The Buttercream Gang

Feeling blue? Uncertain about the future? The economy, terrorism, social injustice, poverty, racial tension, genocide, oil spills, nuclear proliferation, and iPhone Death Grip got you down? Well, do like I do, and just take a gander at these nice, sweet boys:

Don't They Just Give You Cavities?

Dear Reader, it's my pleasure to introduce you to the one and only Buttercream Gang. Standing, left to right, are Pete, Eldon, and Lanny, and that crazy kid they're struggling to hold up is Scott. They're just four fun-lovin', good deed-doin', talkin'-to-their-parents-about-daily-struggles guys, who love nothing more than devising ingenious plans to get inside the Widow Jenkin's home after she fell down and couldn't get up and jumping rope with the neighborhood kids (Eldon reluctantly performs his patented "Earthquake" show that involves him skipping rope and then falling on his ass—a skill which proves quite useful when the Gang is faced with subduing a home invader). 

At any rate, their story opens with eldest member and gang president Pete moving from Elk Ridge to Chicago to live with his aunt. He nominates Scott for president, who is easily voted in by the other two chubby and thereby regarded with less respect and considered incapable of leading Buttercreamers. In the course of three minutes we see that Pete has fallen in with an (all white) street gang called "The Blades," and is getting into trouble at school and with the law. He has begun dressing like some sort of scrawny Chicano/Italian mobster hybrid and throws the "shaka" sign to his homies, who basically look like a moronic hillbilly version of West Side Story. 

It's pretty awesome.   

Hang Loose, Vato

Long story short, Pete gets 86ed from his Aunt Maria's place in Chicago ("I thought you'd be a good influence on my kids!") and returns to Elk Ridge, where he promptly recruits a new gang and teaches them all the tricks and nuances of being a vicious street gang, like how to steal Twinkies and throw rocks at bottles out by the railroad track. It's chilling. After Pete really crosses the line by tossing a firecracker through the window during the school dance, Scott confronts him, setting off a series of unfortunate events that result in Scott getting his ass whipped. However, love rules the day as Scott, Eldon, Lanny, and the rest of the good citizens of Elk Ridge never give up on Pete, no matter how hard he tries to get them to leave him alone. Scott never stops following him around, asking things like, "Why aren't we friends anymore? Don't you still enjoy having tickle fights with guys two or three years younger than you? Don't you know your street gang terrifies the old people when you ride your BMX bikes around and dump cans of Pringles on each other's heads? DON'T YOU KNOW YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE YOUR SMALL-TOWN LIFE BEHIND?!?"

This shit starts to get truly spellbinding when Mr. Graff, owner of Graff's Market, tries to give Pete money out of his cash register so he won't technically be "stealing" it, and Scott just lets him have his sweet ten-speed when Pete decides he wants it for his own.


Screw that. That's right about the time Pete would be picking up his teeth with broken fingers on my planet. But I digress. 

"I'm gonna get in your face so hard I'll have to change my name from 'Pete' to 
'Captain Sinus Cavity Dweller Man'!!!"

The Buttercream Gang, though not officially an LDS production, is teeming with the kind of family values one would expect from Mormon writers, directors, actors, and caterers (I heard the jams and jellies on set were simply Celestial-Level-of-Heavenly). 


Family Values:

• You can't leave your past behind. 
• You should never let someone else try to leave their past behind. 
• You should never beat the crap out of someone who refuses to stop being a total dick (especially when they're being a total dick because you won't let them leave their past behind). 
• The women are always watching (see: Buttercreamettes).

"I just overheard Scott say Pete stole treats from Graff's. Eavesdropping leaves me feeling cold and empty. I am finally ready to wear the holy Pull-Ups®."

Ah yes, the Buttercreamettes. The girls of the town who decide the Gang needs their help keeping an eye on Pete and the Elk Ridge chapter of The Blades. Our wisdom-bomb-dropper of a film makes no apologies for, nay, even encourages spying on people. The Buttercreamettes, most of whom are about four years old, sit and gaze coldly upon Pete at all turns, relaying later what they discover to Scott and his two cherubic pals. To what end, you ask? Oh you know, just to be sure that Pete has fully gone to the Dark Side and is truly in need of their redemptive outreach. 

