Page Ten

Do yourself a favor and listen to more hip-hop. Start with the basic big names right now: Li'l Wayne, Akon, T-Pain, Plies, Kanye, and of course, Ludacris.

Beyonce gets her own line. Right here. She's owning things right now.

Here's what's badass about hip-hop. Collaboration. We crackers get so caught up in thinking that this is the music of selfish, materialistic gangsters that we completely overlook the fact that these artists are so committed to putting out the best music possible that they will work together in what seem like endless combinations to constantly keep the listener happy.

The other aspect of this genre that just blows my mind is its unwavering demand for quality. You music "fans" out there who are so proud of the fact that you will listen to "anything but new country and rap" consider these exclusions to be proof of how discriminating you are, but if your favorite hipster band were to put out a Shit Sandwich, you would be terrified of being the one person out there who admitted that the record sucked. You live in fear of someone, twenty years from now, saying, "You! You were the one person who didn't like that sixth Fleet Foxes record that is now hailed as a visionary masterpiece by the kids in Silverlake (or whatever part of town will be the hip part of town in twenty years.)!"

The point is this: a few months ago, VIBE magazine named, after an in-depth, reader-driven competition, Eminem as the Rapper of the Year. A lot of people took issue with this, but no one could deny that he was surely a valid candidate for the title. So, Eminem is riding high on most everybody's happy list, but if Eminem were to put out a crappy single or, even worse, a whole album of poop, HIS ASS WOULD HEAR ABOUT IT. The fans and the critics would demand more. Apologies would be called for, and his version of that apology would be another album that schooled everybody off the court. The fans would have spoken, and the artist would have upped his game, knowing that a bad single doesn't get played at the club, doesn't get played on the radio, and doesn't make him the shitload of cash he was hoping to make this year.

So quit worrying about whether or not your friends will no longer view you as a pure Gram Parsons fan if you suddenly dive into Snoop, or if you will be asked to step down from the presidency of the Ray LaMontagne fan club for bumpin' Luda out of your vintage Volvo.

And as a bonus favor to yourself: Watch Beyonce videos over and over and over...

Page Nine

Do yourself a favor and watch Star Wars with a four-year-old.

This little exercise in patience will teach you a lot about the proper way to explain situations the first time you encounter them.

Let me explain. No, let me sum up: Five minutes after I told my daughter that yes, in fact, the guys in white armor and helmets are always bad, two of them took off said white helmets to reveal that they were Luke and Han, whom I had already told her are always good. I had some summing up to do.

That's all. I'll have another page later tonight, Lord willin' and if the creek don't rise.

Page Eight

Do yourself a favor and have a good friend who tends bar at a pub.

Now, I'm not condoning befriending someone who tends bar at a pub simply to reap the benefits, but I would suggest becoming the kind of person who draws only the cream of the crop of humanity to his or herself. The bartender of a local pub has a very good chance of being in this group.

An important point—find an English pub as opposed to an Irish one. I'm just trying to keep you from spending any unnecessary time in a sports bar, mired in Lucky Charms paraphernalia. There's even a groovy little Scottish bar in the valley.

Several years ago, when I lived in the sleepy little town of Fullerton, California, I became pretty tight with a guy named Sean Stentz. Stentzy was my local English pub (The Old Ship) keep, though I'm pretty sure we became pals before he worked there, and The Ship was a few doors down from a coffeehouse at which I had a weekly band gig. Every week, just before I'd go on, I'd mosey down to The Ship and hang with Sean long enough to drink a Guinness, on the house. That drink always made me feel just loved enough to go put on a great show.

I'm not writing this in the hopes that you will find someone from whom you can get free shit. I would just like to think that you have people in your life who care, who know when you could use a free drink, and who love art enough to fortify it on their dime, even if they have to work while you are playing.

This one goes out to the boys of Leather Cobre—Matts, Bens, and Stentzy. I miss the hell outta youse guys.

Page Seven

Do Yourself a Favor And...

Get all tanked and watch Billy Joel's performance of "Travelin' Prayer" from Burt Sugarman's Midnight Special.

I was grateful, seriously grateful, to get turned onto this show by our dear friends Lindsay and Sarah, the Aguilar Sisters, and Sarah's fiance Mark and Lindsay's then-boyfriend, Rob Douglas. We were visiting home for a week and were hanging out at Sarah and Mark's place in Silverlake.

I'm really thankful for the different take on certain bands and acts that this show has given me the chance to see. For example, Billy Joel's "Travelin' Prayer," an uptempo, ragtimey (banjo, of course) sort of saxophone-heavy song. It made me really feel what he was capable of before over-produced feel-good anthems like "We Didn't Start the Fire" were standard. Don't get me wrong; I love the vocal fineries achieved by Joel and Company on songs like "Uptown Girl" and especially "For the Longest Time," but there was something raw and unpolished and decidedly '70s about "Travelin' Prayer."

