Wednesday, March 30, 2005

A Proud Pop Beams...

(Updated 3 April 05.)

Today is my son Evan's birthday (he turns 23), so I'll soon be off to Florida for a familial jubilee. Likely to make a stop in Miami to hang with Gerard (The Smack Shire, Memories of Underdevelopment), Rat Bastard (Whitesnake, The Knack), and assorted other unfortunates.

I'll post pix on return.

All reports indicate amazing weather; my mp3 player is stuffed with Cream, '73-ish Santana, '77 Saints, and David S. Ware. (And 30 or so other albs, the usual jumble of new releases and archival refurbishments... Damn this dirty laundry jones!)




Re snaps: here's a photo of Evan and me taken on March 30, 2005. There is a certain resemblance...

It was a delight to loll about the orange grove with my son. It brought back more than a few poignant flashbacks... (I used to cavort with Evan's mum there in our early 80s courting haze - her late father hated me and my music; he had a particular loathing for The Fall's Dragnet). My scion took so goddamned long to get ready (shades of his sire) that the only restaurant available to us was Denny's. As a vegan, I could eat none of their filth, but Evan tucked into a lil' slice of corporate heaven. (My black coffee was semi-hemi-demi-delish.)

I bought him the DVD of the third season of Aqua Teen Hunger Force, amongst other trifles (including Haruki Murakami's novel The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle); we bled from the force of our laugher as "The Broodwich" ambled, insensate.

Hung with GK the next day at Smack Shire HQ in Hollywood. Laid out by the pool for a few hours; the weather was, indeed, magnificent. Biz-wise, we're gearing up for the 2005 TSSR release slate, and readying a second Memories of Underdevelopment album. Later on the 1st we had a great visit with Rat at the Laundryroom on South Beach. The escapade was made sublime with the addition of lovable Schiavo simulacrum Bobby Load, a South Florida punk diehard with delectable self-esteem and "LOOK AT ME!" issues. Dined at Iron Sushi on Washington, then went to Churchill's (the dank fuckhole where TLASILA, Harry Pussy, Frosty, Kreamy 'Lectric Santa, et. al., got their first taste of audience indifference in the early 1990s) to watch the Squelchers (including Mr. Load) offend the handful of fans assembled to cheer a dire tweener Depeche clone duo.

Rained on the drive back, a last gasp of Midwestern winter. Couldn't find a java mug or Florida gator keychain with the name "Elvira" anywhere along the route. Gas prices averaged $2.29, by causal reckoning. Listened mainly to TLASILA Noon and Eternity rough mixes and Santana's Lotus poolside; switched to neue platten for the turnpike. (The Ohmresistance comp., The Distilling of Tragedy into Disposable Art, was pounding my worries into some other unlucky c*nt's head.) My father is ill, my concentration is shot, and my gal is a blue million miles distant, but still, my world is a wonder, and life is fucking great!


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