In the end, Pete splits for the mean streets of Chicago once again and Scott comes home one day to what looks like an intervention; after several tense and suspense-filled moments which culminate in Scott's father telling the town pastor that he should tell Scott the news, considering he has "more experience with things of this matter," we discover that Pete has shaped up and is now in a good-boy gang (still dressed like a cholo/mobster/hillbilly) that reaches out to bad-boy gangs. Scott's love prevailed! 

Seriously, I thought they were going to tell Scott that Pete had offed himself as a result of his emotional downward spiral brought on by wearing bandanas and high-wasted baggy pants. Those filmmakers really know how to throw a twist! Whew!


Yes, I own this movie. Yes, it's on VHS, and yes, I paid a quarter for it at the Mennonite thrift store. Come on over, we'll get Buttercreamed together!

Seriously, What Do You Do?!?!?!?

 

Cherokee Nation?

Here's a little game for you to play. Next time you're in a bar and you meet someone new, when the question of ethnicity comes up (which it always does), count how many times you hear the word "Cherokee."

I guarantee you'll hear it every time.

"Oh, I'm part English, French, Irish, and Cherokee."

"My mom is Scottish and Belgian, and my dad is Welsh, Greek, and Cherokee."

"Me? I'm Tahitian, Laotian, Lithuanian, and a little Native American."
"Native American? What kind?"
"Cherokee!"

We truly do live in a Cherokee Nation!

These Uniforms Just Scream "Indian Sympathy"

It's comforting to know that although our country effectively stamped out an entire culture, one portion of that culture got busy with at least one member of every single family tree in the nation, ensuring that their blood would forever course through the veins of everyone from frat boys and club girls to sad-bastard singer-songwriters and love-bead-selling professional hula-hoopists.

"O Great Father Sun, Please Shine Upon Your Cherokee/Danish Earthchild in This Journey of Great Tribulation Called Burning Man"

But why just the Cherokees? Were they more prone to feel the effects of beer goggles than all other tribes? They had to have been; have you seen what your ancestors looked like after that ocean voyage and the good times they had at Ellis Island?

Seriously Tore-Up Immigrants

Why weren't any other tribes making babies with white people? No one ever says "I'm part Belorussian, Finnish, and Pokanoket," or "Spanish, French, Albanian, and Ho-Chunk." I think the answer is to be found in Linguistic Darwinism. People simply like to say "Cherokee." It sounds strong and gentle at the same time. Tough, yet poetic. Badass, yet ready to shed a solitary tear at the drop of a bag of trash. Okay, so Iron Eyes Cody was actually a Sicilian, but c'mon! That's what we're talking about here, people... Accepting each other for the Native Americans we all deep down truly believe we are. But I digress. Linguistic Darwinism holds that the human mind subconsciously predicts what words or types of words its owner's kin will enjoy repeating or at least will have no trouble repeating, and leads the person to gravitate toward people called by that word, eventually mating with them and providing a secure future of delightful and culturally with-it conversation for their hipster offspring.* When was the last time someone told you they were part Tlinget or Miwok? That's right, never.

*I am totally making this up.

"Stands With a PBR" and "Dances With Whorish Sorority Sisters"

So what I'm wondering is, where are all the free scholarship students? I can't think of a single instance when someone told me they were one of the People and then followed that up with tales about how bitchin' college was without the stressful burden of tuition. If I was part Cherokee, you'd better believe I'd be up in that Family History Library in the SLC looking to prove that shit and score my formazione libera. I'm pretty sure that's how this guy learned to speak English, solve complex equations, and order the perfect martini:

"Owl. Grey Owl."

Hey, Pierce, a truly integrous actor would have said to the casting agent, "Hey, thanks, but I don't think this role is really for me." Now, Daniel Day Lewis as Hawkeye... AWESOME. Friggin' mountains of awesome.

I would TOTALLY stay alive no matter 

what occurred for this guy.

Speaking of Hawkeye Pierce, here's a photo of a tattoo that completely reaffirms my belief that whomever coined the phrase "no regrets" should totally be given a Nobel-Super-Wise-Person Prize:

"Uh, yeah, man, your new tat is wicked awesome. You wanna borrow my power sander now?"

So seriously, play the game, have a good time, and don't forget who told you about it: Chief Laughing Bull of the Winnebagos.

I'm Chill! I'M CHILL!!!!!!!!!!!

