Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)

(Quietly trying to slip the key into the door, one-eyed, then, finally hitting my mark, unlock the door and slowly open it, cringing as it creaks; gently, closing it, softly resetting the lock. Pause. Take off my shoes and tip-toe across the floor, stopping with a mouthful of my own heart at every soft announcement of my presence).

Like a running sore, I return at the most inopportune moment. Fortunately, many of you scrubbed me away, so you'll be unaware of my return. Hopefully, you made your partner aware that I once infected your blogroll (you were younger then, somewhat promiscuous about who you listed, you were really drunk when you added me...) and those days are over.

Things are much different here as well and over the following days and weeks and months I'll explain that in great detail.

For me, it means the world and, no matter how hackneyed it may read, it will truly be a single, full-time dad figuring it out.

Sometimes, ice cream dribbling off my chin is just... ice cream

"On top of that," she said, "your blog is a piece of crap!"

The blogger people (who have one eye and horns and teeth like those rubber erasers you used to stab with a pencil in first grade), told me that, if I was committed to writing a blog, I'd better do it, goddammit.
At least that's what the email said. It had a link to a site for a bank that I don't use that asked for my personal information, so it must have been legit. Figured I'd better get a'bloggin'. Don't want THOSE people crawling up my drain pipes.
Unfortunately, since all my writing mojo goes into tweeting ("Car won't start no jumper cables and I didnt shave - ur prayers appreciated"), there's little left to do but steal from my column. Once those run out, I suppose I'm back to blogging about psycho ex-girlfriends and my bosses breath.
Until then, another blast from the recent past:

As Steely Dan sang, “When Black Friday comes/I’m gonna’ dig myself a hole.” That sentiment seems to have been shared, if initial reports are to believed.

But not by me.

And while I confess the temptation was there for me, I did not go over to the Dark Side. Not a cent was spent, not here in Pagosa Country, not in Durango, nor anywhere, not even online.

I boycotted the day and I was glad for it.

Besides, I believe the real bargains will be just at the last moment when merchants are truly desperate because, I think, well … they’ll be truly desperate.

My holiday version of Game Theory.

If there was indeed an inclination to dig a hole, it would have been something around six feet deep, in a remote location, and furnished with ample amounts of lime. The brain trust that determined a week off from school during Thanksgiving break was a nifty idea would now be facing charges as accessories to murder.

With them having the whole week off, I was at my wit’s end. Literally. By Sunday, I was lip diddling, drooling, der der derrrrring.

Back when Wooly Mammoth was served during the big day and the Macy’s parade was comprised of a dozen or so Native Americans toting a pilgrim effigy, we might have had, at the most, Black Friday (known then as the-day-after-Thanksgiving) off from school; maybe Wednesday if we were travelling to be with distant relatives. Times were hard back then and it used to snow a lot more.

Thus, it was my three, cold weather, a feast and scant reason to travel beyond the tribe.

If you’re not afraid, yet, get afraid.

With no shopping, no sanity and no motivation to do much of anything (including, digging deep holes — I was wearing the stretchy pants, yo), I was further left with no decent programming on the tube, unless endless holiday movies or Deadliest Catch marathons is your thing. Not mine. Click, Monk. Click, Law and Order. Click, Mythbusters.

Yawn. Rinse, repeat.

Late one night, however, scrolling past the standard dross on HBO, I came across “Control,” a biopic based on the life of Joy Division’s lead singer, Ian Curtis. And it occurred to me, as I watched it, that I had stumbled across the final part of an unintentional triptych of movies: the aforementioned “Control” (2007), “Velvet Goldmine” (1998), and “24 Party People” (2004). Although the threads are all there, as surely as they are for the Lord of the Rings trilogy, each movie was produced independently (in every sense of the word) with no connection with the other. Except that, they are all connected, in extremely interesting ways.

While “Velvet Goldmine” is certainly the least of the three, it is the necessary starting point in the trilogy.

Less documentary and more allegory, VG charts the rise and fall of a David Bowie-esque character named Brian Slade (none-so-subtly hammering the point home with four songs on the soundtrack by either Slade, Brian Eno or Eno-era Roxy Music) and through his story, the similar mercurial story of Glam Rock.

