the family that blogs together...

So, one of my many sisters has stuck her toe in the Ocean of Blog. Roll Up the Rugs

And, of course, my mama's blog is always lively and worth reading. Bless Our Hearts

Just in case you wanted some new reading material.

3/18/85 - 6/27/04

On this day in 2004, I woke up with a hangover at my dad's house to the phone ringing. I was watching his pad, and I'd had a few beers the night before while watching tv. I planned to chill out, make some breakfast, and maybe go to a show that night with my friends.

Instead, my girlfriend at the time, the voice on the phone, told me Derek was dead. There'd been a car wreck, he and some friends were coming back from Gainesville in the rain and the SUV flipped. He never had a chance. Everyone else made it through.

I had to pass the word to our crew. Is there anything worse than telling friends that someone's not coming home? The rest of that week is a blur of wakes and drunken sorrow and memorial shows. And there's still a big hole in the scene that will never be filled.

Derek, bro, I miss you.


boom and crash

Sometimes we get reminded that Tallahassee has a rainy season. Last night, the storm rolled in and smashed down on top of us. On the way home from work, I took refuge in a church parking lot, reading a Carl Hiaasen novel for a half hour while the deluge hid the road and hail pinged off my roof. By dark, lightning flashed through the clouds every few seconds. My friend said, "maybe it's not a storm, maybe its an attack." I unplugged my tv, turned off all my lights, and pulled a chair up in front of my open door. The wind slung tiny drops of water through the screen at me, and I swear I could feel electricity tingling on my skin. As the night wore on and the weather kept raging, Monroe Street turned into a river. Cars went boating by, creating enough wave to body surf into the gutters. I dozed off like that between the biggest crashes, and I dreamed only in sound.


shut it down

There's something to be said for sticking around until last call on a Thursday night. Mostly, "God damn, why did I stick around until last call on a work night?"

But no, there we were at St. Mike's at 2 am, blinking as Ben brought up the house lights and trying to finish a last pitcher of Pabst before heading home. And here I am at work today, a wee bit sluggish and wishing for about 7 more hours of sleep. Every now and then, though, you just have to go do it up right, get a belly full of beer even if you know it's a bad idea, stay up too late talking about porn and music with someone you like. Last night was one of those nights.

Tonight? Sleep.


call you on the telephone, give you a ring

Hey, remember The Georgia Satellites? That one hit wonder southern rock band from the 80s? You know the song - got a little change in my pocket goin' jang-a-lang-a-lang. My dad's band did a killer cover of it back in '86 and '87.

Well, instead of picking a semi-known, partially-popular new-country act for the 4th this year, the city's hiring the Satellites and the Atlanta Rhythm Section to perform during the big Independence Day bash at Tome Brown Park. Look, I know we're in a recession and the city's pretty broke. And heck, I've been hoping for years that they'd finally get some rock'n'roll out there to go along with the fireworks. But how about some acts on their way up instead of their way out?

While we're at it, how about some acts that aren't lily white and don't have a history of slapping Dixie flags on their album covers? I know, too much to ask.


talent put to silly use

The very cute and very talented Leila, currently hanging out at my place on summer break from art school, whipped this up for our joint birthday luau this weekend. We took about 50 shots of various people doing increasingly obscene things involving this stand up. Many of the pictures came out blurry (so sue me, I was drunk as Cooter Brown), but you get the idea.

Homemade fun at its silliest.

on the dog

Billy's haiku for Dog Island:
Mr. Horseshoe Crab,
You are so prehistoric.
Get away from me.


a coconut bra and a grass skirt

Well, that was a hell of a thing! The allergic reaction is finally behind me (instead of on my behind), thanks to modern medicine and the healing powers of the Gulf of Mexico. I've rolled happily from 31 to 32, and I'm hoping to put a fairly sorry year behind me (too many deaths, not enough zines). I've lost home internet access, but I'm back at work finally.

To celebrate all this, plus my friend Leila's birthday next week, I'm throwing a luau at my house on Saturday night. Ever notice that whenever sitcom characters throw a party, odds are good it'll be a luau, but no one you know ever actually invites you to one in real life? We're out to change that. Hawaiian shirts, tiki gods, and inflatable octopii - what could be better? So, if you're a reader and you're in the area and you know where I hang my hat, put on your best island finery and come wiggle your hips at the Fives. BYOB, but there'll probably be some sort of pork based food to eat.



I've fought with tooth aches, lingering coughs, bad knees, a thrown out back, mosh pit injuries, and toxic hangovers. I once battled strep throat in a mill shack in Atlanta in February with no heat, spending days on end submerged in hot water in my bathtub to counteract the fever chills. But never have I been so miserable for so long as this past week, when a laundry soap allergy laid me low.

Let's just say that a violent rash on certain parts of the human anatomy is a pretty good argument against a benevolent god. On the other hand, it does lend evidence to the god-as-an-immature-bastard side of things.