Reconstructing Ralston

Oh well, I kept drafting the same sad story that had you and me meeting at a birthday party for Michael Blue. He was wasted, he was falling down stairs, I was confused, John got asked if he was sporting “emo hair” it was a jarring experience for the both of us. Dude was like non of the others that I had encountered; he seemed real, wound up, in terms of projecting, touching and feeling. I got offered a night in a sorority and I turned it down, a girl from Shaker Heights, Ohio no surprise. I made a stop off near the Davis Street ‘El’, above the Fish Market, inside a courtyard iced over in the paltry winter. Apartment 2B; ‘B’ for Bennum, as I channeled my inner Agatha Christie. So what did I spy inside this Studio: The same YAMAHA keyboard owned by Matteo (that came later), and Epiphone Songbird®, a Heritage Casino-Style electric, no bass (oh, really?), a closet of shirts and pant so organized that I actually stopped and thought that I was the most cluttered piece of shit that ever had the misery of seeing the light of day. A Chuck Klosterman suggestion sheet on how to talk manly; Rodney Rogers may god bless, that was an example of the power of rhetoric. He said make a data disc if you wish, I said that’s benificient. Then he let me choose ooooooh, there was finally choice in the matter of man. It was all that mattered, the strangeness of it all, man he was the man it was ridiculous, well he was a hero and I was some charlatan who could help chart his thoughts; I gave him on bridge on a track where we went G-Bm7-Bb-C; like this. So I was thinking, yeah I TOO find Ben Kweller’s brand of power pop to be particularly spellbinding. He makes suggestions, he too has been an 8-year plus reader of the All Music Guide,m REDEMPTION. In the land of the swampy armpits of the late, great Capone, I found someone who would do commercials. HE had band posters; I would later get annoyed at the poor grammatical skills of Grandpa’s “La noche es oscura pero tu es beautiful.” I am high. Oh, ok. Push-Pull, reactions happening all over my mind. He has a record player, and a stack of Beatles LP’s, as well as
2000 by the French Kicks, with some poster. Oh, yeah he seemed to be the coolest person who had ever made human contact with me. He suggested we share the space, that was eternally kind. He didn’t ask for anything, he just kept it going, I too was going insane; we kept each other happy, somehow I was always happy, sometimes sad, but that’s what happens when you feel like the walking dead, wandering of the mind, it’s a beautiful beast. Joel, he was a mutual acquaintance. I clicked on “One Chord To Another” and there was something magical happening, yeah man, yeah, that was a fucking great album, I had only heard one track from Shayne Weinstein’s lovely library of music, “Everything You’ve Done Wrong” a blast of horns and an ole-time feel progression that was changing my mind about what individuals were capable of in a group setting. So I sought to seek out the idea, 4 one man bands. Spinning like turntables with computers inside; not regurgitating, but leaving things to chance through the simplicity of the framework; 12 notes, chords, scales, that’s that. Also, I’d been reading Thoms Pynchon’s V. recently, that summer it was that theory book, the Vonnegut, the Greenwood Tragedy (the bloodiest race riot in the history of America in Tulsa, Oklahoma), Tom Robbins and Foppish Dandy Chuck Klosterman. Also, other random shit, books on the Beatles and related arts. He had two Powerbooks, an 8 track digital m-box type, but higher-def and, like some kind of modern snakecharmer, neatly organized cables of all types necessary in performing and recording; 1/4-1/4, XLR-1/4, XLRmale-XLRfemale, of varying lengths and color schemes. Joel had a PA, Mike had a kit, I had the bass, John had EVERYTHING else, it seemed like things were weighted a little funny; oh, they were. He had a close-knit musical belief structure to Nat, who may or may not be training to be a luthier as we speak; a profession I hope to follow one day. Graham Parsons, lead in “Sweetheart of the Rodeo” by the Byrds, The Flying Burrito Brothers and solo-work with Emmy Lou-Harris singing harmonies, that guy was on to something, before he got derailed by a crippling drug addiction. So, what did he see before he found the abyss, wandereres wanted to know. We watched an informing documentary, his pops was a mover and a shaker amongst corporate/Washington (It was the post-war era, industry and government were like birds of a feather) and so he led a privileged life leading to his acceptance at Harvard, he wouldn’t last a year. He befriended Keith Richards, in a deep way, and like so many others couldn’t keep up with skeletor’s threshold for pain. So, he burned out eventually, in pretty sad fashion, getting in a bad way with heroin. He probably envisioned himself having more significance when he was dead than when he was alive; poor sap.