Actually, I'm really not that chill, apparently. I used to be. I used to be super way chill. Like crazy damn chill. Mondo crazy chill. It used to be, at one time, a person sitting at dinner who suddenly quivered and trembled for no apparent reason would say, "Oh, I just got a Clucas." A couple on a date would walk into a movie theater, and the guy would increase his chances of a second date by saying, "Would you like my coat? It's awfully Clucasy in here."

"No, I insist, take my coat... Just give me about 20 minutes."

Everything changed, though in about 1995, when other dudes started getting real chill. Like, wicked mad chill. There was something about that year, something in the air that really started to mellow dudes out nationwide. The zeitgeist of the country had really begun to be shaped by the effects of a post-Cold-War, post-Desert-Storm-Mother-of-All-Ass-Whippings-Upon-Peoples-Not-Us, and dudes across the country were starting to feel safe. Not just the kind of safe you feel when you know a few karate moves or when you and bros are rolling six deep down the boulevard, but the kind of safe assured to you by the world's sickest military machine in history. The kind of safe you feel when you know that no matter what, at the end of the day, great men like Jack Ryan, Lieutenant John McClane, and Sergeant Roger Murtaugh are taking it upon themselves to personally ensure your freedom from fear by kicking as much commie, fascist, and criminally active diplomat ass as possible.

"Yeah, man, I was at Dumbo Drop. It made me the cop you now see before you."

It's that kind of safe that makes a man relax. Really relax. Chill. Chill and relax. If only someone could come up with a compound slang word to describe that sensation. But I digress. It's that kind of relaxation that produces in a man the need, the indescribable urge, to let the cuff of his jeans ride five or six inches underneath his heel to rest comfortably and raggedly between the sole of his foot and his flip-flop. The need to wear flip-flops with jeans in the first place. Without this level of chill we'd have no Smirnoff Ices, no trucker caps, no DMB. This country would collapse in a steaming pool of rage and aggression.

"YES!!! KICKING BACK!!!"

There is certainly something to be said for the man who has become so comfortable in this post-destruction-of-Ivan-Drago world that he can pick up the crappy guitar that his roommate traded to him for a couple bars of Sex Wax and a lid of pakalolo, learn two and a half chords, and become this rich-ass guy:

"Chairs are for the tense, bro. Namaste, or whatever."

I knew I shoulda learned to play the guitar like the Indigo Girls. Or all those youth pastors I went to college with.

And now for the real Jack Johnson, just to keep you smart:

Chill is Fifteen Rounds in the Blazing Nevada Sun, 
Laughing at Your White Supremest Opponent All the While

USA ROCKS

I'm pretty sure my favorite thing about the Statue of Liberty is that she's well-rounded. As you probably know, she rides a Harley. This, on top of the fact that she is a beacon of hope, a vanguard of freedom, and a symbol for all that is America, makes her a pretty sweet chick. What you may not know about her is that she's also in a band.

The band is called "USA ROCKS," and they certainly do, considering they are the the largest supergroup on Earth, the band with the greatest economy, the most diverse resources, the broadest assortment of cultures, and the largest and most technologically advanced street team in all of history. Finding themselves closely rivaled during the bulk of the 20th Century by Russian prog-rock combo Gorby Parque, the Rocks solidified their rock supremecy when American DJ and rock icon "Rockin'" Ronnie Reagan demanded during MTV's pilot broadcast of the short-lived MTV Democracy, "Mick Gorby, turn down your amps!" The award-winning pinko lead singer obliged, setting the stage for the eventual dismemberment of Soviet prog-rock worldwide.

A Brief History

In the fall of 1959 four very individual, very talented philosophy students found themselves forging a new sound based on many of the folk songs of their particular places of origin. Songs like "When Johnny comes Marching Home Again (Tra-La-Tra-La-La-La-La, Live For Today)" and "Square Deal Gone Down" launched them to the top of the charts and the exit polls. Fueled by the differences that at times drove them to the brink of collapse, The Rushmores, as they called themselves, released the highly acclaimed Meet the Rushmores in 1960, pushing the boundaries of both the young genre of rock and roll and democracy itself.

Promotional Photo for Meet the Rushmores!

Originally fronted by vocalist T.J. Rider (Thomas Jefferson), the band also consisted of guitarist and songwriter Teddy Bluesevelt (Theodore Roosevelt), bassist Abraham "Hammer" Lincoln, and drummer St. Georgie Washingtone (birth name unknown).

