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| The lovely Ealing star: Joan Greenwood. |
So you think you had a pepperoni? Well, not like this. So you think you had a calzone? Well, not like this. March 2003. Drinking Scotch that night at the Scottish pub across the street from the Great Am Music Hall, The City, CA. Daddy put in his beer shift or cheese-monger shift, he cannot remember which. Prob cheese-monger, lovers. Daddy rode BART. He knew he would have hour upon hour to kill, yet the pay-off, the show, the Scotch, the meeting afterwards with his soon to be future beyonce and her crazy best friend, her dot com computer savant lover, etc, ...
Sister of mine/Home again.
The BART ride was full of sweaty, lovely, optimistic fervor. And I, Daddy asked, Will see them finally? What is it aboot that and bands, nothing quite like movies, that we become fouteen year old girls when it comes to bands, playing live, at yor club. Yor club, some foreign entity is invading yor precinct, yor hood, yor, ... ya get it, ya?
The headphones for Daddy prob were Turbonegro in prep for the event that was aboot to happen. Yet, it is poss, extr poss that it was Steely Dan that drove Daddy to the show on the BART train.
The smell of garlic makes me pumped up and enthusiastic. At that Scots pub in the City they did a play production of Trainspotting, written by Welsh, himself. It got lots of good notices. Daddy is reading those notices right now. How British, how pub-like, some of the best theatre in a fuking pub in the Tenderloin?
There is a walk. A walk from the SHOPPING MALL BART stop & where our hero, Daddy has to go. It is a walk Daddy is cruelly fam with. It is a walk that tempts. Perhaps twelve more blocks, Daddy sez. Up to SexTown/North Beach, Lusty Lady, they always seem impressed and complimentary (tho not as complimentary as the ladies were to Sheephead singer, Chris Shephard [sp]) but Daddy chooses drink and literature instead,
Do you remember what it was like in the Spring of 2003?
Daddy buffered his soul & psyche w/ independent weeklies. Daddy hunkered down in the darkest corners of the Edinburgh Castle (just 'cross the street from the TURBONEGRO show to soon happen.)
Y'know, Fincher wanted Costello's Beyond Belief, one of the greatest rok songs of all-time for Zuckerberg's walk home before he awfully ripped his ex to shreds. I believe the studio pushed fuking NIN on him. Gotta be hip! Gotta be young, shiny, bright! (I like the Wendy Carlos NIN version during the regatta- still, Fincher talks aboot NIN when the Beatles let loose at the end. He got Baby, You're A but nothing else. Heck, Baby cost so much he felt OBLIGATED to rave aboot a mediocre score that shouln't e'er have occured.)
It is Raw Ramp, T Rex, one hour 'fore Pnut appears.
Where was I? Oh yeah, poring through the weeklies. The weeklies spelling every motherfucking reason why an invasion of Iraq has got to be the worst idea possible. I remember drinking Glenlivet (Harp baks) and learning aboot the terrible repercussions that such an invasion would entail.
S'funny. One of the most idiotic, delusional, and crassly political maneuvers of all our US history results in thousands of innocent Afghani & Iraqi dead. (Hey, no big deal. It is not us, right?)
Really, who cares, Daddy is going to the Big Show tonight.
(INTERLUDE: KILLER BEACH, THEE MICHELLE GUN ELEPHANT!) Ice cream!
He pours Keenan 05 Cab and sighs.
Daddy has suked up the Scotch. He is ready to invade the mind that is Norwegian wood, dark metal, not really, really just pure rok n' roll.
Turbonegro make Daddy wait fore'er. There is no opening act. As Daddy waits he thinks of the darkness in the Scots pub. All the politics become real. All the politics dissolve as the band finally after endless Pinter pauses appears. Daddy had waited for hours.
The sweat smelled so good. The kids that were not there were so envious. There was pot smoking and laying down on crap beds. There was Scotch just to catch up. There were envious looks across the hall. There were reasons that young folk could reasonably not give a shit aboot the motherfuking awful things that surrounded them at the time.
Man, it is not Daddy's fault. Turbonegro have no agenda. I am beginning to believe that I have no political agenda, either, sadly.
Reach up. Whene'er you are confronted w/ something that gives you pause or hurts yor soul, STAND THE FUK UP, and say, You are wrong, my friend, ...
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