FOPPISH DANDY

DUNCECASTING #1 of 10: Too Long To Twitter, Too Short to Die
I’m your host, Dun Dudnick, here with me on the boards is Algo and Beat-O on the ritmo kit/celery sticks. Let’s hope I don’t get too excited and jump in to a door frame.

Audio Chronology:
Funkenstein; the first trans-atlantic Bird of a Feather co-production by Carsten and Beat-O et. al.
Rivers Cuomo made an ‘a capella’, and the logic came to give it the typical slacker treatment.
Albert King & SRV talking about what it’s all about for the worker bee.
Hot Sugar refixes another anthem of our youth, like only he can.
10CC off the album Sheet Music, “Wild Old Men”; Ratatat sampled that guitar solo, no?
Abbreviated TRANS, for my sake and everyone else’s. Neil Young (!) in Berlin (!) in June!
Nico’s “Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams”, a lushly orchestrated piece that Danger Doom sampled on ‘Korn Dogs’ a track that I used to listen to a fair amount in my time as a summer child.
De La Soul is Dead! De La Soul is Dead man! I don’t want to deconstruct Born Like This, I want to praise it for clueing me in to the importance of Prince Paul in making real music again.
Studio 54 in Berlin, June 29th, why not?

Keep On

Things always take a turn for the worst, before they ever seem like they can even get better.

The waterfall has gracefully returned to my life in a way that leads me to believe in the power of inanimate objects; not outright materialism, but I also think that Thomas Pynchon's 'V' is excellent, so far.

People are calling me out for making mistakes on message boards, they are right.

So, I'm reinventing this blog from now on; 3 audiovisual posts and 1 essay every week. Music will continue to find its way on through, and maybe there will be posts by Newhouse.

A satisfactory shit

We all like a good DDL reference on the WWL whenever possible.

Cackling Hens!

So, there's more basketball blogs to read these days than ever; TRUEHOOP is still the truth, but I'll be damned if I haven't completely fallen for Bethlehem Shoals style of writing; it seems that every sportswriter finds his/her own way to incorporate popular culture/obscure culture in a way that some part of the population will enjoy, and I think I've found my kind of basketball writer.

If my girlfriend doesn't visit I'm gonna start compulsively masturbating in public, since I work with kids this might get dicey. LESS THAN TWO WEEKS!


I cannot fucking wait to play the Sheraton II again, it's been so long! The JP-90 is also going to be a treat, for those who don't know, that might be the greatest bass Fender ever made in 1990; the poplar body weighs less than 6 lbs., throw on an aftermarket bridge (I put on a badass II, thanks to some weird, but kind metal dude at a Sam Ash in Pennsylvania)

Just what are chicharrones? How about churros? Cheerios? Beer and go? Fear and loathe your way to the top with this lovely Bay-Area banger.

why god, why?

Life is not fair
Herbert wins the Alex Sugiura award for best op-ed columns by a man over the age of 40. Sorry William Kristol was not eligible for this award this year; the ancient formula prohibits the inclusion of right-wing hebrews out of dissapointment.

There are spanish titties flapping around like crazy on the tv. It's kind of silly.

