Monday, May 29, 2006  

Memorial Day

I've got a pot of green chile stew slowclooking in the kitchen, I'm playing Walk the Line on my guitar, and I've got a sixer of Tecate icing down in the backyard. I think of it as my little slice of Sonora in the middle of Boston. A Colorado gringo in King Romney's Court, if you will.

Anyway, I am told that there is a connection between my ability to kick it all Southwestern like and the fact that we sent the Marines to Iraq. While I remain fairly unconvinced of the specific linkage, I do recognize that today is the day we honor those who have died in service of this country. I've personally gotten off easy on this count. Not only has my pasty ass never had to schlep off get shot at, but my family's military service has been mild. My father was in the Navy during Vietnam, and as near as I can tell, he spent the entire time getting Marines seasick and taking home movies of it.

So rather than add another empty paean to the military to the cocophony (emphasis on "phony") out there in the blogoverse today, let me just raise a Tecate to the only active duty servicemembers I know:

Benari and Blue Shift, here's to you. Thanks, boys!

Exhibit B

A lot of my Boston friends say to me, "Tim, is Colorado Springs as bad as you say?"

You tell me.

Ig

I now have a cold on top of my hay fever. This is causing an orgy of sneezing so bad it's like I'm allergic to my own snot.

So between the Claritin and the Alka Seltzer Cold, I'm way too high to be remotely interesting and/or funny, so I'll skip the foreplay.

Buy my fucking album.

See you on the flip flop.

Baseball

I have a baseball hangover. And just a baseball hangover - my seats at Fenway last night were in the alcohol-free section. A whole new experience, a ballgame without beer. For example, did you know that games are 9 innings long? Crazy.

Radio Goo Goo

So tomorrow evening from 5:00 to 7:00, I'll be joining Daniel Bromberg and Daniella Capolino on WMFO's Gods and Goddesses show. I've been looking forward to this one for a while, mostly because I fully intend to exploit their generosity and play a shitload of Dave Gleason's Wasted Days with my allotted playlist time. Break out the chardonnay, Medford - time for a little California white wine country music.

Anyway, Bromberg promotes the hell out of the show in a way that's about 90% inspiring and 10% makes you want to choke him to death. Here's the info he thinks you should have:

LIVE on 91.5 FM within 3 miles of Somerville/Medford: http://wmfo.org/images/wmfo-coverage-map-lg.gif
LIVE on iTunes: Look under ?Radio? -> expand ?Public? -> select ?WMFO?
LIVE with WinAmp or XMMS or any MP3 player at:
http://webcast.wmfo.org/listen.pls
LIVE with Windows Media Player at:
http://wmfo.org/wmp.asx

Clear?

"There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge."
-Hunter S. Thompson

Obviously, the good Doctor never heard of Claritin.

Oh, sure, it stops my sneezing. Quickly, too. And then I enjoy about forty-five sneeze-free minutes before I rapidly descend into a coma so profound that if I had a friend named Chief, he'd toss a sink through a window for me.

(From Thompson to Kesey just like that. I rule.)

The box, of course, claims that this shit is "non-drowsy." And it's technically true. I'm not drowsy. I'm vegetative. Until the speed on the back end hits me and I start grinding my teeth like a trailer park tweaker with a wool ski cap and a Robitussin moustache.

And still, this is preferable to my goddamn allergies.

I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm allergic to. I only know it's worse in New England than elsewhere, so it could be forsythia, ragweed, or condescending white people and the Puritan work ethic. I mean, I've always got a low-grade sniffle going, thanks mostly to our fatassed, wretched cat, who is as hairy as she is cunty and a complete failure as a pet as well. But it's gotten exponentially worse in the last week or so, and I'm getting really sick of it.

There is nothing that makes you feel like a bigger wuss than allergies. If you have a cold, you're under the influence of a virus, which is kind of a dark and edgy way to rock the Kleenex. But with allergies, you're getting your ass kicked by a fucking fern, and there's nothing you can do about it, killer. Your eyes puff up like you just had a good cry and your nose leaks wet, drippy snot that's 100% sniffle-proof and you just want to die. All the misery of a cold, but you get to look like a total pussy, too. THANKS, GENETICS! BAWK BAWK.

Serpentine

You've heard, of course, the old saying about the best laid plans of mice and men.