"Do not rock softly and carry a bitchin' Jackson"
—Teddy Bluesevelt

 T.J Rider

By the release of their second album later in 1960, the members agreed that the addition of a vocalist who could focus only on singing would benefit the sound of the group, allowing Rider to expand his use of keyboards, theramin, and hurdy-gurdy during live performances. The band's relationship with late-50's/early-60's Irish-American crooner Johnny F. Kennedy ("Oh Danny Boy-Oh-Boy," "Good Golly Miss Molly Malone") garnered them much media attention during the Bay of Gigs fiasco in April 1961, at which many more Cuban fans than were expected arrived at the small "Bay of Gigs" club south of Havana, and hundreds of American fans were turned away at the door. The following year the band's reputation was restored at the Cuban Music Convention, at which their closest Russian rivals at the time, the Cruise Chevys, quietly packed up and went home, admitting that they "just couldn't follow that act." It was at this point the Rushmores changed their name to USA ROCKS. Their momentum, however, came to an abrupt halt when Kennedy, on a solo tour of the American South, was mysteriously killed in the Texas city of Dallas in November of 1963.

The Ever-Charming Johnny Kennedy

After a short hiatus, the band replaced Kennedy with former Flowing Robes singer Lady Liberty (Marie-Jeanne Roland), a French transplant to New York who had, at one time, carried the distinction of being the only female vocalist to have a top-ten single in the folk, blues, and jazz charts simultaneously with her enormously popular protest song "Huddled Masses." Her brief marriage to Stéphane Grappelli contributed greatly to her early love and use of Gypsy Jazz forms in her writing. Liberty was featured alone on the cover of the eponymous fourth USA ROCKS album (1970), an indication to many that she would soon be venturing forth as a solo artist, an indication that proved true but which never encroached on her dedication and commitment to the band.

The band continues to release new material and tour worldwide, encountering resistance to their sound only in places where the daily struggle to survive seems to take precedence over the support and enjoyment of trite pop frivolity. All of the band members have taken on solo projects with varying degrees of success, most notably Washingtone's darkwave group Valley Forge. Valley Forge garnered critical success with their 1982 concept album Crossing the River of Souls and its outstanding track "Beware, Delaware."

Washingtone pioneered the drumming technique 

now known as "Saber Stickin'"

Culturaly Ambiguous Vocal Undulations

Oh, how I love films. Real MAN films, you know, like Boiler Room and The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, and Platoon Leader. Real badass stuff. I have no time for your sissy art-house crap like To Sir, With Love or Amadeus.

Pansy

Man

What is it about real man movies that makes them truly transcendent of all that is badassness? The score. The music. The sweeping, triumphant vehicles of harmonal ecstasy upon which we are raised to the heights of triumphant harmonal ecstasy. Or something. Why on earth would I waste my time with a movie propelled by such duds as Lulu's tearjerking song about growing up or something as bombastic and trite as Mozart's "Gran Partita" when I could be getting my movie ass-kickin' on to such gems of melodic wisdom, fire-lightin', and tire-kickin' as "Ooh-Ahh" and  "Big Money Talk"? RECOGNIZE, BROHEIM!

But let us move on to the Man Movie of the Scholar. The film for the Warrior-Poet. The talkies, if you will, for the guy who is just as at home with his pipe and a well-worn copy of The DaVinci Code as he is at The Rockin' Taco Cantina, belting out endless choruses of "What's My Age Again?" delivered by dueling pianos, finishing off the night by beating the shit out of the guy who had the balls to smile at his girlfriend.

 Warrior-Poet, Son

These defenders of the American Family are students of films like Troy, Gladiator, and Pathfinder. They don't just watch these celluloid scrolls of ancient wisdom, they live them. They feed off of them, taking in the teatmilk of strength and valor they need to do battle on the plains of money market investing and yacht sales. And believe you me when I tell you it's the music that truly captures their souls and ensnares their hearts with the puma-trap that is divinity.

The music of the culturally-ambiguous-period-epic-romantic-drama-disguised-as-warfare movie.

It is glorious music meant only for the gloriously-minded. It can only be appreciated by a man who can fully grasp the weight and import of Royal Shakespeare Company member, Commander of the order of the British Empire recipient, and Laurence Olivier Theatre Award holder Brian Cox delivering such ripe fruits of depth as "The Gods only protect the strong."