Ostensibly paying homage to Citizen Kane (with a young Christian Bale, as the journalist sent out to discover the story of Slade), the movie soon loses its way, slipping quickly from a potentially brilliant story to become a mediocre movie. Thinly veiled references to Iggy Pop-slash-Curt Cobaine in the character of Curt Wild (and, ho hum, Oscar Wilde) and Lou Reed do little to salvage the car wreck the film. However, with a little imagination and ample substances (and a mind open enough to overcome the movie’s outré sexual themes), one can get an idea of what was happening in the early ’70s that led to the early punk scene in England.

It’s important to note, however, that while the early Glam Rock scene influenced the British punk scene (especially bands like the New York Dolls, Mott the Hoople, the previously mentioned Slade and Bowie, himself), punk took an ethos and sound from the Glam Rock scene and twisted it to — well, anarchic ends.

Following the worst of the bunch, “24 Hour Party People” is the best of the bunch. A quasi-documentary about the Manchester scene from the mid-’70s until the early-’80s, 24HPP does a brilliant job of capturing how punk, disgusted in its emergence from the Glam Rock scene, evolved in so many directions. In a short amount of time, like tentacles from an amorphous (and sexually ambiguous) dark cloud, that influence continues to confound record executives. Digital downloads or not, the suits have never figured out what the kids like. Ever.

The next movie charms us from the beginning. Narrated by British TV newsman Tony Wilson (a real character, played by comedian Steve Coogan), the movie charts the fortunes of Factory Records and Wilson’s own demise (for better or worse) as his record company and club gives rise to the Rave scene, something that lingers with us, like a case of herpes.

Don’t let my description dissuade you, however; the movie will have you laughing out loud. It’s not just a movie for music geeks. Of the three, it’s the one that I recommend as a stand-alone, the one that is, by far, the one you should see.

Early in the film, Wilson signs “Warsaw” to his label, a band not completely within the punk umbrella — and definitely problematic. As its lead singer deals with a relationship he doesn’t want and epilepsy he can’t control, Wilson realizes he has genius on his hands and he’s signed all his control away. Furthermore, after the band changes its name to “Joy Division” (the name the Nazis gave to women forced into prostitution in concentration camps), the band acquired an unwanted following by neo-Nazi skinheads. Not an auspicious beginning for Wilson’s first signed act, an act he signed, by blood.

While the next two-thirds of the film deal with the Factory Records fortunes and the aftermath, “Control” sits just beneath 24HPP. It’s not a bad movie (“Velvet Goldmine” is not a bad movie either, in that “so bad it’s good” sort of way). It’s just not great’– and kind of depressing.

If you want to end your mix on an upbeat song, “Control” won’t allow you that; you’re going to bed feeling bummed.

As I said, the movie delves into the life of Joy Division lead singer Ian Curtis and his, frankly, bleak existence (despite the fame). While 24HPP lets you know that, what remained of Joy Division became New Order (and the biggest money maker for Factory Records), it doesn’t tell you the danger of nihilism, in all it’s stripped down realism; “Control” does, almost to the point of making you gag.

So, how does this all become, as I said, an unintentional triptych?

Joy Division was never a punk band; their influences go back to the Glam Rock movement, no matter how un-glam they seem. In fact, what they did was blur the lines, spread velvet across the fissures that were created while rock was spitting into seemingly indivisible lines.

The evidence is there in the second movie. The wrap up is in the third movie.

The spear that brings it through, like it’s ripping through a hunk of Jamaican goat (seared in the offices of Factory Records), is the weird little movie that starts the watching.

As much press as was given to Curt Cobain blowing his brains out, Curtis had sparse mention. He hung himself. The TV was on while he did it. One in a million in America knew what he did as opposed to Cobain, who one-in-five or something like that knew what happened, a pretty face shattered face all over the covers of grocery store magazines.

Yet, while Curt Cobain gets reverence from a certain, narrow segment of music, Curtis’s influence remains widespread — from Lady Ga Ga to, yes, Widespread Panic.

With more holidays coming up and many of us wondering if we can afford the local day ticket or maybe it’s better to stay close to home, on those nights locked in the cabin, I recommend those three movies, back–to-back or at least, a few nights in a row. Fill your jug, though.

Eh, it wasn't as bad as I made it sound. Neither were the movies, for that matter.
In the future, I'll work on making everything sound worse.
It's why they pay me a substandard wage. Dontchaknow.

Hello, hellhole

Lucy hears about the Stupak amendment.