Now, there's nothing in there that specifically mentions one's 98 Saturn going tits-up on the way to the Drag the River show, but I am currently in possession of first-hand, irrefutable evidence that it is, in fact, implied.

Heavy Rotation

Less than 48 hours to the Drag the River show, and I'm in Musical Realignment Mode until then. Nothing but country music until the show in order to be sure that I'm vibrating at the proper musical frequency at showtime. It simply would not do to be in a Monster Magnet groove when there's a man with a pedal steel playing his ass off right in front of me. So it's Dave Gleason's Wasted Days, The Gourds, Old 97's and Drive-By Truckers in heavy rotation today, with a 70 percent chance of some Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings when I get home.

I'm not going to lie: I hadn't even HEARD of Drag the River until about 10 days ago. So why am I so excited to see them? Because in addition to having some great songs out there in the world for me to hear, I found them The Right Way.

I read about them here.
I listened to them here.
I found their tour schedule here.
I bought my ticket here.

Do you see what's missing from that list? That's right: MTV, Rolling Stone, radio play, a major record label, and Ticketmaster.

The layers of bullshit between the music and my ears have disappeared. I have not been MARKETED TO. There was no corporate strategy. Good writing straight from a good writer about good music straight from a good band, and presto, I'm going to a show, at which I will buy a CD or two directly from the guys who made them.

There is simply no excuse to be buying and consuming music from the giant music conglomerates anymore. No more music shopping at big box retailers. You don't need them.

You know all those bands on your MySpace friends list? Listen to them. All four songs. It matters to them. Then check out the bands on their friends list. Wash, rinse, repeat. When you find one you really love, find their website and buy their record with your finite music budget, and if you have to skip buying the band you heard on the radio today, so be it. It will make you feel good and tingly and righteous.

This is not just some generic anti-corporate screed. I make my livelihood, both financial and spiritual, as a performer. As a stand-up comedian, which is as beautifully no-frills as entertainment can get. I say some shit, and the audience laughs at it. There's a bare minimum between my brain and theirs. I'm old school - I don't make videos, I don't write songs, I don't have a partner, and I don't have any talking dolls. I have an idea and I say it right to you. That's the level of artistic purity I truck in, if curse-laden jokes about kids and poop can be called art. It's caveman simple. And that's what I want from all my art - the shortest route from the original idea to my head. I want my rock stars beholden to none but their muse.

The best would be to have the band come play in my living room.

Getting my music directly from them and skipping all the middlemen is the next best thing.

Cue lighters...NOW.

Doppleganger

What happens when a guy is born in Colorado Springs in 1970, moves to Boston, and becomes a working comedian?

Either he ends up with my strange, savage little life, or he moves to Japan and becomes a rock star comic. Just wanted to give a public howdoyadonicetameetcha to Mr. Patrick Harlan, half of Pak'n Mak'n, who was nice enough to email me and let me see what a life of GOOD choices would have looked like.

Vocab Lesson

[post deleted for being too incredibly stupid]

Sam Walters - R.I.P.

I mean it. The kid's toast. It's just a matter of time.

Here's the actual email he sent out, with my response.

From: tim@themcintireconspiracy.com
To: Walters
Date: May 12, 2006 12:44 PM
Subject: Re: Mac RAM card

>Does anyone know any chemists? I'm trying to get this
>flaming hand trick to work a little better.

I swear to God and Jesus above - I will have this put on your headstone.

Monday Menu

Been thinking about trying something new. Every Monday, I'm going to post five or so things that are on my mind. Kind of a precis for what's making me tick week to week. To wit:

1. There's nothing I care less about in this world than illegal immigration.
2. I fully expect Drag the River to put on a kickass show on Thursday night.
3. I suspect I'm the only one here who spent Friday night drinking gin and watching menacing big black guys sing The Rainbow Connection at karaoke.
4. Does anyone know of any rain gods and/or whose dick I have to suck to get them to cut us some slack here?
5. Sam Walters is most likely going to die a tragic, senseless, metal-related death in the very near future - if you have unfinished business with him or just feel like saying goodbye, I'd do it sooner rather than later. Related note: he's currently looking for someone who can "help him make better fire on his hands."

Immigration

If it's such a big deal that we keep Latinos from picking our lettuce, why don't we skip the armed patrols and just make the National Guard pick it?

