How Far Do I Have To Go Anyway?

Sorry for being AWOL lately, but I just got back from a Thanksgiving family trip to San Francisco to see my brother. The trip was great until Saturday night. We found a sports bar that was showing the Iron Bowl and sat our happy asses down to watch the inevitable defeat. Every other person was there to watch Missouri-Kansas, which was fine. We picked the one TV that had our game and we were the only ones who gave a shit about it. Then during the third quarter, a couple sat near us and was obviously pulling for Auburn. The girl struck up a conversation with my brother and informed us that she was from Montgomery and went to Auburn. Her boyfriend was from Texas but was pulling for Auburn because he loved her (in other words, he wanted to get laid that night). Then, as the game wore on, another group of tools started cheering for Auburn. I looked at my brother and we had the same thought. "Just how far do we have to fucking go to get away from these fucking rednecks?"

Sure enough, as the game ended and we were walking out in disgust, we overheard this herd of douchebags chanting "SIX IN A ROW!" Wonderful- you can count. I guess I'll just have to go to Beijing next year to watch the fucking game. With my luck, of course, there'll be some Chinese dudes there with orange and blue face paint shouting "Ah yes, Tubaveel will ween again! Go Tygas!"

Oh, And One More Thing

Can anyone explain to me just what the fuck is going on in Pakistan right now?

The Name's Plissken

The following scenario keeps happening and I don't know why: Everytime I meet a northerner I extend my hand, look them in the eye and say very clearly, "Hi, I'm Tommy. Nice to meet you." Invariably, the first thing out of their mouths is, "Hi Tom." Every single time.

Is something getting lost in translation here? Look, it's not that I'm proud of my name or that I really care all that much whether I'm called Tom or Tommy. What I don't understand is that I look them directly in the eye and say it very clearly and they STILL insist on saying it differently. Is there something inherent that keeps northern-born humans from adding the letter 'Y' to a person's first name? The first time it happened I thought, "Hmm. That's peculiar." Then it happened again and again, until after about the 10th time I just accepted that it was going to occur everytime. And it only happens with people that have northern accents. Maybe it's their way of belittling us, as if to say, "Silly Rednecks and their nicknames." Who knows? It's just baffling to me, that's all. Peace out bitches.

From The Desk of Ernie Souchak

...And the mountain rises higher and yet higher
Thrusting upwards, straining ever upward
burgeoning its power from the very loins of the earth.
Its peak piercing at last the center of the sun
til its golden molten melting life explodes in a...

See What I Mean?

I don't appear to be as sad as I described in the class photo. But I vividly remember getting ragged on incessantly the rest of that day by my classmates.



I'll bet anything that I was in deep thought about how I was going to kill my mother.

My Scarred Childhood

Someone sent me an e-mail that contained this photo and it reminded me of a dark period from my childhood. When I started kindergarten, having an August (late) birthday, I was the youngest kid in the class. Because of this, I always felt intimidated by the other kids (especially the boys). This, combined with the fact that I was my mother’s first child, made it extremely difficult for me. My mom didn’t know what the fuck she was doing with me, specifically when it came to dressing me for school. She’d dress me like I was in the fucking JC Penny catalog, complete with velour shirts and four inch thick belts. It all came to a head on the day of the class picture. She insisted on dressing me in one of those gay-ass one piece outfits with short pants legs and a pair of Buster Brown shoes like the cheerleaders wore. With tears running down my face, I pleaded with her not to make me wear this Godawful outfit. I just knew the other boys would be wearing jeans and t-shirts and would terrorize my ass if they saw me in this goddamn turd of an outfit (it was brown).

Needless to say, she won and I reluctantly went to school that day for pictures. Sure enough, all the other boys were wearing jeans and/or Toughskins. If you look at the picture now, all the boys are standing there looking cool with their thumbs in their belt loops while poor little ol’ me is standing off to the side by myself with a pitiful look on my face. And, like I predicted, I was bullied for the duration of the year. Thankfully, my mom mercifully held me back for an extra year of kindergarten. I still give her shit about it to this day about how it scarred me for life. What does she do? She just laughs and laughs about it now.

By the time my youngest brother Mark came along, she didn’t really give a shit anymore. That is, until the day he came home from school and gave her the class picture that she had no idea had been taken (he was bad about giving her notes from school). I can’t begin to describe the satisfaction I got from watching the look of horror spread across her face as she stared at that picture and saw her youngest son sitting cross-legged in the front, wearing his red and black cowboy outfit with white fringe and brown cowboy boots. Revenge sure can be sweet…

Salute

Well, an era has ended and not just for me. Yesterday, my friend Fred Osuna announced the closing of his store, Laser’s Edge, which has been a mainstay in this area for over 15 years. Except for a tiny used record shop in Southside called Charlemagne, this marks the end of independent CD/Record retail in the Birmingham market.

At the risk of droning on like Bob Lefsetz, I knew this day was inevitable. The record industry has gone though enormous change over the past decade. File-sharing and online stores have caused the record-buying public to totally change their habits relative to music purchasing and listening. As a glorious result, major labels have floundered, mostly due to their own idiocy and lack of foresight. Unfortunately, it has also been at the expense of stores like Laser’s Edge, who rely on these very customers to keep them afloat.

I know what the statistics say- that most of the record (CD) buying public buy from Wal-Mart when shopping for music. But these people have no soul, if I may be so bold to proclaim. Sure, I buy stuff from iTunes and Amazon from time to time. But for the most part, I don’t care how much I save shopping online or at Wal-Mart. Independent stores such as Laser’s Edge provide a safe haven for music lovers like me. It means something to be able to browse and flip through the racks of CD’s and records; to be able to hold them in your hand and read the credits; to smell that “new CD smell” when they peel off the shrink wrap; to listen to the soothing sounds of music in your ears while you saunter through the aisles – not “BUBBA, A CUSTOMER NEEDS ASSISTANCE ON AISLE TWAYLVE!!”

And on top of that, Laser’s Edge has literally made my life better, if only for the music that Fred and his staff have introduced to me over the years. I can name several right off the bat – Hem, Daniel Tashian, The Bees, Lewis Taylor, Nick Lowe. Mock me all you want but my life would have been significantly less fulfilling without these artists and their music. And my newfound obsession with jazz in recent years happened to coincide with my frequent visits to the Edge. Most importantly through all of this, I’ve gained valuable insight and friendship from Fred and Boyce on all matters pertaining to music, politics and everything else. That’s what I’ll miss the most. Cheers to you, Fred and Laser’s Edge. Good luck with your future ventures, whatever they might be.