I Swear This Role was Not Beneath You, Revered Actor Who Played  Dr. Nelson Guggenheim and Uncle Argyle

It's truly awe-inspiring to know that concepts of courage, honor, integrity, and terrorist-killing can all be transmitted through pounding, primitive-sounding drums, vaguely Bedouin melodies played on instruments which sound as if they were cobbled together from palm leaves and camel sinews, soaring strings that impeccably meld quasi-Celtic and para-Arabian orchestration, and, of course, the impossible-to-denounce-as-not-truly-Middle-Eastern-vocal-undulations-because-hey-like-anyone-watching-will-know-the-difference vocal undulations produced by some on-the-payroll soprano. I mean, this stuff is the shizzz! But don't just take my word for it; one internet pundit writes, "Gladiator is without a doubt the finest collection of music on one CD that I have ever had the pleasure of listening to. The music has a way of bringing you into it." I mean, that is HEAVY. DEEP. HEAVY and DEEP. Like our Mother, the vast Mediterranean, or something.

The Finest Collection of Music on One CD

Trite Pap

Ride on (comma) Freedom!

Best T-shirt ever, man:

I'm not even sure where to start. How about the sentence structure?

"Ride on Freedom"

Okay, so, we do know that this phrase is an imperative. Someone or something is being told to do something. It's times like this that insight into the shirt designer's working knowledge of commas would come in quite handy. Assuming he or she knows how to use commas, the omission of one here would indicate that the phrase is directed to the reader of the shirt, the motorcycle is named "Freedom," and the Statue of Liberty is showing you how to "Ride on Freedom." Assuming the artist doesn't know how to use commas correctly, we might read this as a directive to the embodiment of "Freedom" to "ride on." I'm going to run with this line of thought on this one, considering the choice of rider, the Mother of Exiles, is the ultimate symbol of freedom this world has ever known.  Well, her, and this guy:

Besides, people who buy shirts like this don't know crap about comma use, anyway, so I'm stickin' with this hypothesis.

Now, on to the picture itself.


IT'S THE STATUE OF FREAKIN' LIBERTY RIDING A HARLEY.


I assume it's a Harley, because we all know that any other motorcycle built by any other company is clearly the vehicle of commies, baby killers, queers, non-Christians, and people who support socialized medicine. I'm also assuming it's a GIGANTIC Harley, considering it's being ridden by a 151-foot-tall copper statue. It's a good thing she got those ape-hangers installed; I'm sure her arms needed a good stretch after 124 years of holding that pesky torch and that cumbersome keystone. I sure hope she traded in her sandals for some kick-ass harness boots, yo. 

Freedom Fightin' Shizzz Kickers

(By the by, Statue de la Liberté came from France, as you probably know. It's a safe bet that the majority of right-wingers, Republicans, Focusers on Your Family, et. al., don't know this, or she would have been kicked to the curb way back in '02. Forget the fact that we wouldn't have ever won the Revolution without France's help, either, but I digress.)

I'm guessing that in order to get that 91,100cc hog across the water, they leveled the top couple of decks off a Stanton Island Ferry and muscled this great cycle of Democracy over to Liberty Island, where The Big Metal Momma did a badass front flip off her pedestal, moonwalked over to the bike, pulled up her scaffolded skirts, and threw a leg over the Old Gloryfied tank of her new Star-Spangled sled. Peter Fonda was there, I'm sure, a tear glistening in his eye as he meditated on how much good he had done in this life by once straddling his own American flag chopper and setting off a wave of wholesome, conservative patriotism in the hearts of youth from sea to shining sea.

R.I.P., Billy

But was our fair Coppertone Girl going to take the sissy way back across the water, on the backside of some pansy-ass boat? Heck no. Now I wasn't there, but my sources inform me that at this point, she reached down, picked up that modified ferry, and slammed its bow deep into the grass of Liberty Island, forming the world's most treacherous and terrorist-frightening kicker ramp of all time. After gunning the short run-up, hitting that ramp and blasting the crap out of the airspace above New York Harbor, she busted a double-back-flip Carolla nac-nac before touching down in Battery Park like a down feather in a sunbeam. She was overheard saying, "If I hadn't powered down that sick burrito from Pedro's right before takeoff, I know I coulda blasted that thing all the way into Afghanistan or wherever and kicked the dick off that King Hussein bin Laden!!! EXTREME!!!"

siiiiiiiiiiick.com

I can honestly say I've never felt closer to our Founding Fathers, Sarah Palin, or the X-Games.

