TallyHassle

Bar Trivia in Tallahassee

2011-12-12T20:02:00.001-05:00

I think y'all already know this, but I figured I'd announce it again. Every week I lead two nights of pub trivia at local bars. Monday nights, 10:30 pm to a little after midnight, at Mockingbird Cafe on N. Monroe and Tuesday nights, 7:30 to 9:30 pm, at Corner Pocket on Apalachee Parkway. Each has its own flavor. Mockingbird is slightly drunker, slightly older, slightly more hipster, a little looser in feel. Corner Pocket involves a lot of grad students so it's a little less sloppy. Either way, the questions are much the same.

I do 5 rounds of ten questions each. They usually (although not always) break down like this:
1st: picture pages (10 themed pictures to be identified, everything from hood ornaments to iconic people)
2nd: current events, always
3rd: third round is the nerd round - straight up trivia (inventions, geography, religion, etc)
4th: pop culture (cult movies, cartoon theme songs, food in fiction, etc)
5th: oddball stuff (kids' games, before and after, slang, etc)

Highest scoring teams win bar tabs at the end of the night. I encourage funny guesses, dirty team names, plenty of drinking, and tipping the bartenders. In a town where you can find bar trivia any night of the week, I try to stand out with plenty of questions, simple rules, and fun information. No premade questions here - I put together all the rounds myself every week.

So, if you're in Tally and you like to think and drink, come check it out. You'll have fun. For a weekly hint and any updates, join the official FB page at:
http://www.facebook.com/bartriviawithhank

I just wrote a short story.

2011-11-21T00:44:00.000-05:00

I feel good. I feel damn good. I feel a little like the inside of my brain's been scooped out. I just sat down and wrote out about 3,000 words that actually said what I wanted them to say. It's about a character I've been considering lately, a dude named Jingo. It's, I dunno, magical realism?

Of course, now I want to make people read it. I considered putting it up on the blog, but that just seems a little too public-access for something that may become a novel. But if anyone is willing to read it and maybe pass along a little criticism, email me and I'll send it to you.

It's called "What You Need, When You Need It".

plus, I have beer here

2011-11-16T22:36:00.000-05:00

I'm supposed to be up and out and down to Mockingbird Cafe tonight for Whiskey Wednesday. This week's theme is rockabilly, and I can get down with that. Plus, dollar beers dollar shots. Have I mentioned I'm a college kid now?

But I dunno if I'm feeling it right now. It's muggy and rainy and I have shit I could play with here.

Grumpity grump. The end.

cheerful

2011-11-13T16:16:00.000-05:00

I just rolled back in from a weekend camping down by the river. Sometimes when I go it winds up a tent city, with a large group of folks, lots of activity and beer and singing by the fire. Sometimes it's more relaxed, a few core people and naps by the water. That's what I needed this weekend, and that's what I got.

Rudy, Togi, and I packed up (too much gear, as usual) and drove on down there, first on the interstate, then a county road, and so on down to sandy dirt where I'm always afraid I'll bog down and have to get help yanking her out of the hole. Smooth sailing this time, though. We pulled up to the property a little before sundown on Friday and between then and now I devoted myself to not worrying about school or bills or any damn thing.

You know how it is with close friends around a bonfire. Voices in the dark, the crisp crack of a new can of Pabst opened, the occasional flare when someone gets to fire farming. We talked about abortion, war, queer politics, music, and sex. We told a few dumb jokes. It was excellent and it was just what I needed. We cooked hotdogs in a tinfoil package filled with beer, and they were delicious.

Today we got up, packed up, and drifted back into town. On the way out of the Madison area we stopped into a podunk little Jiffy Mart and guess what I found. Cheerwine! Yes, that delicious cherry soda I fell for in North Carolina and haven't seen since, in glass bottles, all cold and waiting for me. I bought three and I'm drinking one as I type this. How cool is that?

quick

2011-11-06T21:35:00.000-05:00

Are you from here? Been here a while? Ate at Angelo's downtown, avoided the Past Time Lounge? Tallycast is looking for Tallahassee's oldest restaurant still in business. Can you help? Go check it out.

Other than that, not much hoppin. It turns out that school is remarkably easier when I'm not fighting society and my own awkwardness. Also, when I care enough to do homework.

Not so much housework, though.

Just Saying

2011-09-25T19:44:00.000-05:00

I'm one of the ones that went with discs by mail in the big Netflix split. I was hoping that having most of the people that only really watch streaming would kick some of the "long wait" discs back into circulation. It seems to have happened some, but still. If you haven't watched that shit in 3 days, you're not going to. Send it back!

just for kicks

2011-07-06T11:48:00.000-05:00

Okay, just for fun, here's one of them photo clip thingies I made today. It's to the song "10 Long Years" by the now disbanded local group Convicted, friends of mine. This is me and my buddies over the years, doing what we do best.

By the way, there's a show tonight if you happen to be out and about and in need of some fun. Love in Arms at St. Mike's Pub on Gaines Street. Starts at 9pm. The beer is cold, the crowd is friendly. Here's to good times.

Halfway to 70

2011-06-10T14:50:00.000-05:00

In honor of my birthday, I'd like to share a few things I've learned in my 35 years.

- You can never own too many dictionaries.
- Nothing good comes from drinking tequila after midnight.
- Sleep when you get a chance.
- If you're patient and not too picky, you never have to buy electronics or furniture.
- Knees don't really heal.
- Nothing is all that weird once you're in the middle of it.
- Know where your flashlights are.

Thanks for having me, Mama. I sure think you did a good job.

just a note to say

2011-05-27T16:59:00.000-05:00

To my friends who blog:

The comment field style that requires you to use a drop town box to pick what account you wish to post from doesn't play well with many browsers much of the time, including Chrome and Firefox. Magnum, I'm looking at you.

I mean, your style is your style. But I'd sure like to comment sometimes and can't.

I am one of the 500 laid off today from DCF.

2011-05-26T12:44:00.000-05:00

11 years of sitting in my office trying to help make sure that there is some kind of assistance for people facing mental health issues. 11 years of doing all I can do for shitty pay, whether it is compiling data to help get some budget money or just talking respectfully to folks who call out of desperation and pain, looking for a friendly voice.

I went in today. I got the call. I shook the man's hand and signed the papers. Me and 499 other people in already stripped-to-the-bone offices got "separated from the Department".

Technically, we have until June 30th, end of the fiscal year. I suspect I may burn some of that sick leave I never got to use.

The last thing I did before I left today, to go home by way of the beer store, was to make sure a grant application got sent so that the citizens of Florida can hold onto a few more services. Yeah, state workers, we're such villains.

gearing up, getting ready

2011-03-30T10:35:00.000-05:00

For seven years now (how has it been this long?) I've been throwing a big party every year when Tallahassee runs a parade past the front of my house.

That's us in '06, celebrating springtime and morning drinking.

I tend to do a lot of entertaining. I live in my own place (no roommates or kids to shuffle), I'm centrally located, I have a good front stoop for gathering, and it means I don't have to worry about a designated driver. But this party is something special. For one, it starts at 9 am, and there's nothing like having a good excuse to get a beer buzz before breakfast. For another, there's a fucking parade going by the front of my house!

This year might be a little different. Oh, I still expect the crowds, the food, the beer (a neighbor and I even intend to get a keg to make it all easier). But our not-so-esteemed Gov. Voldemort's been asked to be Grand Marshall this year. It's a slap in the face of all the people his administration is screwing, but that's not exactly new for the parade that used to be headed up by a guy dressed as the murdering scumbag Andrew Jackson. That being said, this will be the first year I have to remind people not to throw stuff at anyone in the parade. But booing remains legal. At least he's in the front, which will leave the rest of the parade to be enjoyed, heckled, and admired.

If you are local and read this, come on by. You know where I live. Bring a breakfast dish to share, and if you want something besides Pabst than BYOB. Parade party!

He digs it!

2011-03-15T19:09:00.000-05:00

a weekend at the homestead

2011-03-13T23:25:00.001-05:00

Mama and them were out at Dog Island this weekend, so I packed up my laundry and went out to keep an eye on the dogs and chickens and so on. There's never much to say about a quiet weekend, but I took some photos. So:

The bottle tree is blooming. Oh, and I just remembered that I left a green glass ginger ale bottle in the monkey grass that I intended to hang with the others. Sorry, mama! Didn't mean to leave trash in the yard.

Elvis and his ladies went over to visit the neighbor chickens. "Cluck, cluck, how's clucks?"

I just took this one because it seemed so cheesy country. Chickens and pickups!

Then I decided to make my wee nephew Owen a tent, because what kid doesn't love a place of their own? So I found an ax in dad's garage and set out into the bamboo forest to cut me some tent poles.

I dragged the poles up on the porch and lashed them together. I left one long for a flagpole. I'd bought a plain sheet at goodwill and cut it down for the cover.

And done! I fastened the cover with a dinosaur button, so Lily can leave the frame outside and just bring in the sheet when it's not in use. I left it blank so Owen can decorate it himself.

And here's Shane. He's really in tents.

Then some of my friends came over and we drank a lot of beer and had a good ol' time. And that was my weekend at the homestead. I love it.

Skink, come home!

2011-03-10T14:58:00.001-05:00

You take a good, long look at that photo. That's Jonathan Dickinson State Park in Martin County. And if Sen. John Thrasher and Rep. Patrick Rooney get their bills passed, that state park and 4 more across Florida will be bulldozed, revamped, and pressed into service as golf courses.

Read that again: Golf. Courses.

Complete with hotels, parking, clubhouses, and restaurants. In our state parks. On the public dime, paid for with tax monies. I am so pissed off, I can only repeat myself.

Look, this has already been a shitty, shitty year for Floridians and for the middle and working class of America in general. When Gov. Voldemort got elected, I said, "He's going to sell the state parks to profit his buddies." I wish to god I'd been wrong.

Here are some of the (many) stories in the news about this today. Note that many of Florida's 1000+ golf courses are currently having financial issues and many are closing due to lack of interest.

Here is where you go to find your Reps' contact info. Here is where you find your Senators. Write them, tell them this is not to happen. Tell them this is wrong in every way. Tell them you vote and you're sickened by this. And pass this info around.

Where the hell is Skink when we need him?

Geeking Out

2011-03-04T10:16:00.000-05:00

I didn't write this, but it so clearly speaks to how I feel about science fiction on tv (and in movies for that matter) that I have to save and share it. If you are any kind of sf geek and you didn't watch Battlestar Galatica (the new one - the old one is cheesy fun, but not the same kind of mindblowing storytelling) and Caprica, go start. Begin with BSG, by the way, and don't skip bits. It's a novel, not a comic book.