Psst, psst, test, test, one, two, three...

Well... that didn't work out.

Not going into details but here I am again, no regrets, just rugrats.

It's not that I haven't been writing: in fact, I'm still at the paper, columning and everything (which, at a small town paper everything means high school sports and bikers with bags of Bakugons strapped to a sissy bar).

Come to think of it, since I've just reappeared here, I guess I could step back out quietly and slip back into the darkness. Light a cigarette and wait. A Ninja with no thought of his lungs. Blending into the background. Hmmmmm. I eat my cigarette butt.

But I'm not like that. The humor value of a doorbell, flaming poop and stomping feet.

And since the two or three of you who read me remember the kiddie snapshots, I give you this:

When it comes to my children and my music, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Well, that’s one-third true. For awhile, my girls have immersed themselves in the tween scene, all Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers. Prepackaged pap bundled with product placement, the insidious reach of the Disney empire (I, for one, welcome our mouse-eared masters). Tentacles of consumerist madness that go back farther than the Dan Quayle My Little Pony. Indeed, in my time, girls bought into the Osmonds and David Cassidy (and all their crap), while we guys laughed at how gay those guys were. The same-oh lame-oh.

Nuff’ said, that nonsense gets shut down at bedtime. Then, Mozart seems to be their favorite, with Debussy and Bach a close second and third. Smart kids.

My son is another matter. He has no taste for tween twaddle or sing-a-long schmaltz (no “wheels on the bus go round and round” for that kid). In fact, at any given moment, Basement Jaxx, (or other CD remnants from my prior taste in trance/house/electronica), Black Sabbath or Bobby “Blue” Bland blast from his room — and those are just the Bs. He has the same mad eclectic tastes as his dad it seems, abecedarian or not.

Not that this surprises me; it was something I noticed about him early on, when he was maybe a few months past two. I was up late one night, reading, listening to Frank Zappa’s album “Hot Rats” (one of his best, a jazz-inflected excursion in the tradition of the Sun Ra Arkestra), reveling in the brief down time. An hour or so into my repose, Mister arose, wide awake, “I can’t sleep, daddy.”

Mellow, I agreed to allow him to hang out with me, “Do your own thing,” I told him, “just be quiet, let me continue reading, let me pretend you’re not here.”

I tried to focus on my book but my little man’s body kept banging against the couch, in time to the music. I had to stop, watch, put my book and see him bump as “The Gumbo Variations” (the jazziest of the jazz on that album) pounded through the room, the rhythm of his bounces increasing with the songs steady race to its crescendo. Suddenly, the song stops, with a singular, conclusive beat. “Awesome!” he yelled just past the thud of that beat, his chubby arms in the air with a wave, his eyes still staring straight ahead, his body twisting with resonance of the groove.

He continues his taste for jazz to this day.

Just as Justice Potter described pornography (“I know it when I see it”) and Louis Armstrong described jazz (“You know it when you hear it”), my little man will ask me to rule on any given moment. John Coltrane or Oscar Peterson or Dave Douglas, “This is jazz, isn’t it daddy? Because, I like this!”

Yes, I say, I’m glad you like this. Alpha male watching his pup take down a doe. Sweet.

I was up early, throwing up a batch of oatmeal (so to speak). Little man was likewise up, yakking. He diverges from his dad in that he’s an early riser, stirs at the first light and pads around the house while the rest of us snore. Conversely, as a morning person by necessity and not by choice, I was making breakfast and relying on coffee and loud music to shake the sleep from my eyes.

Mister was sitting in a futon, wide awake and watching daddy zombie stomp through the kitchen while “Pay To C***m” by Bad Brains rattled the rafters (if you’re not familiar, it’s arguably the first-ever, hard core punk, the song ripping by like a 440 Nova, fat tires, loud, dual pipes).

Tugging at my shorts, Mister declared, “Daddy, this song is fast!”

“Yes it is,” I said, listening to him and the song. “Do you like that?”

“Yeah!”

He bounced around and pressed his elbow to the floor, rolled, began dancing again.

“Did they play music this fast when you were a kid?”

I was a kid when I first heard this music, I thought, and now he’s hearing it for the first time, a generation later. Thinking that there couldn’t have been anything like it, way back when.

