Yawn

Although I'm not an avid golfer or golf fan, I do like to watch the final round of a major on a Sunday. While it's usually compelling drama, it more importantly gives me an excuse to park my ass on the couch for an afternoon. However, in recent years it seems that the PGA, USGA and old codgers at Augusta have gone to great lengths to make each course and/or tournament impossible for any mortal human to score under par, much less a world class pro. Last weekend's U.S. Open was no different. As a casual observer, I enjoy aggressive play and courses that are difficult yet playable. I want to see guys go for birdies, not struggle to shoot bogeys and pars. And I certainly don't want to see a winning score of +5 for the fucking tournament! It's boring. All these golf officials are doing is making pros look like schmos. If I want to see guys grind it towards the hole and stroke balls in the deep rough, I'll rent Granny Bangers. Peace out.

When Reds Get Riled Up

Ah, what an uproariously hilarious turn of events. Fans of Dale Earnhardt Jr. worldwide are up in arms, actually just plain freaking out, over the announcement that Joonya will be joining Team Hendricks in 2008. I can't tell you how friggin' comical this is playing down here in cradle of the confederacy. These are the same fans who made us proud back in April at the spring 'Dega race. The thought of being on the same team as Jeff Gordon has sent Joonya fans into full-fledged panic mode. I haven't seen anything like this since the Anita Bryant concert. Good times continue...

But At Least I "Smeel Mainly"

Well, the beast is finally dead and removed from my body completely. The little bastard didn't make it easy, however. They ended up having to drill a small hole in the bone surrounding my eye socket to get it all out. That little bitch was trying to run away! So now my right eye lid is swollen shut and I look absolutely lovely. Needless to say, I look like Rocky Balboa after going a few rounds with Apollo Creed.

Ticketbastard

Crowded House concert ticket..........$45.00
"Convenience" charge....................$8.80
Tabernacle parking fee(mandatory)...$9.00
Order processing charge..................$4.90
Ticketfast handling fee...................$2.50

Total......................................$70.20

Getting ass raped by Ticketmaster....Painful

How I Spent My Summer Vacation by Ernie Souchak

I'm back from the beach and in the real world once again, dammit. After spending a relaxing week sitting my happy ass in the sand with a cooler of beer, I made the trek all the way up to Nashville on Saturday to catch Jason & The Scorchers play for the first time in five years. They were playing a benefit for their original drummer, Perry Baggs, who is in need of a kidney transplant. During the long drive Saturday, I began having second thoughts about making the journey. I was exhausted and it was just one show. Why I had such an incredibly stupid self deliberation, I'll never know. Because not only was it the best Scorchers show I've ever seen, it might have been the greatest live show I've ever seen- period.

They were on fire from the outset. Perry came out first and played some acoustic stuff and after completing his short set with a hymn, he sat behind his drum kit and began pounding out the intro to Both Sides of The Line. From then on they were fucking on. Many guests sat in during the 2 1/2 hour show, including a 5 song set with guitarist Andy York (who now plays with John Mellencamp) and bassist Ken Fox (who now plays in The Fleshtones), who played in the band during a short stint in '89. They played everything and had more energy than ever before. I've seen a LOT of bands in my time but I still maintain that Jason & The Scorchers are the greatest live band I've ever seen. When they are on, no one can hold a candle to them - especially Warner Hodges, who is the baddest mofo guitarist on the planet. No one holds the collective ballsack of an audience like Warner does. Thanks guys and good luck, Perry.

My Day At The Doctor

Guess what I did today? I went to UAB hospital for a surgical consult. Here’s how it went, with the times as close to accurate as I can remember:

10:05 – Left work for my 10:30 appointment.
10:17 – Entered the Kirkland Clinic parking deck.
10:25 – After driving up 5 levels and not finding a space, exited the deck.
10:30 – Entered another parking deck down the street and found a space.
10:40 – After walking through a seemingly endless maze of hallways, found the front desk and signed in. I also had to fill out papers with all the usual medical questions.
11:30 – Finally got my name called to go into a patient room.
11:45 – A female resident entered to ask me more questions. She was okay looking but had a nasally voice.
12:00 – The doctor finally saw me and talked to me about the surgery. Nice guy.
12:15 – A nurse practitioner came in to ask me the same questions that I answered when I checked in and got me to sign some papers. She was kind of attractive but married and too old anyway (by old I mean she was about my age).
12:25 – The NP walked me down the hall to another room, where I met with the surgery scheduler. She then called downstairs and set me up to go to an early pre-op. She was fugly.
12:30 – Checked in at the pre-op desk to fill out even more papers with the same damn questions.
1:00 - Finally got my name called to go into a patient room.
1:05 – A nurse comes in and takes my BP. She wasn’t a match on the race scale.
1:30 – Yet another nurse practitioner comes in and asks me the same damn questions AGAIN! Says an anesthesiologist will be in shortly. She was old enough to be my mother.
1:40 – Another nurse comes in and takes my EKG reading. She was okay but again too old (by old I once again mean my age).
2:00 – The NP comes back in and says that since I have sleep apnea, I won’t be having the surgery done at their outpatient facility after all. Almost four hours since I left work, I’m finally free to go.

Good times…

What the F*#% Are You Doing in Birminghell, Aladamya?

So I was playing a solo gig last weekend and noticed a couple in front who were actually paying attention to my performance. When I took a break, the female half of the couple walked up and asked if she could see my songlist in order to make some requests. She looked oddly familiar, so I asked if we had met before. She confidently said no, so I introduced myself.

"I'm Picabo ('Peek-A-Boo')," she said, as she extended her hand.

I looked at her for about 10 seconds and realized that it really was her- Picabo Street, the Olympic Gold Medal downhill skier. Naturally, I had to ask her the obvious question.

"What the fuck are you doing at Oak Hill Bar & Grill in Birmingham, AL?"

It turns out the dude she was with is a local and they've been dating since they met 6 months ago on a plane going to Utah. They both ended up being cool and she regaled me with stories about everything from the weight of her gold medal to meeting David Caruso on a Leno appearance. I told them I was available for weddings. Peace out.

SON OF A !...That's Gonna Leave a Mark.

Well, the beast is back with another infection. So now I will have to go under the knife yet again to dig that bitch out once and for all. Why couldn't my evil twin die when I devoured him the first time? It's like that old SNL skit, "The Thing That Wouldn't Leave" , in which John Belushi played a boorish house guest who wore out his welcome and just wouldn't take the hint to go home. Feel free to send flowers.

Fire

I apologize for being AWOL the last couple of weeks. I've been dealing with air travel nightmares, work issues and the return of the beast. Which brings me to something I thought about the other day at the airport. If I could pick one super power to possess, I think I'd want the ability to breathe fire. That way I could just walk up to someone and burn their head to a crisp with one breath. Yeah, that would be cool. Also, I think I like history the best out of all school subjects. I like to imagine that I'm in a different time, a different place...**

**For all you Chris Makepeace fans out there.

THE POWER OF NICK COMPELS YOU!

What A Bunch of Friggin' Mor...Oh Wait, I Almost Did That Once

Leave it to 'Dega fans to make the rest of us citizens proud. Yesterday, as Jeff Gordon was cruising to victory on the final caution lap in Talladega, Earnhardt fans began pelting his car with beer cans and other types of debris. That is soooo classy. However, I'll refrain from going off on these people. Why? Because I feel their pain.

During the '91-'92 basketball season, I was with my dad at a Bama-LSU in T-town and witnessed what remains to this day the most poorly officiated sporting event I've ever seen. This was when Shaq was in school and he was getting away with bloddy murder at both ends of the floor. He was mauling our players without a call while getting ticky tac touches called on us. At one point I remember Robert Horry throwing his hands up in the air as fire almost came out of Wimp's ears. I was so pissed that I reached down and grabbed my cup of ice. Fuck it, I was gonna do it. I was going to zing that cup at the refs at center court and face the consequences (which would've been banishment for life from Coleman Coliseum). Fortunately, my dad read my mind and just looked at me while slowly shaking his head. He didn't have to say anything. I knew it was a lost cause. I placed my cup back down and continued hollering with the rest of the fans.

Ah, The Good Old Days...

Remember when we didn't seem to care about jackshit? Smoking was commonplace and even expected- you could even smoke at your desk at work. Car seats for children were basically optional. Kids would pretty much be allowed to ride anywhere in a car- the "hump" in the backseat, on their parent's lap; Hell, I used to lay down on the dash in the back window of my dad's car and we'd practically hang out of the back of my mom's station wagon. I guess she figured the further away from her the better (I can't say that I blame her).

