Instead of watching our Ewe Ess women Oh-Limp-Ick curlers take on the stoner-and-sweeper lasses from Norway like I'd planned for Oh-Two/Eighteen/Oh-Two, my gopher-the-gold spirited ass luged the not-so-winding track that is Interstate 64 and ice-braked at Chicho's Not To Be Confused With The More Often Than Not Mexican Restaurant Rock 'N' Roll Bar That Has Great Pizza in Vaaaa Beeeech.
Since I had sought Oh-Limp-Ick glory in only the single-man luge and not the two-dude double stack, my pre-anticipating-a-bronze-medal beer was of the root strain. The games of this Oh-Limpy-Add began with The Dirty Politicians from take-your-shirt-off-and-wave-it-around-like-a-helicopter North Carolina. With a singer who proposed bills at the podium by actually singing (NOT SCREAMING!!!), and a backing band who melodically assisted in those soon-to-be mandates, DP, like Congressional members The Vigilantes from Massachusetts, Reducers SF from California, and The Beltones from Florida, got unanimous "Is" in their session.
Voting concluded, Tanka Ray took the floor of the house chambers. They and their constituents are from the City Slash State where Willie Wilson used to steal all those bases. Much like Charm City, Maryland's National Razor FDIC, TR addressed the senators with a street rock/punk/whateveryoucallit pitch in a Naked Raygun-esque tone (an extended quote from those Chicago, Illinois lawmen would be their final order of business). Before TR spoke so fondly of NR, MC Speakah Of Da House Lare May had rocked the mic and had rapped 'bout George Brett's Hemorrhoids. Insightful, but I thought it had been fellow 1980 World Series participant Mike Schmidt with the asshole complications. Next time around, TR, could y'all serve some "Wonder Beer" ("wish Roy Orbison could tell me what to do...") for us beachcombers who "Understand?".
Because I didn't get turned into a seal steak by a going-90-MPH 1983 Malibu Classic with Virginia license-plate number DEMAND ("Yes, sir!") on my luge return, I was able to put out the Oh-Limp-Ick torch at one thirty-seven in the AM. Later the same day, I was awarded a silver for my combined runs. In Canada, that makes me an Oh-Limp-Ick Champ-Eh-On. Pass me a Coors Light to match my golden glow.
General Mills earns a 21-yum salute with this latest oat 'n' fruit mixture. There hasn't been an O's variety that I didn't find agreeable to the taste buds (including the jingoistic hokeyness of Team Cheerios -- go Ewe Ess Aye!), and Berry Burst continues the streak of simplistic goodness.
Supplanting Apple Cinnamon as my pick-to-pour, the lip-smacking twist-o'-tradition is spun two ways: Strawberry and Triple Berry. Both are as sweet as my red-headed niece Kelsey, but an irresistible combination of raspberries and blueberries with the former adds a tangy bite to the bowl.
Like all good cereals, Berry Burst can also be savored without the product of cow udders. Whenever I've lacked potato chips to complement my Mom's should-be-famous chicken salad sammiches, O's have substituted nicely as a crunchy side dish. Heck, I'm the kinda guy who likes them ON the sandwich. Weird? Perhaps, though I'm Huey Lewis and a glass of H2O compared to Ally Sheedy and her usual sugar-packeted bread pockets served daily at "The Breakfast Club." At a twist-tie luncheon last Sunday, the salad's blended rawness of celery and onions was counterbalanced by lavishing juices somehow emitted from dehydrated fruit. As expected, the wholesome neutrality of circular grains harmonized with Hellmann's-covered chicken. Give this piece of low-budget culinarity a chance. It sure beats Boca burgers with Beatle Paul.
O's, darling -- Berry Burst fields forever!
Does your cee dee changer currently house Turbonegro's Hot Cars And Spent Contraceptives, Motley Crue's Too Fast For Love, U.S. Bombs' The World and D Generation's No Lunch? If so, congratulate yourself for having fine taste and clear a slot for this rockin' five-piece from Clevo. Mixing the riff raff of heavy metal ("Devil On My Shoulder" etched its circle-and-star insignia on said skin for six minutes and twenty-one seconds, while "Quicksand" drowned a denim-jacketed hesher in a four-minute bloodbath of tainted O-positive guitar), the slurred snarl of punk ("Sickness" and "Real Side" were a couple of Rotten apples from the teacher in turn poisoned by the students), and the down-on-the-street slumber of glam ("She's In The Shower" panhandled long enough to turn bath water into booze), The Sign Offs offer eleven drink specials on their liquid menu. Happy hour's all day and night when these guys are tending bar. Headbangers, fuck-the-worlders, and street urchins are most welcome at the door. Eye Dees not required, because most people don't know who they are. How is some posted date-checkin' monkey on 'roids gonna have a clue?