Al Sugiero's 2nd to last daydream

Stop Trying to Set The Scene!
Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil met high-pH water in to off white harmony. The supposed son of Galt MacDermot® was trying to look more like an extra in a “Soul Glo®” commercial than his DNA deemed necessary, or, it could be said, within reason. The gleaning off his pharmacy-last minute purchased aviator lenswear, showed the reflection of a pool perfectly mirroring the skyline and up in to the ghastly moon in the daytime. I was wandering by, the recent recipient of vending machine money from a 2nd-cousin’s ginger-besepectacled high-times reading friend, when I noticed the bottle of tanning oil falling in to the pool, it’s cap removed long before the oil and water made their ‘salsa picante’ in the side that read “No DIVING!” So what the hell was I gonna get at this third-world COCA-COLA® vending station with several sandy pieces of mother of pearl that I assured were a type of New-World Wampum that could be exchanged for any number of beverages from a particular brand-name dispenser that was savagely displayed all over their shell’s duller side. I made my graceful way up to the machine, diddled over the dials, with names that read like they were plucked from Denis Diderot’s encyclopedian armpit: SPRITE®, FANTA®, MR. PIB®, SQUIRT® and DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO® RED SODA WATER. There was a slot for the shell; two of them got me one 20. Oz bottle of my choosing; I hit “C4”, think of Chris Bosh, Chris Rock and taking off my flip-flops in the shade long enough to have the clunk of my drink down near my ankles awaken me. The red-sunglasses man is happy that I got him a Mr. Pib after having suggested I “surprise” him with my choice; this is getting gay. My 2nd-Cousin holds out an expecting hand, I push her out of the way as the steamroller comes crashing in to the north wall of the mini-compound/time-share luxury suites/micro-lending for local vendors in beautiful parts of Central Africa. Before I could get a word out, there were at my throat, smoke was pouring in like an exhaust pipe and I awoke coughing my head off.

COMPUTER ASSISTED LANGUAGE LEARNING IS THE FUTURE

Unoriginal Lameness

I woke up at 5 in the morning on Sunday and made a series of fake Radio Broadcasts.

Here's the first one: Dudcast

Crying.

BahBah

International Feel

Excuse me while I continue malingering, but I am sad to leave Huelva and am enjoying my slow breakfasts where internet is abundant.





Tom Robbins and Tom Waits co-wrote a novel in my dreams last night called; Deborah's Mayonnaise Prom Dress.

I'm having trouble breathing properly, again.





She's fucking great, huh?

Cien Montaditos

Ice Cream Sandwiches!


Don't you dare say I don't love you, madam.

Ralston Buffalo!

John Bennum, where the fuck have you gone? I can't keep doing this internet thing all alone...if personal e-mails won't get through to you, then I must resort to this last ditch attempt at getting a rise.

ball tongue

It's a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll.

It's a hard cock on the block if you got a vice like hold.

I went searching for my soul, listening to hole, and Melissa Auf Der Maur she can get it.



WE gonna get cancelled for sure.

Thrift Shopping

Happy Friday.

No day can be complete without youtube clips interspersed between snippets of real spanish dialogue that I'm hearing as I post!

"Sí, Sí, Sí" (Soundchecking on the stage next to the bar for the outdoor spring festival)


"Qué te pongo?" (How do you take your coffee?)


"Fuck Sam Coggeshal, that guys a fucking pretentious asshole." (Milk Based Drama)


Blue Sky microwave Adrian Dantley dance of the dead; I went bobbing for apples, and got this lousy t-shirt instead.

shit

I NEED $$$$$$4

TAKA start drawing!

well well well

DAvid George, son of Robert P. George, something like that, sends notice of this clip:

Elvis Presley covering 3 dog night?

Bo Shanks.

turn back the clock!

Yowza, Bristol Palin says, "abstain from sex, and buy tacky platform shoes!" Where is Jenny Mccarthy when I need her most?

bug tits

This post is dedicated to those who made the transition from high-level performance in a particular sport at college, but made a change for their professional careers.

Example one, Carolina Panther (for now)/UNC Power Forward Julius Peppers, who had the grand misfortune of playing during the Kris Lang era.