This is from a Television Without Pity recap about the Caprica episode "Gravedancing":

I mean, all we really ask of our TV is that there be fights and fucking and, on this channel, maybe a spaceship. But what if there were a soap opera that happened to be set in a SF universe, such that you could have the richest scientist couple in the world talk about going from Apple to Google in response to a terrorist threat, with a little GTA and IP law thrown in there? Most TV SF historically -- even the small bit now -- is on an Alan Dean Foster/Piers Anthony/Terry Brooks sort of track: Licensed and xeroxed, unrecognizably sexless and utopian, emotionally and socially shallow-to-illiterate, soullessly and bitterly commercial, and self-consciously intellectual on a scale somewhere between "nominally cerebral" and "borderline autistic." You get your occasional Babylon 5 (which would be... Oh! Pern, obviously) and Octavia Butlers and Nicola Griffithses like Farscape and all the Joss stuff, and yer Ender Wigginses like BSG.

Which is great! That's a long list and I'm proud of them all. But what if you went the full Cory Doctorow on that shit? What if Paolo Bacigalupi wrote the next hospital drama, or Ted Chiang was driving the new crimescene procedural? What if China Miéville had a teen drama on ABC Family, how wonderful a trainwreck would that be? What if Grant Morrison wrote Smallville? What if Neal Stephenson wrote Lost, suddenly and all those Asperger's clues actually meant something? Wouldn't it feel more like the future, then? Wouldn't you feel like we were going somewhere?

I'm not saying that even needs to happen: I'm just saying that's what you're watching. It doesn't have much to do with the TV SF we've been trained to expect, but it has a hell of a lot more in common with SF literature than 90% of what's out there. Not an heir to Roddenberry or Lucas, boo hoo, but a hell of a lot closer to the lineage of Bradbury and Sturgeon and Ellison. It's fine to look for what's not there -- to demand that everything act like space opera, to get vicious with SGU for attempting to be less formulaic and idiotic than its forebears, while handing over record ratings for utter trash fanfic like Tin Man and Alice -- but when you do that, you run the risk of missing what is there because you didn't even know to look for it.

It's exactly this kind of nonsense that's turned Margaret Atwood into a bundle of twigs and hair. Is there ever a valid reason to hold TV to a lower standard, much less refuse to notice when it exceeds that standard? Is the ghetto really that self-reinforcing? Do you honestly think people read Left Hand Of Darkness or The Sparrow or Iain Banks because they're about shiny spaceships and freaky aliens? And I'll tell you another thing, if you think this shit's boring, I cannot wait to introduce you to good old Canticle For Leibowitz, which is nine million pages of monks walking slower than those giant moaning turtles from The Dark Crystal.

Don't you got tits? Stick 'em out, for God's sake!

2011-02-26T02:31:00.001-05:00

It came to light recently that a friend of mine has never seen a John Waters movie. He's not really a movie guy, but still - no reason to neglect the classics. He told me he does have one in his netflix queue, but it hasn't come up yet. I asked which one, and he said Pink Flamingos.

Oh, lord, no.

I don't know what happens to non-film-buff people whose first exposure to Mr. Waters is watching one of his filthy works without a guide along, but I suspect it involves psychiatric care. At the very least, they're not gong to wind up fans is my guess. You need to build up to something like that. So tomorrow he's coming over and we're going to watch Cry Baby, which I feel like is the perfect midpoint between his indie days and his Hollywood days.

Of course, more audience equals more fun, so a couple more friends (all well acquainted with Waters' genius) will be showing up at my house tomorrow for the screening. Since Cry Baby doesn't involve eating poop or graphic mom-on-son blow jobs, we'll probably want something to eat. Which is how I get to my real point, which is that I just threw stew fixins in the crock pot and my house now smells incredible. I'll probably dream of feasts all night. By tomorrow afternoon, deliciousness will be achieved.

Stew to Accompany Cry Baby:
- venison your brother-in-law bagged, cut into small pieces
- a can of sweet corn, because it was on sale at Publix
- two cans of stewed, diced tomatoes, ditto
- zucchini, because you need some green stuff
- a couple of carrots you find in the fridge that should have been eaten days ago
- a few potatoes that you remember at the last minute were in the cabinet
- fucktons of garlic
- a package of barley and mushroom soup from the Jewish section of the "ethnic" food aisle
- mushrooms, because I love mushrooms
- salt and pepper and that kind of stuff

Brown the deer in a pan. Dump the maters and corn and 3 or 4 cans of water into the crock pot. Add the browned venison and all that other stuff. Set on low for 10 or 12 hours. Done.

By the way, my favorite Waters movie with Divine is Female Trouble. My favorite without Divine is Desperate Living. You?

Fresh Ink

2011-02-11T13:51:00.002-05:00

A million years ago or more, back when God laid an egg, back when dirt was clean, back when Superman rode a dinosaur, the mid to late 90s happened and I lived in Atlanta. Oh, a hell of a time was had. The tall buildings! The bright lights! The 24 hour gay sports bars!

I was in my early twenties and getting my ya-yas out at a rapid clip. For the most part - despite the alcohol, the strippers, the gunfire - I came away unscarred and unburdened with anything but a knapsack of stories and a handful of tattoos.

Like my interest in a septum ring (which I got at 21 and still gleefully wear, lo, these 14 years later), I'd wanted body art since I first knew it existed. As a kid, what did I associate tattoos with? Pirates. Strong men. Artists. Bikers. Freedom. As I got out of high school and actually started making friends, I fell in with the heavily decorated crowd. And so, no surprise, when I had the cash I got the ink. Most of which I still love today. And yet...

And yet, being the mid 90s and me being a bit of a fool, I got kanji on my forearms. Not big pieces, mind you, just one per arm. My only non-custom tattoos, and the only ones that show when I have my regular clothes and long pants on. In other words, what should have been my show pieces have been outdated, clichéd, plain, black crap.

For years - at least a decade - I've talked about getting them covered. Took a while to figure out what would hide them and still look good. Someone suggested old school roses, but that ain't my style. I briefly considered Scottish clan badges, but that seemed too... specific? I guess is the word I'm looking for here. Finally, it struck me. What tool do I love, collect, and use more than any other? Typewriters.

This year, mama got me a gift certificate to Sistine Skin for Christmas. So I put that together with a few bucks of my own and went and saw my friend Fronkie and she did me up right. Five hours in the chair, five different shades of grey and black, and one of those late 90s worth-nothing tats is gone, Daddy, gone. I walked out of that little wood frame house where she runs her business happy and hopped up on endorphins. That picture up there doesn't do it justice, by the way - it's fresh, shaved, and puffy. But I love it and it looks amazing.

All of a sudden, I'm one of the obviously tattooed. And it feels great. Remember folks, nothing else you can buy with be will you forever. Consider your ink well, pick your artist carefully, but if you want it in your heart, get it on your skin.

Thank you, Fronkie. Thank you, Mama.

keep drinking, start thinking

2011-02-09T14:54:00.000-05:00

Have I mentioned that I've started running a trivia night at the Rusty Bucket, a local dive/biker bar? I delight in trivia. I roll in it. I keep buckets of it under my bed. As they say, I don't know everything about anything, but I know a little something about everything.

As I've written about before, for years I met up with my team - go, Drinkin' 'Bout It! - once a week to down beers and test our knowledge base against other boozy brainiacs. I mean, it makes sense that this would be my main outside hobby - it combines two of my favorite things on Earth. If I could find a bar trivia night run by hot gals in small clothes, my life would be complete.

But when the trivia night I'd grown used to shut down late last year, I called it quits. I needed a break. Had to have some time off. Recently I felt the old pull, so I spoke to the owner of the Bucket, a bar my friends and I have made our smoky home. She loved the idea, we settled on Mondays from 8 to 10, I decided on my format, and we were off to the races.

It's only been a few weeks now, but I get a real kick out of being Trivia Master. Five rounds of ten questions each means I spend my Sunday evenings putting together 50 questions about everything from weird sports (chessboxing! wife carrying!) to marine biology. The folks who have been playing seem to enjoy it (I had some grumbles about my Salma Hayek round, in honor of the golden globes, ahem, but it was all in fun). The bar's making money. And I get to play with my brain and drink for free. What could be better?

Anyway, long story longer, if you're in the Tallahassee area you should think of coming by some Monday soon. Get a team (5 people or less, please) or fly solo. I'll be happy to see you. And if you mention that you saw this blog post, I'll give you an extra point the first time you play.

Advance Warning

2011-02-02T20:56:00.001-05:00

It's a little early, but I wanted to make a flier so here it is. BYOB.

monday all week

2011-02-01T09:55:00.000-05:00

I feel dragged out thin and like the inside of my brain got rubbed smeary with soft cloth. Tired, bored, confined, no adventure, no smoke on the horizon, no sails billowing in salt winds that clean your face and clean my mood and push us out to sea.

Taken to pieces, the engine runs fine. Fine apartment, fine job, fine friends, fine hobbies, there's fine beer in the fine fridge and I just can't bring myself to give a tinker's damn about any of it today.

The engine runs fine, but the wheels don't turn.

day of rest

2011-01-16T19:12:00.000-05:00

Waking up on a couch is okay if it's a friend's place and you've slept there a hundred times, usually with your boots still on. That saves time in the morning when you gather up your keys and phone and grab a cold coke out of the fridge and let yourself out into the cold dawn while your buddies sleep it off.

And by you I mean me.

Then across a Sunday quiet town, whistling along to the radio, nose pointed home to bed and cat and ice water for the next morning drymouth and clothes that don't smell like bonfire and friends who chainsmoke inside. I think I slept on my glasses.

Every kid is my brother here.

2011-01-08T02:30:00.000-05:00

Got up to the bar tonight and had a beer, two, five, buddies buying, my night off. Over time, it's like we pass a 20 between ourselves, my rounds this week, yours next.

Same crowd, new night. Same steps: greet your way around the bar, down two, join the parade out to the back corner of the parking lot, wander back inside to the pitcher. A gal I know was dealing with unwanted advances, so I put my solid bulk between her and the fellow. Better to puke on yourself and pass out next to the building than to be that guy, eyes rolling in different directions, unable to understand that he's got no shot tonight.

And the horns roar out, 3rd 4th 5th wave ska, arms and legs flying around the pit in front of the band. The beat thumps into me and I find myself loud, chanting oi! oi! oi! oi! and catching grins, up on the toes of my boots. Another beer, the band ends, home again.

on inauguration day

2011-01-04T15:55:00.000-05:00

I'm at work, digging ditches for the state of Florida.* I almost called in this morning so I could go downtown and watch the state I love get handed over to those who would plunder and pillage her, or at least catch the parade (hell, I love a parade). Instead, I took my shower, laced up my boots, and came into work. I might as well do my job while it still exists.