I had been prepared some for this, a bit tenderized, even, by my friend comedian Kyle Cease (10 Things I Hate About You, Not Another Teen Movie), who could play a lot of Billy Joel songs on his keyboard at his often-enough, plenty-of-booze-to-go-round parties, and who made me dig Joel a bit more than I had in the past. At any rate, these are just a bunch of seriously talented dudes with a serious level of professionalism, and they really, really love playing music. The lyrics are really quite touching, and the energy level is just stellar.

Seriously, check it out.

Page Six

The best band in Los Angeles is, hands down, The Neighborhood Bullys. I've been preaching that for over three years now. They also smoke any band I've seen here in Austin, so... Live music capital...? Anyway, I'm beat, so here's a little something I wrote about the Bullys almost two years ago.

Beaten In An Alley


Years from now, in interviews, people will talk about that night at Taix when The Neighborhood Bullys changed it all. There will certainly be differing accounts of who was there and who wasn't there. Some will say that no, The Kid wasn't in the crowd, simply watching and appreciating; he was already on the road. Everyone will agree that yes, in fact, Air Traffic Todd was there, but was he sitting at Andy Baker's table or was it David Serby's?


The Mexican radio was coming through the amps when they weren't serving as megaphones for Gene's musical equivalent of kicking someone's ass in an alley or Davey's take on what a bassline would sound like in Pergatory, desperately waiting to see if angel or demon would claim it. Yes, it will be said, Joey and Michael looked like subjects of a film set in Bill Graham's wintry music hall, no, no one's guitar strap broke, yes, a hat was passed and filled to the top with tens and fives, no, Eddie Muñoz was not really there, but yes, yes, yes the music... The music was more alive and powerful and insane than ever before, peeling the flowered paper off the Parisian walls, rattling the bottles in their demijohns, and turning the wine to vinegar and the vinegar into wine.


So, really, who was there? I know I was. God damn, I was there.

Sunday, February 04, 2007

Do Yourself a Favor And...

Go see them somewhere. Buy their record.

Page Five

I believe that now is a really good time to be moderately broke, and to be someone who has been moderately broke for a good portion of his or her life. I'll tell you why after I run through some campaign slogans (real and imaginary) I wish I were old enough to be able to claim.

If I Were 21 I'd Vote For Kennedy (One of Bobby's)

Keep Hope Alive! (Obama listened!)

Don't Blame Me, I Voted For Carter (I made that one up)

People want to blame all of this economic mess on Clinton, but I say, lay the blame on the ones who fostered an economy that made the luxurious, easy living life not only attainable, but seemingly normal. Reagan will always pop into my head when you say "The President," just as Ike pops into my Dad's head when you say the same thing. I grew up thinking Ronnie was so cool, but I have to admit now that I think his era is the one that really set us on the path of being compelled to take loans we knew we could never repay simply to avoid being those people at the party who DON'T OWN. 

I'll say it here just this once: If ever you hassled me for being someone who DOESN'T OWN... FUCK YOU. Currently, I have nothing to lose. I like that. How's your portfolio now, douche? 

But enough about economics and politics. I don't really want to dive too much into that here. That shit's a drag. Right now I'd like to talk about rock 'n' roll bands on the sand at beach parties in movies from the early '60s. This is crazy stuff. In particular, I'd like to talk about the "band" The Four Preps, who entertained the groovy surfer kids down at the beach in Gidget (1959).  I shouldn't really put the word "band" in quotes when referring to these guys; they were an actual recording group that had some hits. But, seriously. Their electric guitars are not plugged in. I see a saxophone; I hear a saxophone; but the sax player's not playing anything like what you hear. They brought their gear to the beach. Tools. You know they weren't cool outside of the movie studio, playing the Whiskey and all. Whatever. And I wonder why the viewers allowed it. Was it so new they didn't care about mistakes? Did they honestly believe those instruments worked like that? Here's the part that screws with me—Fifty years from now, what totally obvious mistakes will they see in the stuff we're making now that we think is near perfect, like No Country for Old Men? That's kind of a scary thought. What if we're totally lame?

So, for something from that era that was totally not lame, 

Do Yourself a Favor And...

Get mellow and watch The Endless Summer. The first one. Just dig that soundtrack by The Sandals. Oh, and everything else.