Antonio Gates is considered by many to be the premier tight end, when healthy, in the NFL today. I was always an Alge Crumpler guy, but oh well.

No clip of him playing ball found, sadly.

What about this guy? That's right former Detroit Piston 12th man Darvin Ham; he went to the Hun School!



Ok this post fell apart fast, but it's fun to dig for crossover appeal.

Jewel

Oh, my my my.

I wonder what Alaska is like this time of year.

Here's some music, related to the long foam. Bingo Bango Bongo

Spanish people have officially made the transition from, "qué frío" to "qué calor"; are you people never happy?

Long Foam

Today's long foam ramble is brought to you by: Cheese Fries

Writing is fighting for your life, that’s what David Foster Wallace told me, and that, is some shit; this is one of the possible ideas that developed after recently speed-reading Infinite Jest, a technique I learned at Oberlin that didn’t help me with the classes, but did help me read for pleasure with superior speed, he was grappling with depression, he was using tennis as a mirror shining on your self-perceptions and how you believe you are being seen by those who see you, like Tom Robbins, Alistair Crowley and Ornette Coleman used the mirror that we call the moon to make magic. Otherwise, you are probably wasting your time, or maybe there is a greater process to it I should re-read it, it’s only the first read, or is it a labyrinth?



These things are the paradoxes that will continue as long as the paradoxical existence of my own does: RE-Phrase, why do I exist? There are initial questions that make everything under the sun fair game; in the end, what you understand is that a routine is the only way to accomplish something over a long period of time; many people find this through all kinds of channels, mine seem to be so very varied, but it’s not quite like that, I don’t think. Stanley Fish was writing about his on his NYT blog recently.

I just need space, and I realize that I’ve met people who make me feel like living, which means I’ve met the right people to die by, take the bullet, kick down the nightclub paparazzi like Kevin Costner did for Whitney.

Bobby Crosby probably listens to Pet Sounds; with a name and game like that he just
wasn’t born for these times.


Kevin Youkilis is reminding me of Matt Geiger in a big way.





Chris Andersen is a monster on the boards. I wonder if David Stern is scared of Crystal Meth, compared to traditional perfomance-enhancing drugs for professionals.

Kenyon Martin is Wario; Darius Miles is Waluigi.

I shudder to think of extending this in to dinosaur territory; Antoine Walker getting held up at gun point isn’t funny.

College was a playful tragicomedy, I suppose; kind of like that Unicorn’s album, “Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Dead?” They figured out a way to ask a question and get people bothered in a way that maybe led to some level of satisfaction, kind of like sex, yes it could be said that if you’re all alone and you’d rather not knock one out on your own, aka home run derby simulator, aka bowling, aka drinking, alias Bo Shanks, the good stuff.


I live in the middle of nowhere, that’s what I think, because the people are getting together over crazy false idols’ screaming prophets; these days, they’re just trying to rehash some computer age falsetto, it’s less impressive now than it would have been without all the digital advances,

you can’t fool all the people all the time, but maybe it’s nice to fool yourself sometimes with some friends. So the first album gets dropped one way or the other, the memories get put in to place for something, how you go about responding to your synaptic fibers dictates how you’ll strum it,

How come people are so quick to love Dilla's Gazillionear beat when Return of The Gangster had essentially the same loop almost 10 years ago. It all somehow relates, in my head, to a FREE DARKO POST.

also who you choose to surround yourself with in your new post-apocalyptic world; shit is starting to move so fast, you gotta stay focused on something or you’re gonna get the spinsies and pass out, this is why old people/a youthful John Lennon could be seen as sleeping a lot,

this also relates to what you do to make you tired, some construe this as work, others as self-destruction, others as an opportunity to get known.

Noise, Noise, Noise! The slow, broken march to one’s inevtiable end; that’s what Leonard Cohen said, others followed suit, in slightly more dramatic fashion.