Tomorrow night I'm going to see a show at the Engine Room (Adolescents, Lower Class Brats, Love in Arms, and Ka Plaa). I need it. It's been a while since I got to bang shoulders with like-minded individuals while loud music crashes down on our heads. Once you get used to that kind of release, it becomes a necessity. Going without a good show feels almost like going without sex or solid food - sure, you can live that way, but why?

Will I make it to work Thursday morning? Well, there's a reason I didn't give in to that urge to play hooky today.

*I do not actually dig ditches for a living.

the first working day of the new year

2011-01-03T09:34:00.000-05:00

I'd rather be at home, wrapped up in quilts, with my mean-ass cat grumbling away on my belly. But were I both home and awake...

I'd rather be putting together the wire shelving I got for Christmas, now that I've realized what I plan to do with it. For years, I've kept all my exacto blades and markers and glue and other tools of the diy propagandists' trade in the top drawer of my living room dresser. It's handy, but I have to dig through it to find anything. But wire shelves + some sort of rubbermade bins purchased on the Target gift card I also got as a present = a way to keep all that shit at hand and ready to go. I just cemented this plan last night, now I'm chomping at the bit to put it into effect. Which leads to...

I'd rather be working on a new zine that I'm kicking around. But more on that later, because it involves getting a handful of people to write things for it. I don't know if you know this, but the majority of people I hang out with are a) funny as shit and b) convinced they can't write. "Just send me that story in an email," I tell them. "I will edit it to make you look good, but not change what you say. That's what I do." Herding cats, I tell you. Which leads us back to my first point.

In Which I Think of Rearranging My Home

2010-11-17T15:46:00.000-05:00

I live in a very small apartment. I have a living room, a bedroom, a smidgen of a kitchen, a dab of a bathroom, an afterthought of a closet. All told, I lay claim to about 550 square feet. I've been here almost 7 years.

I've always been fascinated by small living spaces. Gypsy carts, sailboats, treehouses, airstream trailers. A place for everything and everything in its place. I've got everything tetrised into this place like you wouldn't believe. Folding chairs stuck in corners for when guests come over. Pans stored in the oven. My computer on a rolling bass amp so it can be tucked behind my falling-apart big chair when it's not in use. A fold out couch the size of a small love seat. Bookcases on every wall possible. Zines, hats, and other goodies hanging from the ceiling.

I love my little place, even with all the clutter. But all of a sudden I am so fuckin bored with how it's set up. The time has come to shuffle my belongings, clear out what I don't need, kick the dust off of everything and see where it settles. I think tonight I'll start with the kitchen. That's got to be the easiest room to break down and rebuild, right?

that time of year again

2010-11-02T10:09:00.000-05:00

You gotchyer day people and you gotchyer night people. Oh, sure, daytime is great. Sunshine, warm air, blue skies, green trees. Lunch, a fine meal. Folks are hustling and bustling, jobs get done, houses get built. Kids play in the park, families walk around Lake Ella. Nothing wrong with daytime.

But I perk up as the colors fade out of the world and everything goes grey, black, and silver. Anything's possible at night. When I'm lacing up my boots and headed out the door into the moonlight, I might just get dinner and come home again. Or I might run into a crowd of freaky weirdos and get swept into the darkness, stumbling up my front steps later with the dawn behind me, adventure clinging to my clothes.

I know plenty of people who get depressed as the nights lengthen, who need special lamps and trips to sunnier climes to survive the winter. Not me, buddy. I need a hooded sweatshirt and ten dollars for beer. A knit cap for my shaved head and good friends to laugh in the shadows.

Two parades (pretty much) go past my house every year. The Springtime Parade celebrates all that sunshiny brightness, the blooming dogwoods, the chirping peeps, fresh cut grass. It happens at ten in the morning in April and my parade parties have grown increasingly baby-friendly and kid-filled. The Winter Parade, coming up in a month, glitters in cold darkness. It's an event of flames throwing ghosts against the walls and people banging rocks together to scare off the prowling predators. We drink, we eat seared meat, we cheer for the parade until it ends and then cheer for ourselves long into the night. I love this season!

as far as the eye can see

2010-10-14T10:57:00.001-05:00

from Ryan Register's flickr

Last night I dreamed that I was in a van with a few people, riding on the bridge to St. George Island. The sea on either side was full to the horizon with dolphins, leaping and diving. As we neared the shore we could see people walking into the water, splashing in the shallows, hugging and petting the large animals, laughing with joy over the amazing gathering.

My sister Jessie wanted to join them but felt afraid. I urged her into the water. "Go!" I told her, "Go! When will you see this again?" and she smiled and went.

So, Jess, I don't know what you're feeling unsure about doing right now, but I think I'm in favor of whatever it is.

straggler

2010-09-02T09:04:00.003-05:00

All my friends are married or sober or laid up somewhere canoodling with their sweet baboo every night after work. They're buying houses and having babies and, I dunno, going to bed at ten on Friday night.

And that's great. I am honestly happy for all of them. If you can find love and stability in this life, fuckin' hop on it. Hug it tight and be joyful. But cheese'n'rice, do you know where that leaves we few confirmed bachelors and late bloomers?

Bored. Very, very bored.

I mean, I can entertain myself. I'm good at it. Ask my mama - I've been sneaking off with books or going for long walks my whole life. As an adult, though, I've cobbled together a happy little band of friends and drinking buddies and guys I go to shows with. Folks I could call on a Tuesday night or a Saturday morning to go split a pitcher or drive down to the beach or just sit on a stoop and reinvent the world. And now I can call a dozen people and get nothing but "maybe later". Later days, y'all.

I miss my friends. I miss having a crowd around at the drop of a hat. Nothing ever stays the same, and maybe it's me. Maybe I've just missed so many normal milestones in my adult life that I'm now hopelessly left behind. But it doesn't feel like that. I adore the babies, I admire the new homes, but I don't feel that pull for myself. I like living alone - I just didn't sign up to spend all my leisure time that way.

kinda sorta birthday party

2010-07-26T08:51:00.006-05:00

I tell you what, we run my mama ragged. It doesn't matter if we're talking about a full Thanksgiving dinner or three frozen pizzas (with toppings added) and a salad. Doesn't matter if the guest list is every cousin and 15 friends or the nearest and dearest, complete with babies. We are just gonna wear my mama clean out.

Last night we got mama to throw herself a small bash in honor of her birthday, something she's not all that into. Basically, we all want to descend upon her and then eat cake. It was a lickety-split sort of evening. If you sat still more than five minutes, you probably had a baby, a cigarette, or a slice of venison pizza in your hands. And those babies are wiggly buggers!

Waylon crawled four-on-the-floor for about a day and a half before going straight to the tripod stage (adorable) and is now racing along. This, in turn, sets Owen back a little. His easily-manipulated little friend can now hold his own - a good lesson for any child to learn!

That bruiser of a boy, in the mean time, was trying out this whole "walking in shoes" thing for the first time, and handling it like a champ. I fed him ice until we were both soaking wet and chilly, but he kept popping that wee mouth open like a birdie.

In the end, I know I had a good time. When we get together, no matter what, we make each other laugh. Oh, we're a lucky bunch.

Oh, The Things You Will See

2010-04-18T00:19:00.003-05:00

So, my friend Anna and I were walking back toward my place from downtown this afternoon. We're strolling along, almost there, just a few blocks from the state capitol building, as urban as Tallahassee gets, and what do we see? A chicken! Just scratching and pecking with those big chicken feet in the grassy area next to a parking lot. A little red hen, unafraid of us or the traffic passing a few feet away from her. We talked to her a second (Hello, chicken, where is your flock?), tried to figure out where she escaped from, and took a few photos. As you can see, she posed quite graciously.

We left her to her dinner and went into the hair braiding business in that white building in the picture. "Y'all raising chickens?" we asked. They said no, but they call her City Chick - she's been around for about three weeks. Crazy!

Where does she roost? Where is she laying eggs? Would it be wrong for me to take said eggs for my own if I find her hiding place? She doesn't seem to have a rooster. I would know. I live right here, and I would hear him.

I tell you, this neighborhood just gets busier and busier. City Chick!

Sunday and a ham.

2010-04-05T18:44:00.017-05:00

Bottle tree at Mama's house, new and improved.

Granny, Jessie, Lily, Owen, and sweet ol' Pearl dog.

Mama and Kathleen, taking the breeze.

Mama always takes the pictures, so I felt like I'd put her in a few instead.

Where Mama holds court.

The Ma and the Pa.

Mama making rolls and swapping stories.

To me, this looks like Owen is at a cocktail party, but really May just got off work and hasn't changed yet.

Jessie, looking very mama.

May and Mark, smokin' menthols.

Granny, Jessie, Mama, eating hummingbird cake under the trees.

Owen enjoying his Uncle Mark's company.

Mama, communing with the chickens.

Sorry, I didn't get any pictures of the ham.

artsy fartsy

2010-04-01T09:50:00.001-05:00

A good friend of mine, Leila, is an artist. Here lately, I guess just for kicks, she's been doing little drawings of her nearest and dearest. Mine both cracked me up and flattered me, so I thought I'd share. Sort of King of the Hill-esque, you think?

Happy 50th. Happy 50th. Happy 50th.

2010-03-31T15:04:00.003-05:00

All hail Xerox! Hundreds of underground cultures and subcultures, captured on paper, promoted with fliers, examined and captured in zines and self-bound booklets, archived and spread and multiplied. Black and white artwork, smeared and shadowed and stolen from office jobs page by sneaking page.

A blog? A blog is nothing, it's 1s and 0s. Technology fades, and these words will blink into nothing someday. But all that copied paper, scattered like leaves like manifestos dropped behind enemy lines - it won't all rot. It will remain, to carry our stories forward, hidden in basements and behind walls and under floorboards.

Happy birthday, photocopier! Long may you print!

everybody loves a parade

2010-03-30T09:36:00.003-05:00

You got your hippies and your mamas and your punks and your skins. You got your geeks and your dorks and your pin-ups and pirates. You got your queers and your breeders, and in several cases those lines are a little blurry. Mostly, we got a beautiful day and a fine time, and we'll do it all again next year.

Krewe of the Fives

2010-03-24T13:44:00.005-05:00

We're the float that doesn't move, the morning fête, the oi polloi. Six feet above the street, laughing and dancing and hassling the crowds. We want your beads, your candies, your boiled peanuts, and your pretty wenches. We're the Krewe of the Fives.

All year I live in a crickity crackety apartment that's slowly returning the soil, dealing with palmetto bugs and critters in the walls and an oven that doesn't work. Downtown noises and overflow parking from the hotel down the street. But one day a year, one spring morning when the dogwoods are blooming and folks pack the streets, mine is the best house in town. My friends show up happy, the beer goes down easy, and the marching bands step lively.

