Whassup, Punk Rockers?

Hola, amigos. I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but things in H-ville have been pretty sucky as of late. I’ve been sick with a terrible cold and I’m having problems posting to the site, in addition to uploading photos. Every time I post from home, it never registers. Sometimes when I write, then save in edit mode, and then come back and add to what I’ve written, the changes don’t save. I also copy back into Word and then make changes in there and can't remember which is the most recent version to post. Sometimes my post number and last posting date changes and I haven’t made any updates. Maybe it’s because people have commented, but I’m too much of a chicken to read them and reply. I know, if I dish it out I gotta be able to take it. I think it’s a cookie issue, with the photos and changes not registering. What else is new, we all know I have issues with cookies as in I see one I eat it. Except fig newtons. Those are disgusting. There’s also a Blogger Beta, and I have to see what the differences are and if it’s better/easy to use.

So if I’m still heading into Toilet Town, at least I’m consistent. How consistent? I spent Labor Day weekend exactly like I spent the 4th of July, at Otto’s Shrunken Head for Unsteady Freddy’s Surf-Rock Shindig where the Chasers and the Coffin Daggers played. There was no AC, something with Con Ed, and Freddy said we were lucky to have the juice for the bands. They opened the back door and nothing untoward happened, so so much for the sign on the door that says Alarm will sound—Do no open door unless you or the bar is on fire! We mean it! It was so hot that I was standing still and sweat was pouring down my face; it was so packed in there. I haven’t seen the Coffin Daggers in ages, to the point that I didn’t remember they had a gal on keys. Or maybe that’s a new thing altogether. Coffin Daggers have a Theremin. I have found my calling. Think about it. It looks easy enough for me to play, like no matter where you put your hand near the antennae, it makes a cool sound and I don’t think you can ever get it wrong. Plus you look really cool doing it, like you’re trying to conjure evil spirits out of a cauldron or something. So if any punk bands need a Theremin player, I’m your girl.

Then on Sunday I went to the Continental, where SMUT played. The guy at the door actually said he remembered me and I didn’t need to show my ID, which is funny because he kept asking every time I go there and I haven’t been getting any younger. He asked me what band I was there for, and I said SMUT and he said, “You’re coming here to see SMUT?” Which is funny because in all the years I’ve been going there, this is the longest convo we’ve ever had and the place is closing in 2 weeks. Sorry, becoming a full-on bar. So I was standing there thinking that in all the years I’ve been going there, this is the longest convo we’ve ever had and he said (the young blond rocker-type guy, not the Sammy Hagar-looking guy) “Oh, I get it. I’m just not funny!” Well, no, if you think about it. It’s like you’re walking right into it. I was there early enough to see Social Hero and they prove my point about why it’s so pointless to complain about Charm School, ‘cause Social Hero was pretty awful pablum rock. When they broke out the cover of the Toadies’ Possum Kingdom (“I will treat you well/my sweet angel/so help me, Jesus”) I had to remind myself to stifle the looks of abject horror if standing right up front. (Yes, I had to look that lyric up in order to prove my point and had no idea that the song was actually called Possum Kingdom. I agree; we should treat possums well, but we shouldn’t need Jesus’ help. Treating possums well should be a given.) Y’know, seeing as how the Toadies are from Texas, there’s another reason for the Dixie Chicks to be really ashamed to be from there. SMUT’s new song Settle the Score has this little pogo interlude and I was wondering what the hell was wrong with everybody because I always envision people tearing it up to them and I was thinking that maybe nobody takes them seriously because they’re a predominantly female punk group. But I’m glad everybody was standing there in rapt attention so’s I didn’t have to worry about anything and watch the band and just as I thought that, some guy just starts walking into everyone, drunkenly. He’s wearing a T-shirt to commemorate the LA riots. Come to LA, it’s a riot—or something like that, with flames, which is right up there with a drawing of a tidal wave and Ninth Ward, catch the wave. “Fuck The Cramps, cuz There’s Gonna Be Blood!” Ha ha. That kicks ass. Right outside after the gig, I saw something so frighteningly hideous my corneas may be a little burned: A guy in flip-flops and white pants and a white polo, the collar upturned, and it said Prepster on the collar.

If my corneas are a little burnt, at least I have things lined up in edit mode, and I’m waiting for a free second at work to reread and post from a computer that doesn’t use dial-up. And with these days off I was able to stay up late and finish stuff up and start more stuff. So I’ll have a lot more going up and I’ll look like I’ve been much busier than I actually was.