“This is the best music, ever,” he said and, in the spirit of that, I mixed him a CD: Bad Brains, 7 Seconds, The Misfits, all kinds of early hard core. Even though he still listened to Paul Oakenfold, Miles Davis and Green Day, hard core ruled his world for a year or so.

And then, he heard the Stones.

The other day I was doing dishes when “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” came on a mixed CD. Mister stopped, doing nothing, no longer lining up cars and army men and making “cue cue cue” sounds, just sitting still, alert, listening. “What is that, daddy?”

“The Rolling Stones, Mister. They’re the best band ever.”

“Even better than Beethoven? Because I like him.”

“Depends on your perspective,” I told him. “Where you are, at any given moment.”

“What does that mean?”

I considered his question. “It means that there’s are all kinds of different answers, there are no winners.”

“There doesn’t have to be a best of everything?”

“You mean like Superman?” Mister loves him some Superman.

“Yeah, like Superman.”

“Do you think Elvis was, like, the Superman of Rock and Roll?”

“Mommy says so,” he says, his eyes searching the room, unsure.

“Well, if Elvis was Superman, the Stones are like a shower of Kryptonite.”

He thought about that, wondered if it was bad or good, or what it might have even meant. “Do you have any more Rolling Stones?”

I put on “Jumping Jack Flash” as an example of what I meant. Tons of Kryptonite at once and no way to duck it, just find a cave and wait it out..

He agreed. Superman was dead.

Slipping back and forth on his skateboard across the floor, Mister grinned, enrapt, Stones falling on him like beams of warm light.

“Daddy, this music makes me happy.”

At that moment, watching him roll, rock, beaming, in tune, there in love with what he was hearing, the whole thing wrapped my heart in wool. I snuggled in it and remembered.

For now, he’ll be enamored with the Stones; for awhile my girls will continue to hang onto fluff. In thirty years, the girls will look back on their music as a goof, an embarrassing karaoke moment. And all three of my children will rock with the Stones.

And I’ll be thirty years older, happy to have just locked all of them into that moment, Bad Brains, Jonas Brothers and all of it.

After I wrote that, I woke the kids up, made them watch me pour a can of lighter fluid on a junk tire and roll it down the hill. The flaming tire crested the hill and kept on going, rolling center on the road, heading into downtown.

Then we went to bed. The sirens never woke us.

Coda

Well, I went and did it.

As I said in my last post (ok, my next to last post), I have been kicking around with starting another blog since this old place was losing its luster, getting a little threadbare and, admittedly, becoming dreadfully boring. Furthermore, I'd started this blog to chronicle the life, loves, and trials of a single dad. In case you haven't been reading carefully, I got married. No really, to a wonderful woman and everything, not to some farm animal as a few of you were placing bets that would be where I'd end up (I mean, before the inevitable stint in prison).

Having lost my enthusiasm for this - the 4 or so posts in the last year should have been the clue - I've decided to move on and write about what's going on with me right now. And not make up crap, like I was doing.

So, it was fun for awhile but time to say "toodles" and have a toddy.

I'm not going to get all weepy. As much fun as I had with this, better things are in the boiler and my life now rocks. I don't regret leaving this to wither away.

For those of you who stumble here, my new blog, co-written with my beloved, is called Hogepotte and can be found at http://jimandmara.com where you can read both our takes on everything from blending a family to how to stretch roadkill into a veritable feast.

I'll keep comments open here for a month and then, we're done. If you have something to say after April 19, shout it into your pillow. Saying it over at the new place wouldn't hurt, either.

I guess this thing will stay live as long as blogger keeps it up (or gets hacked by some nitwit Russian thug) but for all intents and purposes, it's a ghost blog by sometime next month.

So there you have it. Goodbye. Hope your blogs are better read than this spot on the road and I sincerely hope you'll come visit the missus and me over at our new place, http://jimandmara.com - if you drop by, bring some beer, wouldja'?

*whooooooosh!*

As all of you have guessed, I have lost interest in this place and making updates a priority.

My new life and new family have shifted my perceptions so much, this blog seems largely irrelevant.

Which is cool because that's how life SHOULD be, it should not be a static bore. It's just that the journey I'm on now has made my presence here largely unimportant.

My love for my wife grows stronger each day. Her three kids and I are growing closer as I assume the role of "dad" for them. My own three are thriving, loving their life out in the country.