It's been a long time since this place has had a show worth seeing. Man, thought I turned into Robert Plant for a second there. Then I'd have to start reviewing shit from the VB Amphitheater. Yeah, naw, Yeah, naw, Yeah...HELP! Ah, I needed that sip of refreshing Natural Light. Maybe I'll be fine the rest of the way.
Manage to polish off the rest of my jug (you sure that's 64 ounces?) in time to catch the opening notes of the Sea Monkeys. At this point, Tuck's is only filled to 55% capacity. Of course, this is because of the "I'm-too-cool-to-see-any-opening-band-I've-never-heard-of-anyway-so-I'll-just-go-later" attitude. Late arrivals suck shit! Before I continue, I'd like to give an AC/DC, 21-gun salute for the thirty or so people who seem to be at every show I attend. Fire! We see yet another cool NYC-area band (whose van is in working order!) play Norfolk. Those who read Rocks Off #5 already know the Sea Monkeys' fondness for costumes ("Flintstones"-like caveman outfits, "Gilligan's Island" stowaway garb, etc.). On this Saturday night, they choose to don gold-and- glittery vests with Muslim headdresses -- Imagine if the shah of Iran moved to England and became part of the early-'70s glam-rock scene. Though all the visual presentation in the world doesn't mean anything if you can't rock. Well, I'm happy to report that the Sea Monkeys do indeed rock in a fun 'n' punk style a la Ramones/Dickies/Weirdos. Their comic approach allows for three-second covers, monkey squeals, glitter projectiles, monkey masks, spilled beer, and forward somersaults! All courtesy of singer Dave The Spazz. Can't say if they offer the same degree of thrills on record, but if we bribe the Sea Monkeys with a ton of burritos and bananas, maybe they'll come back in time to smear leftover turkey-and-stuffing on themselves. Eech!
Lee Harvey Keitel Band are second at the plate and connect with singles up the middle, foul balls in the stands, and an occasional check-swing. They may as well be called Pat Sajak Band, because discussions of "Wheel Of Fortune" break out like brush fires in Malibu during their at-bat. Sample trivia: 1)Who was Sajak's replacement host? and 2)Why did Sajak leave? LHKB remind some sailor from Belgium of Chairs Missing-era Wire, the portion of Fugazi that doesn't suck, and late-'70s XTC when they still had the gumption to play live. Kinda neat stuff if you're in the mood for it, but if I wore one, I'd tip my ball cap to LHKB for getting people to talk about game shows again.
NO! NO! An AOR double-shot of "Heartbreaker"/"Living Loving Maid?" Screw sips this time! I need to stick my mouth under the tap and let "the water" dispense for ten minutes. Thank goodness there are treatment options available.
You may have seen The Candy Snatchers on a talk show recently. Here's a recap: Matt smashed this guy over the head after being asked, "Do you play guitar?", Willy made the entire second row of 40-ish housewives faint by making them believe he was Huey Lewis, and Serge pounded some rock 'n' roll into a Phish Phace cameraman's skull. Just when I was ready to write off Oprah as a Maya Angelou-lackey... Though not as wild as those events, The Candy Snatchers still have a good time. From Larry singing, "I've got no time to waste..." and wondering how many shots $20 will buy, to the three guys that get thrown out for "moshing" (your Anthrax triple live albums are in the mail), this band proves their right to rock remains unchanged. Whether the venue is Tuck's, the Oprah studios, or the Be-Lo Market in the Fairwood Homes section of Portsmouth, you can
count on the Snatchers to tear it up.
Now, where the hell are those goddamn corn dogs?
Remember when Rerun found all that money in the ceiling, and the maintenance man came back with his old gangster buddies? He told Rerun and friends, "I didn't come for the tools. I CAME FOR THE MONEY!!!"
Remember when Dee was introduced to The Doobie Brothers, and they asked her what groups she liked? Dee said, "The Jackson 4." "...Wait a minute, isn't that The Jackson 5?" a brother retorted. "Well, I'm not too crazy 'bout one of 'em," answered Dee.
Remember, also from the Doobie episode, when that bootlegger guy was going over recording details with Rerun? Raj shouted, "HOLD IT!!! I'LL PUT A CEASE TO THIS WHOLE OPERATION!!! I'M WITH THE PRESS!!!"