These Colors Don't Run Without the Key

Büsker Dü, or: The Most Uncomfortable of Discomforts

So I have this friend who is fairly unclear on the meaning of the word "awkward." I think she just happens to be the unfortunate victim of people online who have abused the word by applying it to every photo of a family that just happens to be less than conventionally attractive. Ugly doesn't equal awkward. They're just ugly. Granted, the site's use of the word was put to much more appropriate use at the beginning, when the visitor really was made horribly uncomfortable by viewing photos of father-daughter subjects who looked like they were about to get it on. But a family of pasty redheads in hideous matching sweaters does not necessarily awkwardness make.

At any rate, I've recently witnessed with regularity a situation which proves to be, unquestionably, awkward: The obliging busker watcher.

The Obliging Busker Watcher

Okay, just so you know, a busker is a street performer. Here in Austin, the only kind of busking you typically see is musical in nature, but if you ever hit up Boulder, or San Francisco, or Amsterdam, you'll see juggler buskers (I call them juggskers... no one else does, so don't go around Portland using this term unless you want to get your head stove in with a bowling pin by a dude in Zoombas), robot buskers (robuskers, a nomenclature the use of which might result in your being painted silver and driven to suicidal madness by the incessant whine of a toy mouth siren—wheeeEEEEEEEEEEEZZHHHHhhh!!!!), puppet buskers (the word busketeer once got me in trouble in Chicago... I ended up fighting a felt crocodile, two sock monkeys, and a zany Italian chef with a bushy mustache), or even the death-defying flaming hula-hoop buskers (even I will admit I deserved the beat-down I received in Venice Beach when I called one of them a fireybuttholesker).

One Crazy SOB

But like I said, here in Austin, the buskers are, for the most part, musicians. It's not like Dublin, where there is someone or some group of record-contract-on-the-spot quality on every corner (the greatest buskers I've ever seen were a string quartet of teenagers on Grafton Street playing Mozart as if he showed them how), but I have seen some pretty good stuff. Well, to be honest, I've seen ONE good street act here, and again, it was a quartet of teenagers, this time playing some pretty killer bluegrass. What we do seem to have plenty of are the crazy, in-your-face, no-talent, crappy-ass-sounding mandolin/guitar/banjo-playing creep beggars (I call them crazyinyourfacenotalentcrappyasssoundingmandolinguitarbanjoplayingcreepbeggarskers, or bums for short).

These creeps have one and only one game plan: make people believe that they will get hurt if they don't stand there listening to their trite, on-the-spot songs about the listener's pretty hair and her hapless boyfriend or about how weird and wacky Austin is, replete with dropped names of long-gone local heroes and a litany of all the old lunch counters and saloons that have also gone the way of the longhorned buffalo.

Hey! I'm a person, too!

The obliging busker watcher is easily ensnared. He or she somehow feels bad for this person who has spent the last fifteen years playing guitar and singing all day on the street but who has miraculously never stopped sucking at both. They don't want to hurt the bum's feelings. Now, lest anyone form a malopinion of me (new word), I have a very soft spot in my heart for those people who are down on their luck, can't catch a break, and are truly hurting for money. I really do. But there's no excuse for being a crappy guitarist when that's essentially what you do for a living. Of course, Carlos Santana has certainly gotten away with it. But I digress.

The obliging busker watcher is, of course, just trying to be nice, and I ain't mad at them for that. In fact, I hurt for them. Because, as I said before, it's the most awkward situation a person can find themselves in on a busy street. The watcher stands, arms folded until they remember their junior college sociology prof told them that folded arms is negative body language, then they drop their arms to their sides, which becomes so uncomfortable their arms feel as if they are four feet long and flailing about like ninth-graders at a school dance. So, of course, the hands go into the pockets, unless the watcher happens to be wearing a dress, and it's back to folded arms. The watcher tries really hard to look engaged, but all they can think is, "Oh god, everyone walking by me thinks I'm a total moron for listening to this guy. Oh god, oh god!!!" It's true, the watcher is a total moron, but what I'm thinking when I pass by is, "Thank god that imbecile took one for the team. Team Mankind. We all thank you for running interference long enough for me to walk by on my way to get coffee without either: (A) lying about having no money, (B) giving him money I need for coffee, or (C) giving him no money because I really don't have any and then feeling bad about it, even though I have absolutely no reason to."

