big in England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.