I simply can't express how I fall in love, each and every year, with the whole damned affair. If you can, come join us. Bring chips and a smile.

the throne room

2010-03-19T10:05:00.003-05:00

Before:

The last three are "in progress" pictures. I did have a wall behind the tub and all - that was part of the problem. At some point, someone covered up the window that was already there.

After:

Yes, I lived like that for 6 years. I mean, it wasn't as bad when I moved in, but it got pretty grody toward the end. To have a bathroom window and a ceiling free of mildew seems to me to be the height of luxury right now.

To a man with a heart like a lion.

2010-03-18T11:02:00.003-05:00

If the road hadn't been rainslick. If the young driver hadn't been fooling around. If he'd been buckled in. If this, that, and the other goddam thing, I'd be helping my friend Derek Biggs celebrate his 25th birthday today.

6 years gone, I can barely believe it.

"And for some of us, there's never gonna be any happy ever after."

2010-03-11T10:10:00.003-05:00

My sink and toilet are sitting in my bedroom. My bathroom floor is in chunks on my yard. There's a hole in the wall over the tub, covered in plastic and awaiting a window.

If you have ever been in my bathroom, you'll know why all this is so exciting to me. They're destroying the mildew and painting my walls! In fact, they are actually giving me real walls instead of slowly rotting plaster over 80 year old lathe.

For a cinematic conception of what my bathroom has looked like for the past 6 years, see here and just remove the chick and the sofa. When you have no vent, nothing ever dries. Especially in Florida. Especially in my house, because I am a man who likes a long, hot shower.

I'm gonna buy a towel bar, by gum! And when they finish the renovations, I'll post before and after pictures.

coming events

2010-03-01T09:31:00.001-05:00

If you're around, come on by that morning and join in the fun.

In which I teach my nephew Owen how to yell at cars.

2010-02-25T12:44:00.004-05:00

Okay, Owen, now let's hassle that guy driving the yellow Hummer.

"Hey! Hey, buddy! What's with the car? Always dreamed of being a school bus driver but couldn't make the cut?"

"Ha! That always cracks me up."

On Top of the City

2010-02-23T16:37:00.003-05:00

Every home has its own pleasures. Maybe you've got a cozy den, a kitchen window looking out on birds and palms, a tiled shower with perfect water pressure. Me, I've got brick steps, the perfect place to loll and sip beer and watch Tallahassee traffic roll past.

Remember when people would add neon light bars under the cars and trucks to give them a colored underglow? Yeah, some folks still do that. I know. I see them. I see it all on nights like tonight might pan out to be. Teenage boys singing show tunes. SUVs full of tiara-topped bachlelorettes (where do they go to make complete idiots of themselves in a town with no gay bars and no strip clubs?). Restaurant workers walking home, dreaming of taking off their shoes and polyester button down shirts. Hipsters on bikes. Old men on bikes. Once, a full sized Dodge van loaded into the back of a dump truck.

I intend to go home from work, put dinner in the fridge, clean out the cat box, change into my bdu britches, crack open a Pabst, and take up my post on the stoop. Hey, if you're out and about and haven't got anywhere to be, stop on by and say howdy. It's that kind of night.

this makes me chuckle

2010-01-27T12:47:00.003-05:00

Proof that you never can tell how things will turn out:

George Clooney vs. Christopher Walken

Up on the Rooftop

2010-01-20T12:25:00.004-05:00

That's a picture of my house (compare to my masthead above) and the Firestone, in 1951, back when God laid an egg. (I grabbed it off the Florida Photo Archive Collection, one of the coolest spots on the web if you like that sort of thing.)

60 years later, the trees are bigger, the road is wider, and the Firestone no longer sells gas, but both buildings are still there and holding on. Normally, they're the best neighbors I could ask for. No funny smells, no littered lot, gone at night, and not fussy about us using their back wall to show movies on at night. Well, they may not know about that last part, but you get the idea. Through some right of easement situation, we use the alley that runs along the back of their property to access our parking lot - it's the only way in or out of our complex. Otherwise we play catch as can catch on the downtown streets.

So, Monday night I'm sitting in my house doing my best imitation of a little old man, afghan tucked around me in my chair, eating shepard's pie my sister made, when my friend and I hear a great big BOOM! Normally, a sound like that means that a few people are having a very bad night on Monroe Street. We jump up and peer out the front window, but no wreck. Must have been a block or two away, so we return to the tv. Then, again, BOOM! BANG! and people babbling. What the fuck?!

I jump into my flip flops and head outside to figure out if I need to call 911. It seems to be mostly coming from the back, and as I round the corner I realize, between the giant lights and the heavy machinery I can see poking up over the lip of the building, what's going on. They're reroofing the god damned Firestone.

And it's going to take 3 weeks, dusk to dawn.
And I won't have access to my parking lot entrance that entire time.
And there are chunks of concrete all down in our lot and my side yard.
And it sounds like the demolition derby.

They could have at least warned us. The joys of living downtown. Anybody need a house sitter for a couple of days?

Effed Up Punk Nite

2010-01-12T11:02:00.002-05:00

2010-01-11T14:52:00.004-05:00

All last week I had a cold. I snuffled. I coughed. I sat in my chair. Sit sit sit, with my cat in my lap. I watched Battlestar Galactica dvds, I ate soup, I drank OJ. Drink drink drink.

How much fun was it? None. None fun.

Oh, sure, my cat loved it. She was in psycho kitty heaven, sucking up my body warmth and biting me every time I went to take yet another hot shower or make a tuna sandwich. Bite bite bite. That's Baggy's favorite trick.

After something like 7 or 8 days of sitting and sipping and being bit every so often, I now declare myself healed. Discount the rough cough I may be wracked with every so often. Please ignore the slightly distant look on my face as my addled brain catches up with the conversation. Because there's no way those things are going to kill me, but cabin fever was about to.

Dead dead dead.

make the walls ring

2010-01-01T14:07:00.008-05:00

Okay, these pictures are from Thanksgiving Eve at my mama's house. Give me two months, maybe I'll make a New Year's post. I'm blessed to come from a family dripping with musicians. Me, though, not so much. So this is what a holiday with our little clan looks like from my corner of the room.

A small library can hold a whole lot of music.

Old friends bend strings.

The generations swap notes.

May makes a curtain of her hair and sings from behind it.

And the Cicada Ladies play.

blog cull

2009-12-29T14:28:00.002-05:00

I use google reader to keep up with the blogs I follow, and I tend to just add shit in willy-nilly as I come across it. Of course, this means I was "following" 200+ journals and barely glancing at 2/3 of them on a regular basis. So I just went through my list and cleared out anything abandoned, anything I skip more than read, and anything I've lost interest in.

I feel so... purged.

For you, I offer a handful of themed blogs that I enjoy:
- My Parents Were Awesome
- illustrated Missed Connections ads
- Comically Vintage
- xkcd

Now, are these any odd/themed blogs you'd suggest?

howdy do, neighbor

2009-12-28T11:47:00.002-05:00

My mama reads this blog. I assume you know that. Hell, if you are reading this I can almost assume that you either found me through her blog or are related to me.

Anyway, that's one reason that there are certain things I don't talk about on here. You'll never get the details of my sex life through blogspot.

But, looking at this blank page, I feel like there are certainly more personal things to discuss once in a while. Things that could do with an airing.

So, out of curiosity, who's reading this? Are you one of my mama's fans, do I know you in real life, have we dated? Speak up, please.

Getting the story backwards.

2009-12-21T12:51:00.002-05:00

Wait, doesn't it say three wise men went to visit one baby? Damn it, we've got this backwards.

Seriously, though, we've got a bumper crop this year, y'all. I remember being a young'un, going to bonfire parties and singalongs with my hippie parents, playing with the other kids in the flickering, cold night. I remember dozing in the back of our VW Rabbit, watching upwards out of the back window as the trees flickered over us, riding down a canopy road from the Land Co-op or Oxbottom back to our little place in Lloyd.

And here we are again. My sister and my friends having their firsts - all boys this time around - and bringing them to parties. It won't be long before they are weaving through the crowd, planning raids on the snack table, flirting with the ladies, showing off their best toys to each other.

Cycle of life, y'all. Oh, and go check out my Xmas present for my own sweet mama: her blog is now easier than ever to find or recommend at blessourhearts.net - her own domain name!

amazing grace

2009-12-11T17:05:00.003-05:00

By the way, I feel about a million times better today. Less like someone dragged their muddy feet all over my brain. The tasks I did today stayed done and no one pissed in my iced tea.

After I extracted myself from the office yesterday, I met up with a good friend. We rode over to the Lucky Scars' practice space to listen to good music, freeze our bald heads, and get our shoulders out of our ears. A fellow was out there fooling with his bagpipes, and I love the pipes, so that was a bonus indeed.

Although, I admit, when he got to tuning the things we decided to leave.

fuck fuck fuckity fuck

2009-12-10T16:12:00.002-05:00

Every single god damned thing I have done today has required 5 extra steps because someone else fucked it up along the line. Someone who makes more than I do. Someone with a college degree. Someone who ought to have the god damned sense to know how to do their job, which I am not getting money to do.

So, here's a hearty fuck you sideways to those out there who have kicked my soul in the nuts today. I hope you go home to find your porch plants dead and your pets shitting wetly on your bedroom rug.

Hey Tally folks:

2009-11-18T16:31:00.000-05:00

let me tell you about my friend T-bone

2009-11-16T12:32:00.002-05:00

She and I dated for 5 years and have been close buds for 5 more.

She can cook up anything from escargot to vegan sloppy joe. She can drink a 12 pack of beer and walk a straight line. She can balance two jobs and taking care of a mom with issues. She can dance like a muppet. She can tell a joke (as long as it is one of a half dozen she knows). She can make a tshirt look pretty damn good.

What can't she do? Wash dishes. Name a cat anything except Baby (she currently shares a tiny apartment with Old Baby and Good Baby). Whistle. Make friends with girls I date.

Last night, she took something off the can't list. See, she was an end of life surprise for her dad - in her 20s, she's the youngest of 5 kids, and the oldest is in his 60s. Her experience with babies is in the range of slim to none. But a bunch of our friends and loved ones have started spawning, and now there are newborns everywhere. The thing is, T-bone's never held one. The youngest kid to ever sit in her lap was a few years old, and that was only for a few seconds.

But Brother B put his wee one in her arms last night and stepped back. She whispered to Waylon, "When you're older, we're going to be best friends." She peered into his little face and he blinked back sleepily. She cried a little. T-bone and babies - who knew?

Did I mention Punk Nite?