And yes, that's what my thought processes look like, right down to the serial parentheses. 

Of course, the obliging busker watcher is not a villain. They are, for the most part, innocents caught in a web of deceit that leads them to believe that in order to fully experience the city they are visiting, they must take in all the spices that city has to offer (lord have mercy even more so on the visitor to Austin, who thinks he or she will be damned for not partaking in every last morsel of the "Live Music Capital of the World." Trust me, Mr. and Mrs. Tourista, you're way better off giving your ten bucks to the door guy at the Mohawk who just looks homeless and seeing some truly good music). The true villain is the college douchebag beat-poet wannabe who sits next to the busker bum all day, snapping his fingers and rattling off the names of blues musicians he looked up online the night before, all in the hopes that those who see him will be struck dumb by his realness, his depth, his soul.

You'll know him when you see him. He'll be wearing a fedora.

 Cool, cat, cool! Play me the Street-Singer Blues! I'm in college!

Looks Very Masculine and Tough Under the Light

I left my house to walk down to Jo's coffee and at the last minute decided to hang a left and walk the extra half a block just to cruise past Guero's in search of material. I had almost reached the end of the outdoor tables when I saw, seated there, a semi-quasi, fairly-somewhat-popular local singer-songwriter who happens to look a lot like the rather-popular-at-least-in-this-town singer-songwriter whom I'm sure he gets compared to (visually) on a regular basis. 

"Man, I've been dealing with the same shit in this town for fifteen years!" he mouthfuls at his lady acquaintance. The Singer is so unsung. So unrecognized. So overlooked. His scruffy beard twitches above the righteous indignation his jaw is taking the full brunt of. His aviators are steamed from his rage. His v-neck white tee is nearly rent asunder. Top to bottom, like the curtain in the temple. As if torn by God himself.

Most at odds with the utter injustice of the hack singer's sentence of life in a shadow is the troubadour de purgatory's necklace. More specifically, his pendant. His turquoise bear-tooth set in the finest of Thai silvers, worn by gladiators in ancient arenas for courage and strength, and worn with equal pride by the shamans and medicine men of the olden Americas for wisdom and guidance during the hunt and/or spiritual quest. Or whatever.

This One Is Black. Deeper. Darker. Dangerouser.

In my sudden new-found obsession with this totemic piece of man-soul, I began a deep, involved, quixotic journey to find some record, some reckoning of these amulets of the sac in the world. About ten seconds' worth of Googling later (search terms: man necklace) I found a site that held forth only the most purely electrified tokens of sheer testosterone known to man, beast, and spirit. The Black Tooth above was but one of these.

Also on display for my examination was the "ring of barbed wire" pendant, which, while looking quite menacing, also promised to feel quite comfortable against my straining, tanned pec skin. According to the site, this is "just as well, as things could get rather messy otherwise." Ah, yes. Sex. This necklace WILL get you laid. You wanna know why? Because it "looks very masculine and tough under the light."

The "fossilized shark tooth" pendant, "is a piece of history being millions of years old. Mexican Silver... displaying it in all its glory." Wow. It is so comforting to know that there are people out there looking out for me, doing the archeological research that my schedule of working out, watching MMA, mixing creatine shakes, and shopping for designer jeans, long, square-toe Italian shoes, and breezy dress shirts with embroidered tribal designs on the shoulder restricts me from doing. I mean, if I weren't all shackled by these earthly pursuits of tanning, searching for the perfect flat-billed cap, and checking out my girlfriend's amazing new rack, I would have time to go on that African scuba trip or Balinese walkabout or whatever to find the ancient shark tooth on my own.

Woah, woah, woah. I just got lost in some sort of primal man fantasy. Who am I kidding? I don't have the courage, the wisdom, or the hormonal wherewithal to don a pukka-shell choker, wear a bedazzled bandanna across my forehead, or bear the pain shared by real god-men through the centuries of having Chinese-tribal-Native-Celtic scribery needle-punched into my skin! But I will try. I will learn to take that pain and be a man. I will earn the right to wear jewelry as mannish, honorable, and glorious as this:

And I will stand with Achilles in the bow of his black-sailed corsair as he calls to me and my fellow Myrmidons, "We are lions! The future is there! Take it! It's yours! AND YOU KNOW THIS, SON!!!"

