your experience of literary history. Just don't drink the water. 'It was the best of theme-parks, it was the worst of theme-parks.

Make up your fucking mind Roger- After much wooing from the Red Sox, Yankees, and home team Astros, Rocket Roger Clemmons finally decides to drink the Kool Aid and sign with the Evil Empire for a part time job as their fifth starter. To paraphrase an old song from the 70's, 'Ramblin' boy, why don't you settle down, Boston ain't your kind of town,...' Seriously, if the deal with Roger included a middle relief pitcher, I think it might have been worth it, cuz' the old fat bastard will be dragging his big fat ass by about the fifth inning on every start. Of course Rocket says it's not about the money. Right. I am the Walrus. Coo Coo Ca Choo.

That's a hell of a hat, yo- England's Queen Mum this week made a whirl wind trip through the states, her first in a long time, and here, here it's about time too! To quote another old song from the 70's, 'God save the Queen, we mean it maaaaan'. First the old bag stopped to visit and console the students at Virginia Tech, some of whom thought she was Martha Stewart. Then she stopped at Churchill Downs, coincidentally named after Winston Churchill's drunken Uncle 'Skates', who used to like to bet the Nags. There she got totally bagged on killer Mint Julips and ended up doin a Keg Stand on the infield with Paris Hilton. Awesome. Well, at least she had the hat for the occasion.

Well there you go. If that doesn't prove things are heading south, take a look at Fox TV. Any way, I'm crawling back into my bottle of Bacardi. I know ther's a Mohito left in there somewhere.

Mo-Hiiiiitooo!!!

Peace out,

BFC

Where have you gone, Jackie Robinson...

The Dynamic Duo- Batman and his partner, boy-wonder Robin Protect Gotham City from Evil N'er Do Wells such as Penguin and the Joker

The 'Ambiguous' Duo-Admiral J.T. Kirk, and his long time companion Mr. Spock, Protect the Universe from Klingon Imperialism and spread the Federation's Creed of Democratic Self-Determinism.

The Dogmatic Duo-Jesse 'Hymie-Towne' Jackson and not so reverend "Nappy' Al Sharpton Protect America from Wrinkly ol' Bigoted Radio DJ's, Rapin' LaCrosse playing student athletes, and will pretty much come a running like ants from under a log, when ever a cause presents itself, as long as it keeps their useless old asses in the limelight.

Shoooooow me the Money!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqfFrCUrEbY

Okay, I changed my mind. This is the best thing on the intronet I've seen all week. The Who have never sounded better. Youtube to the rescue again. God, I'm so ashamed.

Salad Days:If you believe there's a Rock n' Roll Heaven...

Bigfoot Chester's Future retitement home, Cootersville Alabama

I felt a great disturbance in the force today, as Obi Won used to say to me all the time. I never knew what the hell he meant either. In any case, today, dear readers, I found out in the news that, after complications from a fall at his New York home, beloved author and pivotal influence to my adolescence, Kurt Vonnegut Jr. died. So it goes. Coincidentally, or maybe not, today is also the birthday of erstwhile teen-idol and Partridge David Cassidy. My calculations make him at about 57. I was also reading a concert revue in the Globe the other day, waxing nostalgic about Iggy Pop and a current tour featuring the Igster and some of the original Stooges at the Orpheum in Boston. Turns out ol' Iggy is over 60 years old himself. Jesus fuckin' bejeepers: Iggy Pop over 60! What the hell! When did that happen? And why is he still out there yelling and a'smearing peanut butter on himself, moshing in the mosh-pit, with kids young enough to be his grandchildren, on that bad hip of his? Man, this kind of stuff gets a me to thinking. Thinking about my own mortality. Thinking of what's left to do and what's been left undone. Got me to thinking about the old Salad Days again, and all the great rock shows I've seen over the years and all the great shows that got away. I had a pretty good run for a while there. So since I've already bored the starch out of my wife with these stories at least a hundred times, I guess it's up to you, faithful readers of SBL#178, to absorb the brunt of my nostalgic ruminations. So, here they are: the top 5 rock n" roll highs and rock n" roll lows from the arhives of Bigfoot Chester's pre-dementia memory bank. In no particular order, I offer up the following excerps from Rock History:

High- Only a Lad: Backstage with Oingo Boingo and Squeeze:

The Orpheum Theatre in Boston some time in the mid-80's. Me and my old buddy Duayne Sherman scored some tickets from this guy named Roman from Oingo Boingo's label. We called Roman from the Dunkin Donuts in Saugus on the way into town. He say,' do you want to meet the band'? We says, 'sure, why the hell not'. So we got to meet Roman and the entourage at Legal Seafood, a very chi-chi eatery in Fannual Hall. So I'm there sitting next to Danny Elfman, chit-chatting about his new project, soundtracking a Rodney Dangerfield movie or something. Very nice. So we finish eating and are invited to sit in for their soundcheck. We thoroughly enjoy the check and also a great set by Boingo, before the main act comes on, one of my personal favorites,Squeeze. Gifford, Tillbrook, Carrack et al play a sensational set and we are invited by Roman to come back stage and schmooze with the band. So imagine me, long haired leaping gnome back stage drinking Heinekin, talking shit with Jules Holland, ace piano palyer and seemingly one hell of a nice guy. I went home that night with two souvenirs: Oingo Boingo's setlist and one hell of a case of heart burn from the salmon I had at Legal Seafood. What a night.

Low-Missing the Stones 1981:

Back in the 70's, the Stones were the greatest show on earth. I mean if Jesus came back he wouldn't have been a hotter ticket. Even in 1981, when I first dipped my toes into college life, they were still pretty cool. Not like now, when the old buggers look like Dame Judy Dench and the fucking Golden Girls. In 1981, they were still cool: on the bubble, but still cool. Anyway, amazingly, though I'd been to many big rock shows already, I had yet to see the Stones. Alas, by the time I got to my bank, rounded up my ol' buddy Spot, raced to Augusta to the nearest Ticketron outlet in my 1974 Mercury Monterray, and got a speeding ticket, we found ourselves 6 people short in line. As the ticket window slowly close, so also disappeared my hope of ever seeing the Stones while they were still cool. Well, at least we'll always have that Super Bowl Half time.

High-Warren Zevon at Merril Hall Auditorium:

Me and ol' Spot, together again. We were a bit earlty to the show and were low on cash, so instead of hopping bars until show time, we decuided to get our seats ahead of time. We must have been really early, because when we went through the gate, there was nobody there. So we leave our tickets on the counter and find our spots, balcony Center. Not bad. Turns out I was privey to another big sound check. Spot gets bored and starts snooping around backstage. He comes running back and tells me he found Zevon's dressing room and heard him talking. So we both go back and prepare to hound the poor bastard. But halfway there, we meet the Zevon entourage coming on-stage to finish the soundcheck and test Mr. Zevon's mic. As he passes by us Mr. Zevon points to the balcony in the stately old theatre and says 'Seat Mr. Lincoln over there'. The security guys subsequently tell us to return to our seats until show time. We enjoy a great show and 'his hair was perfect'.

Low-The Big Easy:

New Orleans, right around Mardi Gras. Hurricanes, Gumbo and the French Quarter. Possibly one the most classic bars in the world, Tchoupitoulas', in the eclectically seedy warehouse district. What could be a better backdrop for an epic night of music, right? Who was playing that night? The Radiators? The Neville Brothers? Stevie Ray Vaughan? No, friends, it was 'That Petrol Emotion'. Who? That's right, 'That Petrol Emotion'. I finished my beer and went back to the hotel.

High-Johnny B. Goode:

Living Legend Chuck Berry at the Pit, Orono Maine. I was back in high school and somehow my parents gave me the nod to take my 74 Merc, the Deathmobile to a real live 'concert'. Probably didn't hurt that it was Chuck, one of my dad's favorites. Anyhow, me and the usual list of suspect, including the infamous Hazelton Bros. twisted the night away to the boogie woogie strains of the Architect of Rock n' Roll himself. At the last encore, Ol' Chuck invited a number of front-stagers to come up on the stage and dance with band. So there I am, not more than 3 feet from the wrinkly old bastard, while he did the Duck-Walk. Claaaaasic.

Low-Smokin' in the Boys Room, Rockland Maine:

You all rmember the 70's hit Smoking in the Boy's Room by Brownville Station, right, also covered by some hair band in the 80's, Motley Crue, I think. Well me and this little band I was in, Strange Brew, was playing in Rockland Maine, home of the North Atlantic Blues Festival. Well no, we weren't actually playing at the Fest, but since a lot of the actual musicians were staying at the Tradewinds Hotel, where we were playing, there were a lot of 'celebrities' in the audience. So anyway, this dude comes up to us at break and asks if we would like to do a set with Cub Coda, founder of Brownville Staion, 'you know, Smokin' in the Boy's Room'. We says sure, it sounds like a blast to jam with a real live musician. This could be our big break. Turned out, not only was the guy a no-talent, but he was the biggest, most pompous ass I had ever jammed with. I shouldn't be telling you this, because, evidentally he croaked a couple of years back, and I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. But hey, Kurt Vonnegut also croaked. So it goes.