2009-11-10T10:46:00.002-05:00

I'll (punk) rock you like a hurricane. (I'm actually pretty much the world's worst dj, but it always turns out to be a lot of fun.)

take me to the river

2009-11-06T13:56:00.003-05:00

Tonight: Mostly clear. Lows 41 to 48. Northeast winds around 5 mph.
Saturday: Mostly sunny in the morning then becoming partly cloudy. Highs around 76. East winds around 10 mph.
Saturday Night: Partly cloudy. Lows 50 to 53. East winds around 5 mph.

As the locals know, the weather in North Florida ranges from hot as homemade sin to cold as a witch's tit in a brass bra. Somewhere between the season of massive heat and massive skeeters and the season of chilly damp followed by hard freezes, we get a couple of perfect weeks. Candy blue skies. Bonfire nights. Moonlight turning every leaf silver. Sunlight that warms your body without melting your soul.

Camping weather.

My ground tarp's cut, an 8 X 10 slice of an old billboard cover. My quilts are rolled tight and bound with a bungee cord. My cooler is washed out and waiting to be packed full of three days worth of canned beer. My backpack's crammed full of socks, drawers, notebooks, and novels.

All around town, I can imagine my friends. We've bounced a few messages off each other - I know we're all half out of town already. "I'll pick you up at 6, be ready." "We got plenty of food, don't hold us up once we get rolling." "Give me the address, I may need to stay last at work and come after."

I've got my mind fixed on one moment in time: past the hour and a half drive, past the unlocking of the gate and the turning on of the water supply, past setting up my tent in the dark (good thing I've got practice on that one), past gathering wood. The moment when we drag stumps and folding chairs up next to the fire, crack open our beers, and settle in to watch the night unfold.

Don't miss out on the good weekends, guys. You don't get a whole lot of them.

the best of times

2009-10-27T13:51:00.004-05:00

You know, I really don't share all that much on this blog. It's too public. I don't get into discussions about my sex life, my spiritual beliefs, or the finer points of my wider politics. I don't go on about the details of my work woes or how I'd rather be at the bar, double fisting Pabst.

That was me on Friday with two friends, waiting for the Lucky Scars to hit the stage. They're a local streetpunk/oi band, and they put together a fundraiser for cancer research - called it Breast Cancer Beatdown. There's a joke or two to be made about a cancer benefit in a smoke-clogged dive bar, and they all got made that night, I tell you what.

The cause was worth but entirely superfluous to my night. Some people go to church to center themselves and feel at peace with creation. Some walk in the woods or jump off of bridges or eat mushrooms or race cars. But for me it's live music. Just about anything will do in a pinch - bluegrass on the porch, marching bands making the streets ring and crash. But to be in the crowd at a punk show, in my home bar, brothers and sisters around, singing along. Moments like those are the reason some of us never give up the scene, though we let the drama and street level politics largely fall by the wayside.

My knees are shot from standing on concrete in boots and tripping over kids in the pit, so I don't mosh anymore. I try to pay my bills on time these days, so you don't find me blowing my paycheck at the bar every night anymore. My favorite little subgenres of punk rock aren't as popular as the current trends, so there's not a show every weekend anymore. But when the call goes out, I can't help but answer it. With a beer in each hand and a smile on my face.

now accepting mail

2009-10-12T07:40:00.002-05:00

Hank
P.O. Box 37281
TLH, FL 32315-7281

Feel free to send me letters, mix tapes and cds, postcards, zines, stickers, publicity shots, small toys, dried meat, money, lucky pebbles, your favorite movie, political manifestos, local newspapers, and your undying affection.

Please do not send underwear, chewed gum, ice cubes, poop, illegal bird feathers, stink bombs, or naked pictures of Sarah Palin.

this week in dreams

2009-10-08T15:50:00.000-05:00

From my found image blog: ski witches, broken noses, pirates, trolls, nursing mothers, primate hands, train hoppers, and other odds and ends.

a key of my own

2009-09-30T11:52:00.004-05:00

I've made zines about past relationships and zines about long time affairs. I've made zines about bands I love and zines about music I can't stand to listen to. I've made zines that are mostly interviews and zines that are nothing but three paragraphs detailing a momentary mindset of my own. When I was wee, I drew out little newspapers, complete with weather, date, and bannered headlines (probably about our pets or maybe mom washing dishes).

I don't remember learning to read. I don't remember learning to print. I don't remember first deciding to create something written with intent to distribute, any more than I remember learning to use the toilet or eat with a spoon. But I do remember the first time I learned about zine culture (punk personal zines, in this case), laid out my first one (god damn, it was ugly), and got my first post office box.

Up until then, I'd never had a key to anything that was my very own. I didn't really have my own room growing up, I moved straight out of my folks' houses and in with a girlfriend - I don't recall even having a locked trunk or cabinet. But all of a sudden, I had a small place that was mine. I could get mail and never show it to anyone, if I wanted - in fact, no one even had to know I ever received anything. I could slap that address on a zine that I sent out and carry on conversations with people that no one else in my life had any connection to without having to worry about any of them showing up at my front door.

Walking into the outer, always open area of a post office at night to check my mail calms me. It's quiet and cool, and it smells like paper and ink. And if that p.o. box is full of zines and stickers and letters, by god, that's as good as Xmas.

After I folded my last zine - it covered a certain music scene, and I just got tired of doing interviews and herding all the cats needed to make it come out right - I let my box rent lapse. I'd had that address through several different incarnations of zinedom, and it seemed time for a change. So now I'm working on something that might be more than a one shot issue, and I need a way for people to contact me. It's easy to throw an email address on there and call it good, but what fun is that?

So next payday, I'll pick my branch and rent a box. I've overjoyed at the thought. Hey - you have your incomprehensible thrills and I'll have mine.

Mr. Owen Curtis

2009-09-27T12:30:00.001-05:00

9 pounds, 4 ounces. Born 9/26. 42 hours of labor. My sister's a badass. Welcome to the world, little man!

a good day to be born

2009-09-25T07:10:00.001-05:00

Looks like the time has (started to) come! I'll let y'all know what's up next time I get on a computer.

waiting for the baby

2009-09-23T15:09:00.002-05:00

Well, it looks like we're coming up on the big event. My sister Lily is headed to the hospital with her husband and our mama, and words like "induce" and "ripened cervix" are getting thrown around. (How do they ripen a cervix? Put it in a paper bag with a banana?)

I've had so many text messages this afternoon from sisters and close friends that my cell phone ran out of charge. I keep saying, no, it'll be hours and hours before anything happens, but after waiting months and months that doesn't seem like such a long time.

Lily's a hell of a woman, pink velvet around an iron will. I don't know if she's looking at two days of labor or just enough time to call in the troops and push Owen into the world, but either way I know she's got the strength to get through.

A friend just asked if we should bring presents to her in the hospital. I said, "No, she'll have a present - a baby!"

comment moderation

2009-09-21T09:59:00.002-05:00

Sorry, y'all, I have to turn the comment moderation on for a while. Asian spammer. Fuck those guys.

this week in dreams

2009-09-18T15:25:00.000-05:00

Hippie tree houses, giant swimming pools, LUV, motorcycle mamas, and other oddities

I've seen heaven...

2009-09-09T14:04:00.003-05:00

and it is Neil Gaiman's library. Seriously. Lock my ass in there and occasionally push food and beer under the door. I wonder what order he's got it all set in. I'm pretty sure every book that I have ever wanted to read is in this room.

I'm quite literally a little sick with envy, in a way that I have never experienced before.

this week in dreams

2009-09-09T08:30:00.002-05:00

A few of this week's found eyehooks on I've had dreams like that:

broke as no joke

2009-09-02T09:40:00.003-05:00

This is sort of riffing on yesterday's blog, and thoughts about what is worth money and what ain't. I don't talk about personal money matters much, but it's on my mind, so be it.

Paycheck to paycheck's been my entire adult life, since I moved out of my folks' houses at 17 and in with my first girlfriend. She, years older than me, liked to buy electronic toys and get credit cards in my name. Let's just say that when I finally left her, three years later and centuries wiser, this poor boy didn't take nothing but a bag of clothes, a box of books, and enough debt for a third world nation.

Between that auspicious beginning and a tendency toward sex, beer, and rock'n'roll and away from academic and professional success, let's just say I'm not rolling in dough. I shuffled from rented room to slum apartment as jobs came and went. I crossed the country for my sister's wedding with nothing but my boots, $20, and a Greyhound ticket. The whole time I lived in Atlanta, I never had car insurance or got my tags renewed. (Marta: it's smarta!)

Eventually, I came home to Tally and got this state job. When I first started in this office, what I was making seemed huge, a god-send, especially when coupled with actual health care. Ten years later, I'm making the same amount, and it ain't shit. I owe my mama. I owe my pops. I owe my sister. I probably owe you. I pay most of my bills most of the time. I don't pay for cable. I do have netflix. Last night, I ate buttered noodles for dinner. My neighbor gave me the noodles when he moved into his new house. I don't get paid for a week and a half. If I had $80, I wouldn't buy Lyle Lovett tickets is what I'm saying. I'd feed my cat, put gas in my car, and get aa badly needed oil change. I'm trying to find a second job for Saturday or Sunday afternoons, but you can guess how that's going in this college town.

This is a whiney post. Like I said, I don't usually discuss this, because it's mostly my own choices that put me on this economic rung, and times is rough all around. But I felt like venting, so there you go.

God will, but I won't

2009-09-01T09:10:00.003-05:00

I've been a Lyle Lovett fan since the late 80s, when we got a few of his albums to play in our new cd player. The hair, the smile, the crooked sense of humor, even his name - the man was born to sing the American story. I lucked out and got to see him as part of a 3 songwriter showcase a few years ago at Ruby Diamond Auditorium thanks to a friend with connections. Hell of a night!

Well, when I found out he was coming back this year for 7 Days of Opening Nights, I had to price tickets. Are you fucking kidding me? Upwards of $80 for a few hours of music? I know, that's not too pricey for a mainstream concert, but that doesn't make it okay. How do you people who go to these things justify that? Is it a matter of only going out to see live music once a year? Have I just been so broke for so long that what looks like a massive bill to me is just an evening on the town to the average Lovett fan?

And, most importantly, who wants to buy me a ticket?

eyehooks

2009-08-26T08:47:00.002-05:00

I've been following quite a few image blogs lately, just collections people make and show of visuals they find interesting or arresting. So I thought I'd join in the fun. Plus, blogger's free, so why the hell not?

"I've had dreams like that" is my new listing of photos and art that catch my eye, mostly swiped from around the web. That's all, no more, no less. I set it up as having adult content, because there's no telling when I'll need to post up some nice tatas. Or a Tom of Finland drawing. Who can say?

Anyway, go take a look at it. I'm being careful to provide links back to the sources, so if you like what you see, that's who to thank.