Peace, broheim.

Staying Alive, or, Vinnie Barbarino In Leg Warmers

I've made the following statement before, but because I really don't think this sentiment of mine can be adequately driven home by anything less than regular, dedicated haranguing, I'll say it again:

"JOHN TRAVOLTA" is the most badass name anyone, anywhere has ever had the honor of writing on a "Hello, My Name Is" sticker. Yes, I've said this before, yes, I will probably say it again, yes, you may disagree, yes, I find that odd, but the name simply sounds like a black 1976 Corvette with a crimson lightning bolt painted on the hood. Real Badass.

But the Cosmos simply aren't satisfied with John Travolta existing as a real person with a real badass name. The Cosmos take it further, out of reality, out of the confines of Mother Earth and Brother Sky and Father Time and Third Cousin Space-Age Polymer straight to the Schermo D'argento, gifting J.T. with the role of a movie character whose name also happens to sound like pure midnight electric turbocharging.

Tony Manero. 

Believe you me, "Tony Manero" sounds exactly like the name of a man who would strut down the street in a white, three-piece dancin' tux and woo you with his perfect pomp, his flashing eyes, and dynamite smile. Oh, and his moves. What moves! Mr. Manero, hardware store employee, son, brother, lover, friend, had it all. He slinked, he slunk, he pulsed and swayed. He turned the noun "hips" into some other part of speech we pundits of linguistics have yet to define! And he did it all with lungs swelled by cigarette smoke, veins coursing with strong cocktails, and a bellyfull of spaghetti. Man-o-man.

But let us not forget the Tony Manero of five years later... The Tony Manero who danced his way out of the mean streets of Brooklyn and into the emotional war zone of Manhattan... The Tony Manero who had once been carefree, egotistical, living-for-the-glowing-squares-of-colored-discofloor ecstasy and who had learned to care (in all fairness, the old Tony cared about nice old ladies buying paint), left a bit of the ego behind, and began to live for the colorless and oftentimes lonely floor of the Broadway audition stage.

The Tony Manero of Staying Alive.

Look in his eyes. Feel his pain. Feel his longing. Feel his bone structure. It's five years later, the dancing has morphed into something beyond classification, he was Danny Zuko, Vinnie Barbarino (another badass name), and some fake cowboy named Bud in some parallel world, and Tony Manero has emerged a man. A man torn between the woman who loves him and the bitchy, quasi-british chick who gets the lead dance parts, a man who tortures himself in search of the true dancer inside, a man whose goal in life is to impress Red from That 70's Show, who apparently was a dance instructor in another life. Oh, and a cop killer.

But don't let Kurtwood Smith's beautiful face make you forget about the names. The names that were forged by Vulcan in the fires below Mount Etna, pounded out of the metals of ancient mines formed by the cleaving of rock by thunderbolt, hardened in the cold waters of the Atlantic and embraced by Lady Liberty as she welcomed these names to the New World: Manero, Barbarino, Zuko...

TRAVOLTA.

All heralded unto our shores by the angelic choir of these dudes:

DYNAMITE.

Hey, Rocky! In Staying Alive! In a fur cape! Pure TNT!

In Case You Forgot: A Retrospective on the Magic That Was Chris Gaines

Where were you the first time you saw this face?

Chris Gaines' face, that is, not Garth Brooks. Just remember—that is not Garth Brooks! That is Chris Gaines! Australian-born, LA-raised, pooh-poohed-his-family's-dreams-of-him-as-an-Olympic-swimmer-so-he-could-become-a-tortured-rock-star CHRIS EFFING GAINES!!!

Just wanted to be clear on who we're talking about here. 

I was working in a Border's Bookstore in Cerritos, CA, when I was first ensnared by the magical gaze of this powerhouse of a performer, this necromancer of song, this puma of a man.

I was terribly confused. I had no idea what on earth Garth was doing. It took me some time to understand the whole concept. Unfortunately, by the time I understood his plan, it was all over. Chris Gaines had disappeared. All we were left with was a memory and a whiff of perfume.

I wonder what the music sounded like.