High-Gabba Gabba Hey at the Living Room:

The Living Room, back in the 80's, was the hottest night club in Rhode Island short of The Station. The Ramones were the greatest rock n' roll band to ever lay down three chords and a cloud of dust. Jane's Addiction was the most pertinent up and coming Alt-band on the scene. A recipe for success. You bet. Undoubtedly the best show I've ever been to. As the Mow-hawked, noes-bloodied dude I smashed into in the Mosh pit so eloquently summarized the scene, a la Keanu Reeves, 'Whow dude'!

Low-Make mine a Tuborg-Jame Taylor at Tanglewood:

As previosly written in 'Salad Days: Me and Meryl Streep and James Taylor and Barely Spraged', I hadn't always been the biggest James Taylor fan, though I've since grown to be. At the time, though, after seeing shows like aforementioned Ramones at the Living Room, JT at the ultra-mellow Tanglewood scene seemed like a notch or two lower on the coolness scale. To make matters worse, I found my self waiting in a long beer line before the show. Well, let me retrace: it was cool that I could buy beer at least. Bu who should be in line with me waiting for a brew than Academy Award winning actress Meryl Streep. The coolness level plummeted precipitously. Anyhow, it turns out we bought the same brand of beer, Tuborg Gold, and, like me, her favorite movie of all time was Repo Man. Who'd a thunk? I thoroughly enjoyed the show, as well as my brush with fame a la Streep, but that's between you and me, 'kay?

High-Dont'cha be no Baaad Boy:

Pine Top Perkins is a still legendary blues pianist, a pivotal influence on both Blues and Rock n' roll. He played with many legendary front men, most notably Muddy Waters. His recordings read like a living history of Blues music and his live shows are legendary. The thing about old blues musicians, though, is, that after a while they get a little kooky. Though the night I saw him play at the Tradewinds in Rockland was epic, the highlight of the show came during a break. Being blues groupies, me and my friends sought out and clustered around ol' Pinetop and sought to shoot the shit and benefit from his greatness. Ol' Pinetop, on the other hand, just wanted to have him a drink or two and catch a buzz before he went back onn. He also, it seemed, wanted to hit on all the members of our party, men and women alike. As I was bringing ol' Pinetop another round, I see him rubbing his pelvis up against my buddy ol Tom, saying, 'dont'cha be no baaaad boy. You ain't no baaad boy are you'. No shit. 'Uh, Mr. Perkins, it's time to go back on'.

Low-Iggy at the Channel, mid-80's:

Iggy Pop always represented the seedy underbelly of Rock. The Channel always represented the seedy underbelly of Boston Rock clubs. Iggy was also riding a wave of popularity from his big hit 'Cold Metal'. The Channel was one short subway ride from where I was living at the time. Iggy would subsequently use the recordings from this gig to make a live record. The Boston Globe decribed the show in such epocryphal terms as 'tour de force' and 'juggernaut' .

Only an asshole would miss a show like that, right? Well call me an asshole, because I missed it. Not because my Mom was sick in the hospital. Not because I had to be at the birth of my first child. No, just because I didn't feel like going out that night. When I die and go to the Pearly Gates, and they ask me if there's one thing I would go back and change, it would be that I would have gone to see Iggy Pop that night. You know why? Because now he's over 60. And he's got a bad hip. And one of these days, I'll pick up the Globe and read that Iggy Pop has died in his Detroit Mich. home after complications from a fall. Just like Kurt Vonnegut.

So it goes.

Happy F'in Easter...

Here you go, you Pagan bastards. This video warms the Cockles of my heart, stone cold as it may be:

http://one.revver.com/watch/18559/format/flv/affiliate/8401

That reminds me of another one...

I was at this cocktail party a few years back down in Boston. Famed MIT Professor Noam Chomsky was there. He comes up to a group of us talking and asks a friend of mine, 'what's your I.Q.'? My friend says, 'about 160'. 'Good', he says, 'I can talk Quantum Physics with you'. He turns to me and says, well what's your I.Q.'? I sez', 'it's about 120, I recon' '. 'Good', he says, ' I can talk World Geography with you'. He turns to the dude to our right and asks what his I.Q. was and the dude says, 'uh, about 75 or 80, I guess, why'? So Chomsky thinks real hard for a second and sez' to the guy,

'uh... Go Yankees' !