My mom thought she was being a responsible parent by prohibiting us from drinking soft drinks while at the same time allowing us to consume a gallon of Kool-Aid every day. Have you ever made Kool-Aid? You have to add an entire cup of sugar to the flavored powder in each two-quart pitcher (my favorite was Rainbow Punch). And bicycle helmets? I think not. After all, Evil Knievel was our role model. We would construct the most dangerous ramps you could imagine out of old doors and rickety boards with rusted nails sticking out of them. It's a miracle none of us were killed or mamed.

And speaking of killed, wanna know how me and my cousins learned how to swim? When we turned four, my grandfather would dangle us (while we kicked and screamed) from the diving board over the deep end of his pool and then toss us in. It was sink or swim, baby. Kids are coddled these days. Pussies.

Random Thoughts from a Dental Chair

Ah, the things that go through your head while in the dentist's chair. I bring you the 1st Annual White Music Awards. Here we go:

The Whitest of the White Song Award - "Cherish" by The Association. This is the most embarrassing song ever recorded by Caucasians. You'll never hear words and syllables pronounced more correctly in a pop song.

The Sappiest Song of All Time Award - "Sometimes When We Touch" by Dan Hill. He should have been arrested for this recording.

The Happiest Song Award (Solo Artist) - “Daybreak” by Barry Manilow. You can always count on your worries being left behind by the inevitable mid-song Manilow key change.

The Happiest Song Award (Group) - “The Boy From New York City” by The Manhattan Transfer. These people shouldn’t be allowed to have a career in music.

The Saddest Song Award - “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word” by Elton John. Although not really embarrassing (I’m a huge Elton fan), it’s still pretty depressing.

The Whitest Retro-50’s Dance Song Award - “December ’63 (Oh What A Night)” by Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. They experienced a comeback of sorts in the 70’s with this hit. Alas, it was over before they could organize a tour.

The Most Mistaken for Actual Soul Award - “Unchained Melody” by The Righteous Brothers. This song is considered a soulful classic but it’s actually very pale.

The Whitest Brit Song Award - “True” by Spandau Ballet. I don’t know what’s whiter or gayer- the song, the band or the name of the band.

The Whitest Superhero Song Award – “Believe It Or Not” by Joey Scarbury. I slump in my seat whenever I hear this song.

Peace out.

Just When I Thought Rock n' Roll Was Dead...

...along come The Dexateens, my new favorite band. My boys Elliott and Sweet Dog have been toiling away for years but alas, I've only just gotten to finally see them live. Their new record, Hardwire Healing, is a five-star gem and they've got the live show to back it up. I've known Elliott for 10 years, ever since he was a scrawy lad who looked like he was 14. He's come a long way - now he looks 18. Dog is, well, Dog. If you don't know him you've probably heard about him. Among other things he likes seein', eatin', doin' things, combin' his hair and fuckin'. Check 'em out if you haven't already. My boys have made me proud.

Easter Funday

Sorry folks, I just haven't had much to say lately. I spent my Easter Sunday going to Hotlanta to see my Bravos beat the Mets in their rubber match. Despite the chilly weather, I still managed to get sunburned on the right side of my face. Nothings pertier than an assymetrical sunburn. My ass is also sore from getting raped by the Aramark Corporation at Turner Field. They sure know how to jack up prices in the 755 Club. We also saw a group of drunks in the left field bleachers who were dressed in full Easter bunny suits. Alcohol + costumes + shamelessness = guaranteed TV exposure. Priceless.

Goin' Marv Albert On My Ass (Literally)

Last night I attended my Goddaughter's 5 year-old birthday party in which she invited 15 girls over for a three hour slumber party, complete with nail painting and disco dancing. For the first hour I stayed in the kitchen with her dad and grandad (we were the only boys present) watching baseball and generally staying out of the way.