Biscuits and Gravy

2009-08-21T11:46:00.002-05:00

Mama linked to my blog today, suggesting that folks ask for a copy of my current zine, Biscuits & Gravy, Corn Pudding & Black Eye Peas. I'm glad she liked it - she inspired it in a million ways - but it's just a simple, 8 page ramble about food and life. If you want a copy, drop me a line. I swear I promised someone a copy already, but I never mailed it - if that was you, write me again and I'll get on it. Either way, I'll need your mailing address; send it to: drunkonpabst at gmail dot com.

And just for kicks, the poem I wrote for the zine (probably the first verse I've written in 5 years, at least):

The south rises daily and fills a plate.
Cheese grits, breakfast or supper.
Field peas. Black eye peas.
Ham hock and hot sauce
Or yr mawmaw’s sweet sauce
From a mason jar.
Lima beans or call ‘em
Butter beans with chunks of pink pork
Either way.
Fried mullet, fried catfish
Dredged in corn meal salt and pepper.
Hushpuppies:
You add chopt onion to yr batter?
So many greens.
King Collards and the royal family:
Turnips, mustards, kale,
Dosed with pepper vinegar,
Pot liquor rich as beef broth.
Soaked up with skillet cornbread.
Pass me another slice of that,
Please sir,
And the honey bear.

Don't-Drive-In Movies

2009-08-08T20:28:00.003-05:00

I live very much in the center of town. If I called NYC home, my tiny apartment would cost approximately eleventy thousand a month and there'd be a doorman with gold braid on his coat. Instead, my rent check goes out at less than four hundred bucks, and there's a plastic skull over my porch light.

Good thing, too, because my friends and I ain't exactly what you would call the monied class. Mostly, we're the drinking class. Though we don't have a lot of cash, we do tend to be clever fuckers, so we make our own fun. We're getting a little burnt out on just listening to music and getting a buzz on, which seems to be the drill for Friday nights and special occasions right now, so this week we came up with a new and truly awesome fun time: the Firestone Outdoor Theater. The only Don't Drive In movies in the county.

Ever see Escape from New York projected on a two story high outside wall? A twenty foot tall Snake Plisskin kicks so much ass, I can't even tell you. See, my back parking lot - hidden from street view on all sides and lacking residential neighbors - is bordered on one side by the tall end of a local auto repair shop. It makes a beautiful movie screen when a friend brings over a dvd projector that may or may not have fallen off a truck.

So there we were, maybe ten friends sitting in two rough lines, swigging beers and answering back to the movie. Over our heads comes the party patrol helicopter. It circled us four times and then flew off. Can you imagine how weird we all looked from above, sitting there in the dark, all facing the same direction in a hidden parking lot in the middle of down town? I tell you this much: they'll have another chance to try and figure it out come Friday.

I want all the books

2009-08-04T15:58:00.002-05:00

There's a new used bookstore opening down on Gaines. Here's the letter that the former owners of Word Traffic books sent out:

I’m excited to tell you about a new independently-owned bookstore opening soon in Tallahassee. The store is located at 672 W. Gaines Street, between University Cycle and the Warehouse. It’s in the Quonset hut, that semi-cylindrical corrugated steel building.

Please understand that this is not a resurrection or reincarnation of Word Traffic. I am not in any way involved in the ownership of the store, but I have been hired by the owner to help shape things up prior to opening and to work as a staff member once the store opens. The owner’s name in Jayson Hays, a long-time Tallahassee resident, academic, and book collector. He has amassed a great volume and variety of used inventory, including very impressive collections of European literature and history and Judaica.

I hope you will make note of the following dates:

Friday, August 7th (First Friday): Open-house and store preview from 6:00-10:00 pm. The store is not quite ready, but we are inviting the public to come in and look around, see what we’re doing, have some refreshments, even buy a book if you feel moved to do so.

Monday, August 17th: Store opens for business, and will be open regular hours henceforth.

In my personal and professional estimation, this is going to be a fantastic used book store, and I look forward to seeing you there. Please feel free to forward this message to anyone who might be interested.

I dunno about you, but I'm a used paperback fanatic. I'll be checking this out as soon as they open for real business. Pass the word!

the farmer and the cowman should be friends

2009-07-30T12:47:00.003-05:00

So, Thursday night, President Obama intends to sit down with Dr. Gates and Sgt. Crowley for a cold beer and a friendly discussion about race in America today. And I think it's a goddam great idea.

I'm not saying we're beyond the age of needing to litigate to make sure racial prejudice does not impact peoples' lives. I'm not calling this "post-race America", for the good lord's sake. But I do think that many of us are in a place where our individual, socially implanted, culturally reinforced racial prejudices can best be winnowed out and destroyed by looking each other in the face and talking shit through. And if there's beer involved, so much the better!

Now, maybe this will fail. Maybe it'll wind up a Springer-style screaming brawl, with broken glass and trigger-happy secret service men. But I doubt it, as shallowly entertaining as that might turn out to be. Will it solve the rancor and divisiveness this incident's created in those of us not actually involved? No, probably not. But for the two men at the heart of the issue, maybe this will be a moment worth thinking about later. Maybe some education, some healing will happen while they sip their Red Stripe and Blue Moon (and is there any more perfect symbolism than that?) - let's ignore the Pres's deplorable choice of Bud Light for the moment. Maybe the next time Crowley's called upon to interact with a black person in the call of his duty, he'll understand some of the anger and distrust aimed his way and have some patience. Maybe Gates will feel like he got to speak his piece and was heard, something that doesn't happen often enough in this world.

After all, I have yet to see much drama that couldn't be deflated and deflected if the people involved would just sit down and talk. Drink up, guys. Hope it goes well. Here's to you.

heel, toe - that's how we go

2009-07-29T09:16:00.003-05:00

The Wizard of Oz. The Hobbit. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. All those fairy tales full of third born sons strolling across Europe in search of their fortune. Mr. Toad legging it home from prison. The barefoot mailman. Even the Von Trapps escaping over the mountains. Long tromps and epic walks filled my childhood stories and yard adventures.

My sister May and I would pack our gear - a treasured mess kit, my favorite trench tool, apples and pb&j done up in a bandanna bindle - and strike out across the yard or neighborhood. If we could find a ~~crick~~ drainage ditch, we followed it, ankle deep in who knows what. We drew maps, explored parks, dodged cows, slipped through barbed wire, crawled under bushes to find hidden trails.

So, last month, when May told me she planned to walk the Natchez Trace - a small paved highway of more than 400 miles between Natchez, Mississippi and Nashville, Tennessee, it seemed like the obvious next step. The trip we'd been training for our whole lives. "When are you going?" I asked. "Do you want company?"

Fall of 2010 and yes.

For a day or two, I said maybe. Maybe I would think about it. Maybe I would walk a little in the evenings and see how I felt. Have you seen me lately? I am not a small man. After a lifetime as a fat kid and 10 years with the state, I am not exactly up for strolling a few dozen miles with a pack on my back every day. But. But but but. The Stand. Huck Finn. The Canterbury Tales.

So now May and I are sort of obsessed, and, if I want to go, I need to stay that way. I'm In Training, for a certain definition of that phrase. I'm limbering up and starting to walk again. I'm sweating my way around the neighborhood at night, cursing the heat, cursing my tired legs. If may can do it, I can do it.

while my folks are in Mexico

2009-07-27T09:40:00.008-05:00

Dear Mama and Dad:

Well, I just spent the weekend, with May, keeping an eye on Moon Manor. The house didn't burn down, the dogs didn't run off, and foxes did not raid the hen house. To battle this complete lack of excitement (and doing the Tallahassee Democrat's Sunday crossword puzzle does not count), I made Kool-Aid pickles.

1. Open already made dill pickles (in this case, that my mama canned).
Delicious looking, ain't they? If not, please blame the fact that I have to a camera phone.

2. Show how much a pickle can look like a thumb.
This is teh kind of thing that cracks me and my sister up. We sat around giggling for a good 5 minutes after I took this picture.

3. Buy kool-aid (actually, two packs, cherry in this case). Make it up, 2 pack of powder but only one pack's worth of water and sugar.

4. Pour off liquid in dill pickles, retaining all the dill seed and so on. Pour double strength kool aid over pickle in jar. Put in the fridge to chill.
I drank the rest of the kool-aid, but that shit was strong as hell. I iced mine heavily, which watered it down enough to enjoy.

5. After a while (a week or more is best) Eat! They come out sort of sweet and sour.

May and Jess hated them. May said, "I don't like this, and it's in my mouth." I felt so bad for her, but I really like the salty/sweet/dill effect. Anyway, I left the jar in the fridge, so tell me what you think.

This is FROM THE HOAGIE SHOP!!

2009-07-22T14:26:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, you're just going through your day - wake up, work, go to grab a sandwich - and you glance over and see something that suddenly has you in stitches. This was one of those things.

(If you didn't see the incredibly airbrushed and homoerotic film 300, you might not get it.)

depressed? angry? sad? got a belly ache?

2009-07-15T12:22:00.008-05:00

You've got your basic Koko and All Ball.

But I kind of like it best when they're the same size.

Of course, if your cat is bigger than your monkey, things can get pretty wacky.

With 4 hands, you can hold your kitten and eat a banana at the same time!

How could I pass up a chimp and a white tiger.

Don't you wish you could curl up with a cat and a monkey and take a nap right now?

faggots, bulldaggers, queens, and queers

2009-06-29T16:07:00.005-05:00

40 years ago, to be gay was to be illegal. Get found out? Lose your job, lose your family, lose your home. There were laws against wearing the clothes of the opposite sex. Being attracted to those of your gender was a mental disorder - gays were literally sickos, perverts. Get busted in one of the regular police raids on gay bars, the only meeting place open to "the love that dare not speak its name"? Lose your freedom. Lose your human dignity when the cops raped or beat you. Lose any right to life and love, damned queers.

These days, a man can marry a man in some states. Lesbians pop up in car ads and become America's sweethearts. The president himself has to face mainstream accusations of not doing enough to advance gay rights (I happen to agree, but that's not what I want to talk about today).

40 years ago yesterday, in the wee hours of the night, the NYC police department went to raid a mafia-owned bar called the Stonewall Inn. A true dive, it catered to the least respected even of the gay world - the stone butches, the drag queens, the homeless queer kids that lived in a nearby park. Folks who drank and danced there (it was the only gay bar in NYC that allowed dancing, by the way) came from all ethnic backgrounds - when you are hated for whom you love, racial issues can become less pressing.

40 years ago - when Michael Jackson was 10 years old and was already an old hand at touring, when Farrah Fawcett was 22 and graduating from the University of Texas, a week after Judy Garland went to that big rainbow in the sky (and don't think that didn't have something to do with the angry mood that night) - 7 cops stepped up to the front of the Stonewall Inn, which didn't even have a back door or fire exits. As they did more than monthly, they announced, "Police! We're taking the place!" One of the officers called for the vans and backup, and they began to force the 200 patrons into lines. They ordered everyone to present ID, and those suspected of being in drag were told to follow a policewoman into the bathroom for a gender check.