An idea for another blog has been kicking around for some time and I may get around to firing that up. The emphasis would change - this place was started as "A single, full-time dad figures it out" - and my new blog would be about blending a family, a large family, with some bits about small-town life and being a born-again mountain man (not that I'm "born-again" in the religious sense, apatheist me). I've been thinking about using the domain space we used for the wedding and dumping blogger, making it more personal.

I have to investigate some of the technical aspects: coming up with a design, integrating blogging, keeping the spammers to a minimum. If any of you have suggestions, I'd love to hear them. I really would love to start something completely new that reflects my new life. I'd love to see your emails or comments.

If I get the new place launched, I'll let you know here. I'll try and put up some updates until then (working for a small-town weekly doesn't keep me THAT busy) but I think I'm announcing the imminent demise of this place.

So... until then... please give me your input, suggestions, and help me out!

Ta ta for two weeks and tensum

So long, suckaz
Off to the Emerald Isle and won't be back until June 25. Which means, no posts (are you nuckinfutz?). Not that it matters much - posts here have been scanty at best, boring at worst of late - but don't expect anything until after I get back. While I'm gone you should go pop in at Soiled Dove Inn and give her grief about not posting more.

Also, because I insist on moderating comments (due to puerile asshats in the past who felt a brilliant strategy of getting at me was posting their stupidity here), your fine comments won't see the light of day until I return. By all means, comment away, just don't expect anything to post in the near future.

All of that is not why I'm posting, though. There is something important I want to say before I'm Dublin-bound...

MBS (heretofore, my darling and beautiful Mara) had a fight the other night, something I believe couples do from time to time. As we reached resolution, Mara told me how much she appreciated how deeply I believe in our relationship, how hard I work on it. I didn't tell her (but I will now) is how much I appreciate how hard she has worked on this relationship: if it wasn't for her doing pretty much everything, we wouldn't be going to Ireland and our wedding would still be a distant (if pleasant) dream. Her hard work made all of this happen, I was just the guy she bounced her brilliant ideas off of because I was the guy lucky enough to be the one she wanted to share her dreams and adventures. Lucky enough to walk down the aisle with, dance with, toast some mead with, and now, jet off to Ireland for the time of our lives.

So please don't think I am fortunate for getting to go to Ireland. I am fortunate because I ended up finding my true soulmate, my partner in crime, my co-parent, my best friend, the best (by far) thing that has ever happened to me.

Ah, the luck of the Irish. Even if I am a bit of a prick.

The brew to do

The egg on our faces is from another scientist's head exploding
The "Honeymoon Brew" is racked and ready to bottle; we'll put on the caps tomorrow.

Also tomorrow: gerieatric rocking out, chicken killing, and New Mexican adventures. Stay tuned.

Anyway, we started this first brew about 10 days ago with almost two cans of light malt extract, Irish Ale yeast, Cascade hops to start and Centennial hops to finish (the entire boil went an hour with the finishing hops in the last fifteen minutes). We're calling this our "Honeymoon Brew" because we're bustin' the caps on it after we return from Ireland. Toasting us and Obama.

Not talking about the weather but actually doing something about it

How soft your fields so green,
Can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war.
We are your overlords.
Look around you, outside, what do you see? Skimpy outfits on the swine waiting in line to see Sex & the City? Quarts of sweat dripping off the fat guy's moobs, collecting like strings of pearls on the short curly ones rimming his aureaolae? Kids running and jumping through the sprinkler on your lawn, screaming with the sting of rock salt from your 20 guage?

June 5th and it was freakin' snowing here, I even had a fire going, this morning. It's a good thing we're heading to Santa Fe, to the land of the tiny-feathered silver earring on the blue-bobbed saggy tit. Sssshhhh.... she's wetting her bill with a bit of mohito and seeking to mate with the broad-shouldered personal trainer (after having passed on the talentless artist).

We're going to see X at the brewery and then coming back here to embark on our journey to the emerald city... or isle... I can't remember which.

While we're in Santa Fe, your invitation is here:

Goin' to the north, north, north shore

Yes, THAT kind of surfing...
Despite reports to the contrary (on E! and those phony-ass cable "news" networks), the wedding went off without a hitch and, in fact, not nearly as many people were arrested as was reported. The whole KIA thing is total bullshit and we're not taking any responsibility for the MIA folks - they'll show their faces when they're ready, we reckon.

And no, I didn't spike the punch but with our crowd, who knows who the culprit might have been? I suspect some old hippie from the bride's side.