Page Four

So there's this high school after-game party going on at one of the obnoxiously large homes behind us. It's loud. Currently we're listening to a hyper-obnoxious boy jokingly scream, "YOU WANT SOME?! YOU WANT SOME?!" in some sort of girl-impressing peacockery, while the object of this romance yells back, "BRING IT ON! BRING IT ON!" Ah, high school. Fortunately for us, it's all being played out in front of the soothing strains of Panic at the Disco or the Jonas Brothers or some crap. If ever you doubted the rabid devotion to football in Texas, come stay with us for a week. Any week of the year. I'll take you somewhere in town, anywhere, and sooner more than later you'll see a legitimate businessman wearing a tie with little orange longhorns on it, a soccer mom or two or three in orange sweats that sport the word "TEXAS" across her ass where "JUICY" was really meant to be, or even better, a grown man walking down the sidewalk in head-to-toe burnt orange pajamas. I've seen it.   

Speaking of obnoxious homes, there's a castle around the corner. Not a real, ancient, stone, I-live-in-Dublin-and-James-Joyce-used-to-write-in-the-little-castle-down-the-lane kind of castle, but a house that once looked like a house and has been refurbished to look, from the front only, like Medieval Times. It's nothing short of absurd. In the driveway there are usually two or three new American cars—Chevys and Dodges, the kind that look like they were designed after the cars on ZZ Top albums and are bought exclusively by the kind of nouveau riche white trash that will soon have to bandage those sub-quality pieces of junk together with their overstock of Sarah Palin bumper stickers. 

Now, keep in mind that we live in a neighborhood that forces us to belong to a home owners' association (Don't worry—we're broke. My in-laws have very generously let us live here rent free.), and this HOA leaves notes on our cars if we leave them on the street after eleven at night. But this same HOA allowed this monstrosity of a dwelling to go up in plain view of the rest of us? Seriously? Come on. 

Uh-oh, the party has dwindled down to the last of the cool kids, and they're now listening to "Ice, Ice Baby." Shit, I kind of have to like them now.

Speaking of Vanilla Ice, did you know that at some point he was some kind of a motocross champion? He has trophies and trophies for this stuff, and a bunch of karate awards, too, I think. Who knew? Well, I did, because I worked for a motocross magazine for over four years. I learned a lot of useless crap like that there. Like who pulled the first backflip on a motorcycle, and How to Fix a Flat Tire with Your Own Skin. Really random people are really into that stuff. Mark Paul Gosselaar, "Zack Morris" from "Saved by the Bell", came into the office several times to pick up an issue or some special gear (Screech plays bass in Brea, California, last I checked). Nouveau riche, man. I guess. Zack Morris was probably born rich. Friggin NPH-Lite. 

*The Beatles? The Chili Peppers? Who are these kids? The party continues.*

That's all I'll say about MX for now. Until then, I'll dig up a poem or something. 

But first—

The "Do Yourself a Favor And..." of the day: 

Get yourself all irie and then watch "Stayin' Alive." Repeat the name "John Travolta" over and over to yourself, and you will see that, at the time, John Travolta was a baddass, and the name "John Travolta" is the most baddass name ever. It sounds like a crimson-red lightning bolt on the hood of a black '78 Corvette. Do yourself a favor. 

Oh, and Crayola invented all the names of the colors. Ask Avery, she'll tell you.

Porch Kiss
David Lynn Clucas

He sat on his porch and smoked. He was leaning back in the chair and he had his feet up on the ledge in front of him. He was drinking wine and eating cashews and chocolates, thinking about the last time he had drunk wine and eaten cashews and chocolates on this porch. It was with that girl, the tall one with the perfect brown eyes that went a little lazy when his face was close to hers. He liked her because she was tall but she wasn’t too thin; she liked to eat cashews and chocolates and drink wine and play Scrabble when they were both a little drunk. She had one eye that went a little lazy when he got close enough to kiss her.

They had played Scrabble drunk and made up words; his were all fake South Pacific fruit names and hers were all space-alien vernacular. She looked adorable when he kissed her.

But this day was later and she was gone and a Mexican guy was walking across his lawn with several shallow strawberry boxes on his shoulder. Strawberries? he had asked. No, thanks, strawberries go bad too fast. Thanks, though, gracias. Lo siento. He liked strawberries, but they went bad too fast.

She called him and he could tell she’d been crying. She started crying again. He asked her what was going on and she just talked small with him. What are you up to today? How’s the job? It was sad for both of them. Sad for him because he didn’t like to see her sad, and sad for her because she was sad. Her best friend had yelled at her, she said, and it wasn’t even my fault, she said, and he knew it wasn’t, not this time, but it had been before. But this time made her cry. He was sad, but he had stopped crying for her long ago.