40 years ago - not that long at all - those queers started to say NO. They refused to let the cops in their pants and under their skirts. They refused to show ID. The paddywagon was slow in coming that night, and people were already pissed. Revolution - on so many levels - was in the air in those years, and the "sexual deviants" had been through enough. That some of the cops were groping the lesbians under the excuse of a "pat down" sure as hell didn't help. Think about that - 7 or 8 officers in a room of 200 abused, bullied gays and the police were secure enough in their dominance that they went right on ahead molesting and harassing. That's how low on the social totem pole queers were those days.

About a third of the bar patrons were cut loose, shoved out the door to slink away and count their blessings. But they didn't. They started to taunt the police, snarking away, gathering a much larger (and mostly gay) crowd. As the wagons finally pulled up and the cops tried to get people into them, someone - god bless 'em - shouted "Gay Power!" Others began to sing "We Shall Overcome." A cop shoved a drag queen, and she hit him with her purse. Someone yelled back that those inside the bar were being beaten. The crowd reached into their pockets and pulled out the only ammo they had - pennies, bottle caps - and started throwing them at the police. Those were followed by bottles and rocks.

A butch dyke was dragged out of the club in handcuffs. She fought with four of the cops for long minutes, unwilling to be shoved into the van, bleeding from where she'd been struck in the head with a billy club. Finally, she turned to the crowd and asked, "Why don't you guys do something?" and the place fucking erupted. They battled back and forth, the crowd throwing bricks and garbage cans, turning over the paddywagon, slashing the tires on the cop cars. Do you understand? For the first time, the police were forced to retreat in the face of the queers they'd set out to brutalize and dehumanize.

All night, fighting raged in Greenwich Village. The queens set up kick lines, taunting the cops with songs and insulting rhymes, fading back when the officers attacked them with clubs and fists and firehoses, only to start up again when they moved down the street. The police chased a handful of young gay men around a corner, only to find themselves in full flight when they suddenly faced a wall of angry homos shouting, "Catch them!"

The next night was the same. Many people who were there say that they remember, as much as the riot itself, that suddenly people were kissing in the streets. Gays and lesbians were openly being physically affectionate to one another, not hiding in bars where you had to give your name at the peephole to get in. Allen Ginsberg was there that night, and, walking home, he said "Gay power! Isn't that great!... It's about time we did something to assert ourselves," and, "You know, the guys there were so beautiful—they've lost that wounded look that fags all had 10 years ago."

40 years ago, the entire gay rights movement burst into life. Oh, there were inklings and struggling starts before, of course, and brave men and women who fought hard for change. But it was that night, when the queers fought back, that pushed it out in the open and started the boom. In their fight for the right to marry and the right to join the army, the mainstream gay movement would be wise to remember that it was people like Sylvia Rivera (a transsexual woman who began living in a community of drag queens on the streets at the age of 11, when kicked out of the house for being effeminate and who was there that night), that it was working class bulldaggers and homeless sissy fags and limpwrists and stone dykes, that led the charge.

So here's to those who fought back that night, the ones we know and the ones we don't, some nameless but none of them hopeless. Here's to kicklines in the face of police brutality, and swinging purses, and bleeding - if that's what it takes - to be able to love freely. 40 years. Truly amazing.

soaked

2009-06-24T15:46:00.002-05:00

Standing around the practice space last night as the sun went down, sipping drinks out of cans and plastic cups, we told each other lies about the weather.

"It's not as hot as it has been!"
"Feel that breeze?"
"I'm pretty sure it's cooling off some, what do you think?"

Until it turned out to be the truth, and suddenly the wind kicked up some and bright lightning flashed in the purple-black grey clouds that came crawling across the sky. Between songs, the lead singer asked us, "What are y'all all looking up at?" He couldn't see it from inside the storage space, but we sure could. Staring up at it, thunder lost in a double bass beat, smooth-bottomed force of nature come to wash us clean.

Next thing you know, we're getting hit with those fat Florida raindrops, like getting pelted with acorns or pebbles that splash when they land. Wet dust smell jumped up off the asphalt. We protected our beers but not our heads, letting the storm wash off a heat wave's worth of sweat and exhaustion. The driveway between rows became a still river, soaking your shoes and pants' legs before you even realized you'd stepped into the water.

Man, we needed that.

up and down the river

2009-06-16T21:09:00.008-05:00

For my birthday and general kicks, my folks and some friends and I went down the river on Dad's boat. My sister May wrote beautiful things about it and my mama shared her pictures and thoughts here. Go get the backstory!

Dad and Mama in front of the boat, up in the yard in Lloyd.

"Is it so nice as all that?" asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him.

My sis May (in front) and one of my best friends, T. This was maybe T's second time on a boat smaller than an aircraft carrier.

"Nice? It's the only thing," said the Water Rat solemnly as he leant forward for his stroke. "Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolute nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing," he went on dreamily: "messing—about—in—boats; messing—"

The Anni Sue, a massive barge, passed along our port side. I took 5 photos on it, one after the other, as it came - that's how long it was. Look at that guy - King of the River!

"Look ahead, Rat!" cried the Mole suddenly.

A pink sailboat with a "yard" full of purple flowers. If I could spend my life on the water, I would.

It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.

Dad, Mama, and my sis Jess making like an otter. Leaves fall from the cypress and other river trees, filling the river with tanic acid, making it look like good sweet tea. Cold, too, but perfect in the heat of the Florida June sun.

"—about in boats—or with boats," the Rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. "In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not. Look here! If you've really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?"

May and T again. You should have seen T's face when dad hit the throttle and we sped into the wind!

The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leant back blissfully into the soft cushions. "What a day I'm having!" he said. "Let us start at once!"

(Wind in the Willows)

at May's request

2009-06-05T13:16:00.003-05:00

I got my septum pierced a million years ago, when I was 21, in Atlanta's Little 5 Points. It's the only piercing I have left (used to have my ears full of rings) and the only jewelry I wear. I do a few stupid tricks with it, usually when little kids state at me in public - "disappear" it into my nose, take out the horseshoe I wear and run other things through the hole, that kind of stuff.

In response to yesterday's picture, my sister said: "Now put something else in your nose, 'cause that shit is hilarious." So, two pictures of something else in my nose:

4 or 5 years ago, at a baby shower. Novelty diaper pin. I don't want to tell you what other piercing holes this thing got stuck through after I was done with it.

And just now, in my office, a small punch tool.

Fun times!

gimme money

2009-06-04T15:23:00.003-05:00

Waiting on my paycheck to go through. Waiting on my paycheck to go through. It must be an alternate Thursday, because I'm singing the Waiting on My Damn Paycheck song.

Why do I toil here in the salt mines, waking up at the ungodly hour of 7 am to support the unlucky and unstable of Florida? It ain't so I'll develop state worker ass. It ain't for the chance to rise in my field and shine like the brilliant star that I am. It ain't even for unlimited office supplies.

Okay, it's partially for the unlimited office supplies. I do love 'em. (See above picture.)

No, it's for the paycheck, of course! It ain't much, but it's steady. I've been skin broke all week, and now I've got visions of cold beer and a fully gassed car, a meal that doesn't involve soup and a new pair of cargo pants from the army/navy store. Next week is my vacation, and I'll spend it locally, sleeping in my own bed, having adventures where I can. And what little is left after rent and updating my car insurance will make for a good time indeed.

When you make small change, it's good to recognize simple blessings.

put it on paper

2009-06-02T03:20:00.000-05:00

I am a man of appetites. I hunger for good food and good words. Stepping away from the music-based publications I've been writing for the past few years, I recently finished a small zine about grub. It's got recipes. It's got a personal story or two. It's even got a poem, and I just don't write too many of those these days.

Want a copy?

When I go out to play with my friends...

2009-05-29T13:46:00.002-05:00

...this is what it looks like. This is why mainstream pop/rock concerts make no sense to me.

the tropics in spring

2009-04-13T19:05:00.002-05:00

I've got murder on my mind. Premeditated - I went to Publix in a thunderstorm to buy a 4 pound box of Mule Team Borax and a one pound sack of icing sugar. Came home and mixed them together in a big jar that used to have pretzels in it. Sprinkled that shit all over my kitchen, down every crack, in the sink drains, around the back of the stove and fridge and water heater, along the door jamb.

You can call them palmetto bugs, I call them the enemy. This apartment is trying to return to the soil, but I'll fight the roaches any time they rise against me.

let's go to the movies

2009-03-26T11:00:00.002-05:00

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind

and another

his mother called him WILD THING and Max said

I'LL EAT YOU UP

and he was sent to bed without eating anything.

That night, in Max's room, a forest grew.

will you be there this year?

2009-03-24T13:00:00.002-05:00

A krewe "is an organization that puts on a parade and or a ball for the Carnival season." The Krewe of the Fives? We're the float that doesn't move. The only ongoing, family-friendly, breakfast beer bash of Springtime Tallahassee. 5th Annual this year. A few more babies, a few more friends, a few more beads to catch. This year I can't afford to set us all up with a keg, but I'll throw hot dogs on the grill after the parade wraps up while everyone wanders in and out and downtown and back again and people nap on the couch.

If you and yours are downtown this Saturday, come on by and say howdy. You can't miss us.

the end

2009-03-17T11:43:00.003-05:00

I found out yesterday that a guy I've known for maybe 13, 14 years killed himself this week. He and I were never that close, but he and one of my best friends were all but brothers.

Isn't it funny how that works? You've got these people who are so tightly tied to you, so much a part of your daily life. You feel like you know everything about them and they know everything about you. But, the whole time, you both have story lines going that have nothing to do with each other. We all carry little chapters of our friends, memories only shared by the two of you or more important to you both than to others. How you met. Trips you took. When you helped each other through or over some pain and trouble.

That's what we did last night, of course. As soon as we, a handful of us, found out what happened, we rallied around the deepest wounded. We huddled close to him and listened, put on hands on his shoulders when he cried. "Okay," he said, later in the evening, as the shock wore off, "I'm ready to wake up now." But he didn't, because you don't, because death fucking sucks like that.

So he's riding up today with another might-as-well-be-brother to the wake in North Carolina. Those of us left in town will worry about them, because grief makes people drive badly, but I guess they'll make it fine. They'll come back with an ending to the story of their lives with Demetri. He was 29, an artist, and a traveler, and he shot himself in the head Sunday.

big in England

2009-03-10T08:53:00.004-05:00

Lord, the world is weird. And the punk scene is tiny. And when you look up in the grocery line to see someone you've partied with and gossiped about and swapped zines with and have just generally crossed paths with over the past ten years on the cover of the National Enquirer, it does feel a little surreal.