Now we're off to Ireland for two weeks. It's a backwards country dontchaknow, what with their sod huts and religious wars and lack of potable water. We're taking the exotic route, I know, but what with the dollar's value everywhere else, we're taking the bargain. Point is, don't expect any posts from hereabouts considering they probably don't have internet over there - hell, they don't even have a written language. They're ignorant but they sure make a mean whus-kee.

We're taking lots of beads to trade and a camera in order to take pictures of the poor, dumb savages so that we can steal their souls and then sell the souls back to them at an inflated rate. Again, the rate of the dollar probably puts us at a disadvantage in that endeavor.

I'll report on the wedding when I get back. Hopefully, arraignments will give me a better idea of who is where and the what-diddy-what.

While you're there, I'm here

At the beer garden, exchanging vows. Obviously, no posting today, this done via blogger's nifty scheduled posting mechanism.

We're having the time of our lives. We hope you all are, too. Mazal tov.

My crappy little homemade card (with macaroni glued on it) to all you moms

I'm up early with the flower arrangements and getting the kids to help out with the Mother's Day breakfast (Lox & Bagels, mimosas), placing the cards and presents, doing what I can to give MBS her due on this, her day.

The moms-in-law-to-be, her boyfriend, bro-in-law and his family, the brood times two, MBS and I will be heading to Williams Creek Resevoir for a picnic. If there's time, I'll prowl along the irrigation ditches on the land and clear out some of the brush (I'll post some more on THAT task later in the week).

Moms: I hope you're having a wonderful day and are reading this a day or two later. A belated happy Mother's Day to you all. Or, if you're taking it easy and using your down time to surf the net, I hope your day is a splash.

Now, answer me this, please - the kids "got" MBS cards and a retro-ish vase (that I picked up from a consignment store - we need the vase, btw), I got flowers to put in the vase; I also gave her a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude. Did I do well?

Trying my best...

Bomb the moms!

Didn't Jenna get married today?

Wasn't it just a couple years ago that these mouthbreathers were high-fiving each other over the notion of a "permanent majority"?

On Wednesday afternoon, the House had just voted, 412 to 0, to pass H. Res. 1113, "Celebrating the role of mothers in the United States and supporting the goals and ideals of Mother's Day," when Rep. Todd Tiahrt (R-Kan.), rose in protest.

"Mr. Speaker, I move to reconsider the vote," he announced.

Rep. Kathy Castor (D-Fla.), who has two young daughters, moved to table Tiahrt's request, setting up a revote. This time, 178 Republicans cast their votes against mothers.

It has long been the custom to compare a popular piece of legislation to motherhood and apple pie. Evidently, that is no longer the standard. Worse, Republicans are now confronted with a John Kerry-esque predicament: They actually voted for motherhood before they voted against it.

Republicans, unhappy with the Democratic majority, have been using such procedural tactics as this all week to bring the House to a standstill, but the assault on mothers may have gone too far. House Minority Leader John Boehner, asked yesterday to explain why he and 177 of his colleagues switched their votes, answered: "Oh, we just wanted to make sure that everyone was on record in support of Mother's Day."

By voting against it?

The whole story is here.

Am I alone in thinking that these folks keep sticking their tongues in light sockets to see what electricity tastes like?

Anyway, have a happy Mother's Day, willya'?

Reasons why I am head over heels in love with her, #8

Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go


She loves most of the same music I love.

Gawdahmighty I was trying the daily post thing in earnest but between the unreasonable demands of my pesky editor at the paper (who knew the whole "deadline" thing was so serious-like? sheesh), cuddles on the couch with MBS to watch The Third Man, and oh, you know, taking care of the brood times two, well, ain't it funny not how time slips away but blogging takes a backseat to having a life?

Maybe I need a little more time to figure this all out. Posting daily, that is.

Sunday found me on rafting our little class-2 river. Not so much a thrill-ride as a drink some PBR and talk politics ride. A beautiful day that made me crave a little more whitewater. However, no craving to jump on here and write about the excursion. The rest of the week... bad habit, this not writing.