Bootlegger: "What paper you from?"
Raj: (mumbling) "Jef-fer-son Hi-gh Ga-zette..."
Bootlegger: "Come again?"
Raj: "Jefferson High Gazette."
Bootlegger: "Boy, you better sit down and pay attention."
Raj: "Yes, sir."
Remember when this guy was paid to come into Rob's Place and ask Shirley out? She was on to their game and told them, " I may not such and such, but I make a hell of a hamburger!"
Remember the one where Raj said, "Shut up, Dee, before I slap your tail!"? Then Momma told Raj, "That's not a nice thing to say to your sister." Dee went, "Yeah..." and added something sassy. Then Momma yelled, "SHUT UP, DEE, BEFORE I SLAP YOUR TAIL!!!"
Remember when the gang decided to give their teacher a birthday present? It was a big box of nothing (Raj's idea, cause he'd told Rerun and Dwayne that a gift is what you think of a person). Then at the party, the teacher had some glowing comments for her students, which in turn made the gang feel like heels. But they were spared, when she opened the box and pulled out a vase, cause Momma had alerted the teacher's husband before the party.
Remember when Rerun was conned into worshipping a head of lettuce? He'd given money to the "church," until Raj's momma stepped in and said something 'bout not foolin' with Mother Nature.
Remember Dwayne's fool-proof method for picking football winners? His whichever-team-had-the-cooler-helmets method worked for several weeks. Then Dwayne told Rerun's uncle that Tampa Bay would beat Oakland. The Raiders won 48-0.
Remember when Raj said, "Momma?" Momma: "Yes, son?" Raj: "I CAN'T BREATHE!!!"
Remember when Dwayne came in and said, "HEY HEY HEY!"?
Some muy caliente ingredients fill this six-layer burrito, hombre. "Fist Of Rock" and "Shocker" taste like The New Bomb Turks laced with more of a picante punch a la The Weaklings. "Mission To Mexico" is a border run in the opposite direction from los banditos de particular from Vaaa Beeech (who once shouted, "Hot hot hot - What do you know? I ain't drivin' down to Mexico" on their "Shortcut To Disaster"). "Dawn Of The Dead" has a lil' black magic from The Hookers rather than Senyour Carlos' bag o'tricks. "Dirty Dog" searches in vain for Erik Estrada's perro that's been kidnapped by GEICO. "Climate Of Fear" finds a Lewd amiga dancing around a sombrero whilst being eyeballed by her not-so-amused padre ("Phphphphobia/Phobia in the atmosphere"). The food is great, even if the Aqua no es Fina.
The beauty of Napster lies in the eye of the beholder.
Holier than thou rock stars, among whom I was one, adopt the attitude that they're better than you. Therefore, they wish to seek and destroy all methods that allow the consumer even a temporary escape from high music prices. Sad but true, the struggle within these millionaires' souls will continue until they are bleeding me and you dry. To these chart-toppers, nothing else matters except the almighty dollar.
On the other hand, many music fans choose to fight fire with fire. Their blackened eyes sore from $17.98 punches, PC-literates opt to acquire favorite titles through the never-ending frontiers of cyberspace. Per questionable legalities, such a hi-tech Robin Hood becomes the hero of the day to someone who wants the full Big Gulp, not just the shortest straw.
Growing up, my mama said to me repeatedly, "Always look at things from both sides." As the author of a mega-successful hit, I know first hand how today's rock stars can quickly become yesterday's disposable heroes. When you're on top, fame and fortune provide ample opportunity to go where the wild things are. To live is to die, however, and playtime seems immensely short when it becomes necessary to hit the lights on your career. Does it make a musician a bad seed for wanting to reap the most from their crop? Or does he or she surrender the fruits of their labor as a harvester of sorrow?
Flipping the coin, when a small block of wood will suffice, why purchase an entire 2X4? Downloading services are an effective cure when all you want is the "hit single" ("Ghostbusters," for example). Through an extensive battery of tests, many are pledging allegiance to operations like Napster. "Liberty and justice for all music lovers," they proclaim. Because of the unforgiven tactics toward consumers (courtesy of the RIAA), these people will keep drawing fuel from Napster's pumps as long as it's available to them.
Wherever I may roam, I'll probably always ask myself, "What if there could've been just one more 'Ghostbusters?'" But the memory remains. Until it sleeps, would you please download one of my three songs from Napster? Because the longer I can delay my fade to black, the better I'll be.