I didn't buy the issue, though - I've got better pictures of her at home.

dirt mall redux

2009-03-09T09:00:00.003-05:00

You see some crazy shit when you spend the weekend selling used videos at the local flea market.

You'd be amazed at how many different ways there are to tote a small dog. You can tuck your chihuahua into a leather man-bag. You can push it around in a pet stroller, or you can just go ahead and load three pugs into a regular baby stroller. You can stuff it in a canvas carrier made to look like a really ugly purse with vented sides. You can buy a sort of harness made to go around all the important bits and leave the pup's legs and tail dangling as you carry it by the special strap at the top, as if the whole animal was a yapping diaper bag.

Or you can do as one family I saw did: carry the small dog lovingly in your arms and clip the animal's leash to your small son's britches, solving two problems in one go.

just so you know

2009-02-25T16:17:00.004-05:00

Note the date change! This is now happening on Saturday, 3/21!

And, no, I won't be playing any Coldplay. But I will be playing quite a few tracks from artists like the Dropkick Murphys, The Pogues, Flogging Molly, Seamus, and so on, what with St. Patricks being only a few days before.

fun in the sun

2009-02-23T17:19:00.005-05:00

There's this local band, see, called Lucky Scars. They're buddies of mine, part of the crew I run with. A great bar band. Well, one of them, for various reasons of his own, is calling it quits. This week, the Scars are playing their last shows with this lineup. The first one is Wednesday night down at St. Mike's Pub on Gaines Street. That'll be a hell of a good time, because the headliners are Hudson Falcons, and I hear they rock it. Plus, that's one of our home bars - there's a comfort level involved that make singing along and acting like fools just that much easier.

But, even better, the Scars got on the bill at a big local show over there in Panama City. Yep, the Redneck Riviera. Goofy golf, overpriced head shops, "Muff Diver" tshirts, and plywood condos - now with 100% more punk rock. A couple of friends and I have a room rented - we're going to have us a good ol' time on the miracle strip and then show PCB how Tally does this thing.

hey man, play some Crass

2009-02-19T12:39:00.002-05:00

I've now DJed for four Effed Up Punk Nites at the Engine Room, one a month since November. No scratching, no mixing - I don't even own my gear. I just show up with a couple hundred cds and Truewill shows me which knobs to turn and which switches to throw.

So far, everyone who turns up seems to have a good time. And part of their fun is making requests - if I have it, I'll play it. I've noticed, though, that there are certain types of people who just have to make their voice heard. For example:

- The Honest-To-God Fan: This guy or gal is just stoked to have someone DJing the ska, punk, or oi they love instead of yet another block of new wave or electroclash or industrial. They might ask for someone obscure, but more often it's a great B-side, sing-along track. Garageland by the Clash, for example, or Myage by the Descendants. When I play something they dig, requested or not, they're apt to jump up on the platform with me to slap me on the back or throw an arm over my shoulder and sing a line or two, and they're quick with a "thank you!" and a thumbs up.

- The Show Off: Wants to hear that tune some local-to-Gainesville three piece thrash band recorded in 1984 and released on 100 copies of a single-pressing vinyl 7". What, I don't have that track? What am I doing DJing? This type might even bad mouth my collection on a messageboard the next day. Luckily, the Show Off is almost always universally known as a douche, so no one cares what he has to say about shit.

- The Know Nothing: He'll come up and request The Misfits two minutes after I play "Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight." He's aware of maybe a half dozen of the better known punk and third wave ska bands, but not what they actually sound like. He wants to seem with-in and in on what's going down, but it's obvious that he's just checking off a mental list that starts with the Sex Pistols and ends with Less Than Jake or - worst of all - Rancid and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Less annoying than the Show Off, but still funny to me.

So, are you going to make it to the next Effed Up Punk Nite?

year out, year in

2008-12-31T14:05:00.002-05:00

Well, that was a hell of a ride, wasn't it, folks? Some of the best didn't make it through, and some that should have been pitched overboard in January came sailing right along. What can you do? Grab a beer and grin.

So here's to a new year, 2009. Here's to hard work, but the kind that gives you a good night's sleep - not the kind that leaves you up until dawn worried and stressed.

Here's to a new president, and that's a blessing in at least two ways. For one, I do think Obama's got good in his heart and good in his head, and he might get us all pushing together for once. Or at least enough of us to outpush the ones still pushing that same old bullshit. And, god bless us every one, that damned, ignorant, bloodthirsty, classless, privileged bastard W is out. (Now, when does he get tried for war crimes?)

Here's to loud music in smoky rooms and soft music as spring comes on. My buddies the Lucky Scars have a brand new cd recorded, so here's to them and every other bar band working day jobs and still cranking out anthems for the rest of us. Make theirs a whiskey.

Here's to sweethearts and falling asleep next to someone you trust, but here's to sprawling all over your very own bed with no one to worry about at times, too. Here's to getting the love you need and the space you need, and that's about the hardest balancing act I know.

Here's to dogwood blossoms and trips to St. George on a Sunday afternoon. Cold snaps on days you don't have to work and bonfires that last all night. Community festivals and outdoor music and dozens of raw oysters and cocktail sauce. Sweating your ass off sitting in the shade watching the summer roll by. Camping down by the river after the mosquitoes die back again in the fall. Halloween parties and birthday parties and Billy and Shayla's annual July 4th Bring Your Own Pool Party.

Here's to the friends that are with us right now, because I guarangoddamntee that they won't all make it to 2010. And here's one for the folks that will sprout up in our lives this year, to be near and dear by next winter.

Here's to you and here's to me, and ain't it good to be alive when the sky's blue and the air's chilly and there's promises of a good time to be had?

this makes me suspicious

2008-12-19T12:10:00.002-05:00

In an effort to ~~lull state workers into a false sense of safety~~ make up for the lack of cost of living increase, Crist is letting us take off the day after Xmas and the 2nd of January with pay this year. On the one hand, that's fucking awesome. A five day weekend is a great thing. On the other, I can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop.

2008-12-16T09:30:00.002-05:00

I don't know where you'll be tonight, but my happy ass will be at the Engine Room on Railroad Avenue, playing oi, ska, and punk songs for the masses. The probably drunken masses, because Pabst Blue Ribbon beer is only $1 until midnight. I mean, you can't beat that with a stick, not even on a Tuesday night.

What's your favorite Ramones song? Maybe I'll play it.

Fuck you, Charlie.

2008-12-10T11:37:00.003-05:00

Crist is coming up with ideas on what to slash in the current budget. On the list of possibilities:

- Cut salaries of all state employees by 5%, or
- Furlough all nonessential employees for 2 weeks without pay.

Up yours sideways, Charlie, ya ocean hopping, property tax cutting mofo.

we've got a thinkin' problem

2008-12-04T13:09:00.000-05:00

Let me tell you a heartwarming tale about a plucky band of misfits. About six months ago, I stumbled into going to bar trivia night at a local tavern. I sucked a few friends into it, and we soon needed a name. Being several pitchers into the night at that point, a silly pun prevailed, and Drinkin' Bout It we became.

Week after week, we came in near the bottom. "We're not last!" we cheered at the end of the game, soused and eager to take another run at it. We clapped for those few teams who came in below us, and we clapped for those who regularly knew what quarterbacks belong to what NFL teams and three poets whose names start with G.

But we began to learn. For example, we learned that the guy calling the questions checks cnn.com every week for his current events questions, and we bumped up a place or two. We learned that he can sometimes be bribed with shots of liquor. And we learned that we'd better have somebody familiar with the old Testament and the periodic table.

And this week, with no warning whatsoever, we stomped 'em. We came in first, and amazed ourselves as much as the teams who'd become comfortable with us as a barrier between them and last place. We were the Bad News Beers, the Mighty Drunks.

Next week we may well come in dead last. But for a week, we're champions.

bamboozled

2008-12-01T12:33:00.002-05:00

Bamboo takes over yards. It's almost as bad as kudzu, but easier to make into a tipi or lean to. While waiting for the turkey to hit the table and trying to avoid eating our weight in cheese and hummus beforehand, a bunch of us "kids" wandered around the side yard and did tricks with the bamboo forest.

First, folks climbed up the thick stalks like monkeys, taking turns bending them toward the ground and dropping off safely. Baby D took on a true monster, a hefty titan tangled among other poles, and nearly suffered for it when the damn thing wouldn't head groundward. With shouted encouragement, he finally wiggled it down far enough to escape harm.

After we got tired of that, we managed to rip one big bamboo clean out of the ground. We showed off a little, lifting it like a dumbbell, seeing how quickly we could swing it at each other. Soon enough, Jessie tried to ride it standing up. This did not work, let me tell you right off the bat. Sitting on it turned out better, but got the seat of my girlfriend's pants mighty dirty. How about a board, laid across the top branches? And hence the picture above, Jess riding proudly through the side yard, pulled by laughing family.

Who needs snow to have a sled?

eat, drink, make merry

2008-11-24T14:51:00.004-05:00

I am a man who likes to throw parties. Birthdays, holidays, sunny Saturdays with nothing else going on, give me a half a reason and I'll have two dozen people and three dozen hotdogs at my house. You say "Flag Day" and I hear "fill the keg and buy some ice".

See, I like being able to throw down with my nearest and dearest, drinking beer and eating grilled meat or pot luck dishes and cranking up the music 'til we can hear it out in the side yard. I also like being able to wrap up in my own quilt with no worries about driving at the end of the night, no stress about when to leave and whether to sleep over or hold back on the booze. I'd rather clean my bathroom and put Christmas lights up outside than worry about getting from point A(lcohol) to point B(ed).

Plus, throwing a party means I get to make a flier. You can keep your fancy, folded invitations - my aesthetics are based in the punk scene, and my announcements reflect that. Ripped or copied pictures from Horror Comics and old encyclopedias. Spray painted, stenciled lettering and bright images. Lay outs based on Communist propaganda posters or wanted posters. For this year's 5th Annual Parade Potluck Party, I broke out the construction paper and glue. I can't draw Santa, but I can sure cut him out.

The parade parties are my favorite every year because of where I live, right on the route. The Springtime event happens in the morning, and everyone is drunk and sleepy by early afternoon, napping and picking at leftovers. But the Winterfest Parade kicks off at dark, and we wind up carousing into the night, building bonfires and singing songs and, sometimes, hooking up with folks you didn't even expect to see.

Anyway, if you are out at the parade this year and see me and my crew, stop by and say howdy. Bring a dish and a bottle and join us. If you're an asshole, we'll toss you off the wall. But if you're good natured and up for some fun, well, maybe you'll make a few friend or two. Either way, it''s going to be a hell of a party.