And all you get today is Reason #8, timely in that we're going to see these guys at The Santa Fe Brewing Company June 6:

Really, how can life get any better with MBS at my side, slam-dancing to X We're too old to "mosh"), and getting cooled by the local brew. Better yet, these cats are opening:

I stumbled on The Detroit Cobras a little while ago and put one of their songs on a mix I made for MBS while we wuz a-courtin'. After she got the mix she had to know what band it was (I never label my song lists) and ended up downloading a bunch of their stuff.

MBS is off to Durango with her girlfriends for a bachelorette's night on the town. I'm making tacos for the brood times two, cleaning the garage while a fight over the video choice rages upstairs. An example of life being somewhat fair, I think.

Reasons why I am head over heels in love with her, #16

Tis' better to trip than fall
She says she can dress me up and take me out.

A night on the town for MBS and I, at her suggestion, a date night that we take some R&R; going to see celtic guitarist Jerry Barlow perform, have a little dinner, and a nightcap.

Stuck here at the agency. A group earlier and now just doing the drug-testing thing. Ugh.

I should be using this downtime to crank out some quick articles for my newspaper (my editor wants them in first thing Monday for a supplement which is, in his words, "a big money-maker for the paper"). Maybe ol' Lefty has the answer to how I'll get it done:

HT to skippy

Throw in a few fingers of Cutty Sark and it's a done deal.

A two-fisted drinker in a two-job economy

Dammit, I need a bottle...
To clarify a bit of Wednesday's post (which I didn't get around to posting until today - oddly playing with the timeline...), I in fact continue to work in the mental health field. Yes, I'm working two jobs. Writing for a small town paper, covering town politics and business is where my heart is at, obviously. But as I said in that post, it's not yet a full-time gig and working as a lowly stringer doesn't feed the bulldog (or anyone else, for that matter).

Whatever time I have left after hunting down and writing stories, doing far less than my share of raising six kids, planning a wedding, and this blog thing (ok, knock off the giggling), I spend running groups for DUI offenders and monitoring drug testing (i.e. watching guys piss into a cup). The more the newspaper job demands, the less I want to be at the D&A agency. There's no dilemma - I want to write. It's just that the part-time / piecemeal aspect of my writing job makes it impossible to break from being a DUI counselor.

OK, enough bitching and whining... time for some fun:

Reasons why I am head over heels in love with her, #239

She buys me energy drinks, even though she's totally opposed to them (she's such a health nut). And, she rarely gives me shit about drinking them.

With that, here's some Sony Rollins to smooth out your day:

Until you've walked a mile in my shoes, you won't know how my feet smell

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?
Ah, the glory of being a city-desk reporter. Or editor. Or something. Hell, I'm just a stringer. And it's not so much a "city-desk" as a "small town-desk".

I mean, the town is small, not the desk. There isn't even a desk, really, just a cell phone that my editor calls on to tell me what to cover, write about.

Again, not entirely true. Doing the wildcat thing makes it incumbent that I chase down the stray story, since I'm getting paid by the piece. The light posting here the past few days has been a reflection of that. Attending meetings, making calls, dropping in on town officials, stirring things up to see what rises from within the mire, all in the service of a few column inches; this past week has been balls to the wall. And if the gods are with me (my editor seems to be), I'll have five articles to my name in this latest edition.

Working hard for a pittance, yes - but having the time of my life. And sometimes, compensation is not measured by the size of paycheck, at least not for me. One of the reasons I stayed in the mental health field for so long was decidedly not because I thought I'd get rich; with the exception of a driven few or the therapists on the tee vee, people in the mental health field are not motivated by wealth. The more I work at this journalsim gig, the more the same seems to be true of my colleagues, that money is not the motivation.

Posting everyday (as I've been attempting to do the past week or so) isn't as easy as it sounds... WAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

My write-in vote for precedent

We're all Bozos on this bus
Deadline's tomorrow and although I've cranked out 5 lengthy articles for this next edition (we won't mention the quality, mmm-kay?), I still have some writing to do.

So, hopefully, after the deadline has past, you'll get another dollop of my meandering drivel.

If you take the dollop I've given you and throw it at HRC, I'll give you five bucks. Scout's honor.

Hey, get a clue

My son has REALLY had it with you people...

Small town news has me preoccupied, yo...

Nothing to see here, move along....

With, oh, 6 or so articles needing to go live by Wednesday and very little to show that they're even close to being finished, posting will be light for the next 36 hours or so. As if if you're surprised.

And while you're wondering whatever happened to me, I wonder what happened to these guys - gals - um, penguines or something.