From now on, I'm buying all birthday presents at truck stop gift stores.
Loyal devotees to the bbkaro journal will recollect that prior to my Wild West adventure last summer, I wound up in a rooster-filled truck stop in Sacramento filled with handlebar-mustachioed white-t-shirts and cherry-lipsticked waitresses. Ka-ra-zee. And worth a return visit. Not necessarily for the pancakes, but the ambience is fookin brilliant, eh?
I was there sobering up this St. Patrick's Day. This time I discovered the gift shop. You know those sweet knobs on bus steering wheels that help you with the rotation? They have a wide assortment, including an eight-ball, perfect for the cousin with the Lexus. Monkey Butt powder -- prevents butt sores for people who are on their ass all day. Too many potential recipients to list. A box containing six disposable urinals. Brings to mind that time at the drive-in when I was forced to pee in an empty 32-ounce soda cup. Where were these gel-filled lavender-scented pouches when I needed them? A trucker-grade meat thermometer. For the aunt who can't cook. Anybody know what a tire knocker is? Clubs, basically. Hickory, metal... whatever. Covered. Boxed meals that COOK THEMSELVES. Not by sticking them under the hood either, but through the magic of a chemical reaction.
I say "I wish I'd brought my camera" a lot... but my words don't do this joint justice. If for nothing else, I wanted a shot of the arrowed sign indicating "Faxes and Showers." Brilliant!
At least I got a picture of me perfecting the sexy-ass Black & Tan.
Ah... St. Patrick's Day needs to roll around more often.
And speaking of green, I promised my buddy retina54 an outlet for his Green Day rant until he gets his SG account current. We were debating the merits of the early Lookout! stuff. Let me preface his column by pointing out, vehemently, that he is wrong.
After carefully considering yesterday's conversation, I have decided to stick to my original plan of omitting all Lookout! material from my Green Day mix. There are running time issues, and I have pretty much cut all that I can bear to cut (well, almost...see below). Also, the ten-year time span (94-04) is a too-neat thematic bracket. The underlying reason is, of course, my distaste for punk "purism" and the infantile "first-is-best" ethos running like a vein of shit through the entire community of amateur rock criticism. Usually it has nothing to with the music, per se. It's really about the punk purists' desire to be cooler than you. "I saw/owned/knew about/loved [insert shitty punk band here] ever since 1990 when they were on a split 7-inch with [insert another shitty punk band here]." These banner-waving true belivers screech that Green Day "sold out" when they abandoned cool indie Lookout! for corporate whoremaster Reprise. (Anyone who thinks most people have outgrown this particular debate need only read the Reader Mail section of any mag in which G.D. has recently appeared.) It seems to me that their subconscious definition of "selling out" is the acquisiton of actual songwriting skills and musicianship. That, for me, is when a band becomes truly mixworthy. Hence, Green Day -- 1994-2004.
The fly in the ointment here is the newly stumbled-upon Shenanigans collection of outtakes and B-sides. I am planning to download and sample some tracks from the goddam thing, and if they're good, I'll have to horn in a couple. This means [sigh] cutting two or three tracks (probably from Idiot, which is featured pretty heavily) and re-sequencing. Just when I had the fucker locked, and it would, yes, knock your dick in the dirt. (A saying I recently picked up from a Nikki Sixx interview, and can't stop using, even though I know I should.) Hopefully, the Shenanigans material will be shit, and it won't come to that.
I disagree only because I care. Let me help you...
Loyal devotees to the bbkaro journal will recollect that prior to my Wild West adventure last summer, I wound up in a rooster-filled truck stop in Sacramento filled with handlebar-mustachioed white-t-shirts and cherry-lipsticked waitresses. Ka-ra-zee. And worth a return visit. Not necessarily for the pancakes, but the ambience is fookin brilliant, eh?
I was there sobering up this St. Patrick's Day. This time I discovered the gift shop. You know those sweet knobs on bus steering wheels that help you with the rotation? They have a wide assortment, including an eight-ball, perfect for the cousin with the Lexus. Monkey Butt powder -- prevents butt sores for people who are on their ass all day. Too many potential recipients to list. A box containing six disposable urinals. Brings to mind that time at the drive-in when I was forced to pee in an empty 32-ounce soda cup. Where were these gel-filled lavender-scented pouches when I needed them? A trucker-grade meat thermometer. For the aunt who can't cook. Anybody know what a tire knocker is? Clubs, basically. Hickory, metal... whatever. Covered. Boxed meals that COOK THEMSELVES. Not by sticking them under the hood either, but through the magic of a chemical reaction.
I say "I wish I'd brought my camera" a lot... but my words don't do this joint justice. If for nothing else, I wanted a shot of the arrowed sign indicating "Faxes and Showers." Brilliant!
At least I got a picture of me perfecting the sexy-ass Black & Tan.
Ah... St. Patrick's Day needs to roll around more often.
And speaking of green, I promised my buddy retina54 an outlet for his Green Day rant until he gets his SG account current. We were debating the merits of the early Lookout! stuff. Let me preface his column by pointing out, vehemently, that he is wrong.
After carefully considering yesterday's conversation, I have decided to stick to my original plan of omitting all Lookout! material from my Green Day mix. There are running time issues, and I have pretty much cut all that I can bear to cut (well, almost...see below). Also, the ten-year time span (94-04) is a too-neat thematic bracket. The underlying reason is, of course, my distaste for punk "purism" and the infantile "first-is-best" ethos running like a vein of shit through the entire community of amateur rock criticism. Usually it has nothing to with the music, per se. It's really about the punk purists' desire to be cooler than you. "I saw/owned/knew about/loved [insert shitty punk band here] ever since 1990 when they were on a split 7-inch with [insert another shitty punk band here]." These banner-waving true belivers screech that Green Day "sold out" when they abandoned cool indie Lookout! for corporate whoremaster Reprise. (Anyone who thinks most people have outgrown this particular debate need only read the Reader Mail section of any mag in which G.D. has recently appeared.) It seems to me that their subconscious definition of "selling out" is the acquisiton of actual songwriting skills and musicianship. That, for me, is when a band becomes truly mixworthy. Hence, Green Day -- 1994-2004.
The fly in the ointment here is the newly stumbled-upon Shenanigans collection of outtakes and B-sides. I am planning to download and sample some tracks from the goddam thing, and if they're good, I'll have to horn in a couple. This means [sigh] cutting two or three tracks (probably from Idiot, which is featured pretty heavily) and re-sequencing. Just when I had the fucker locked, and it would, yes, knock your dick in the dirt. (A saying I recently picked up from a Nikki Sixx interview, and can't stop using, even though I know I should.) Hopefully, the Shenanigans material will be shit, and it won't come to that.
I disagree only because I care. Let me help you...
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
Glad you like Mordecai, I'm off to find a truck stop and a boxed lunch that cooks itself. Did you happen to see if they came in single malt?