Now, I have a knack for riling up kids whenever I'm around. So naturally, the silly in me eventually came out and the girls started hitting me with balloons. This (along with the sugar high from the M&M's they had devoured) led to them chasing me around the house in a complete frenzy while beating me with the balloons. The mob mentality kicked in (literally) as they started kicking and hitting me. As I stood there taking a pounding, albeit harmlessly, I suddenly felt a sharp pain on my backside. "OW!," I said, and spun around to see one of the little girls staring up at me with a shit-eating grin on her face. The girl had bitten me on the ass! And she's five! I can only imagine what she'll be doing at 18...hell, at 15 for that matter. Nice, huh?

Insult To Injury

It's embarrassing enough to be celebrating NIT championship, which basically means that you're the 66th best team in America. But then the geniuses at the NIT mispelled "VIRGINIA" by leaving off the second "I" on the commemorative t-shirts. Maybe they should have just said screw it and put "VAGINA" on the shirts. Dumbasses.

Son of Beetch. Sheet!

Well the saga of my recent surgery is apparently never-ending. After experiencing pain and the cyst appearing to grow back this week, I went back to my doctor today to find out that it's infected. So I got to lay idly while he lanced it and squeezed out the fluid - basically it was like popping a giant zit. So now I'm on antibiotics for 10 days and I have to continue to let it drain. Joy for me. Tommy likey...Tommy want wingy.

Whole Lotta Grub

B-ham's first Whole Foods store opened about a month ago and after waiting for the initial mania to subside, I finally made my maiden journey the other night. My brother has been raving about it ever since he's lived in DC, so I was looking forward to seeing if it was worth all the hype.

It definitely was. First of all, this joint is enormous - about the size of a friggin' Wal-Mart. And on top of that, it's all healthy. This is a good thing since I am still in "Rocky Training" mode (I got a negative report at the doctor last month but that's another story). I ended up browsing for about an hour but I could easily lose myself in that place for at least half a day (and spend hundreds of dollars while doing it). Fortunately, I was disciplined with my selections and made it out of there spending about 60 bucks.

And unlike the genius method at Sam's and Wal-Mart of waiting until there are 30 angry people in line to open a new register, there was hardly any wait to check out. Why am I raving about what basically amounts to a glorified A&P? Because, in case you were unaware, I love food - especially large selections of fresh produce and tasty meats. I thought about a recent trip to Bruno's where I tried unsuccessfully to find fresh blueberries. When I asked the produce lady if they had any, she looked upon me with disdain and rudely exclaimed, "We ain't got none!" Guess what bitch? Whole Foods had mounds of blueberries. And guess where I'll be buying them from now on?

I give Whole Foods two enthusiastic thumbs up.

Utterly Surreal

Monday night I went to see Robyn Hitchcock at The Nick with none other than Hall of Famer Peter Buck playing in his backing band. I wasn't quite sure what to expect. After all, things had changed for him considerably since we first met (I was 16 years old at the time) when R.E.M. played at Foster Auditorium in Tuscaloosa in 1985. Incidentally, he was wearing blue suede shoes that night and I thought he was the coolest human being alive. I was just a geeky teenager but he took pity on me and was cool.

So Monday night I didn't know if we'd get to catch a glimpse of him before the show or if he'd just hide out until it was time to play. To my pleasant surprise, he came strolling through the front door of The Nick during the opening band's set and casually leaned over the bar to order a drink. He even paid cash for it, with no pretense about getting anything for free. Gradually, people began to turn their heads and do a double take. A few folks approached him and offered greetings, including my friend Dave. But for the most part, people left him alone (probably becaused they were simply in awe). He couldn't have been nicer or more down to earth to the people who did approach him. There he was just hanging out and having a drink at the fucking Nick on a Monday night. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, The Nick is a longtime hole-in-the-wall Birmingham rock club that has seen thousands of up and coming bands grace its stage (including yours truly) on the way to playing Atlanta or Nashville, with some becoming rock stars. It's pretty much our version of CBGB's.

Robyn came on and played his set with Pete, Scott McCaughey and Bill Rieflin (who both also tour with R.E.M.) and was fantastic. It was truly bizarre to watch Pete work his magic onstage. My buddy Mac told me that he had spoken to Robyn that afternoon and asked him why Pete was doing this (playing the small circuit that is) when he certainly didn't have to. The guy is a gazillionaire after all. He said that Pete couldn't be happier playing places like The Nick or the Possum Pouch in Two Tooth, Arkansas. He just loves to play.

That's rock n' roll and that's why I love Pete Buck.