Apres Moi, Le Drizzle

The rain wrecks me. Ruins me. The medical term, I believe, is Seasonal Affectation Disorder, though I seem to have a slightly different strain of the disease. In my case, it's more like Seasonal Asshole Disorder. I get gloomy, grumpy, and douchey, like clockwork. The longer it's grey, the bigger drag I become.

And since Boston is stuck under a humdinger of a low pressure system, this indicates a fairly unhappy trend for my friends and family.

Not that they're doing much better. The neverending Massachusetts rain is definitely putting the blue in "blue state." I'm trying to deal with it. I am. I'm trying to kick it Seattle Style - sort of a "when in Rome" approach. I drink black coffee and am learning to play the guitar. Kurt Cobain is making a lot more sense to me: sweaters, songs, and suicide. Blame the rain, baby. Blame the rain.

At least Noah got some razzmatazz with his rainstorm. Sturm and drang and lightning and thunder and a vengeful God. We're stuck with perpetual drizzle - a kind of low grade apocalypse. God's no longer vengeful, he's just kind of passive-aggressive. He's moping.

That's a metaphor, of course. The real culprit is climate change, the bastard child of the industrial revolution that the mad scientists on the Bush Administration's payroll say doesn't exist. Really, Dr. Quackenfuck? Because I've got a waterlogged back yard and a pissed off wife that say differently.

So I guess what I'm saying is that global warming makes me a prick.

Lost on Liftoff

Congratulations to Lost on Liftoff, who just won Best New Act in the Portland Phoenix New Music Poll!

I first heard their music when their drummer, Shane Kinney, who is also a kickass standup comic, dragged me into his freezing car after our show on New Year's Eve. We drank our pilfered beers through chattering teeth while we waited for his heater to warm up, and he wouldn't stop babbling about this new band he was in. I knew better than to interrupt him. A drunken Shane Kinney is a force of nature. So before I can politely find a way out of the car, whose heater STILL hadn't come on, he slides in a homemade CD, and cranks it.

And I was blown away. And apparently, so were the fine people of Portland, Maine.

Check them out here.

His success is unsurprising, however, for Shane and I have bathed in the sweaty mojo of the Karaoke Cowboy!

Scamps

Just a tip:

The pretty tiara-stealing boys in Scamper have just released a new 4-song EP on iTunes. Highly recommended stuff. What could be better than homemade green chile stew? Green chile stew with a side of Scamper.

Ole!

Green Chiles, Bitches!

It's too rainy for funny today. Instead, an empassioned plea:

I'm ordering 10 pounds of frozen green chiles from Hatch, NM. I don't need 10 pounds. I'm looking for people to take a pound or two off my hands. I've got 3 pounds still up for grabs. Works out to about $12.50 a pound.

Best green chiles in the world, kids. I'll even copy my Santa Fe chiles rellenos recipe for you.



Who's in? Email me.

Public Service Announcement

There is a wretched little Mexican restaurant in Boston called Fajitas and Ritas. You must avoid it at all costs. Without a doubt, the worst Mexican food I've ever eaten in my life, and I'm counting the time I was drunk and ate uncooked refried beans straight from the can.

I cannot even conceive of blander food. The salsa tasted like old ketchup, and the chips were like tree bark. When I asked the waiter if they had anything spicier, he barely had time to mumble "uh, no" before he went back to staring at my wife's tits. And the fajitas themselves were made with tasteless onions, wiggly-limp bell peppers, and chicken that was the culinary equivalent of particle board. It had no taste whatsoever. The one thing in this world that doesn't taste like chicken is this place's chicken.

It was like eating food that had been marinated in a distillate of an accounting firm's budget committee meeting.

But what more could you expect from a joint whose menu is, literally, a form you have to fill out, complete with checkboxes and lines for entering information. You actually have to do paperwork to get access to this shitty food. No wonder it tastes bureaucratic.

The sangria doesn't even have WINE in it. I think it was vodka they stole from a homeless guy and Sharkleberry Fin kool-aid.

It's inconceivable how inauthentic this food was. I mean, I don't think you could even screw up and have food this bad. I think you'd actually have to try, to sit down with paper and pencil and a five year plan, and make every effort to actually create something so horrible. It's like someone who'd never eaten Tex-Mex found a cookbook at the library with some missing pages and used it to start a restaurant with a kitchen staffed entirely by Swedes.

I mean, according to the Republicans, there are millions of undocumented Latinos just sort of wandering the streets of this country. You can't pull one or two in and let them give you some tips on the chow?

And the service matched the food. Our waiter was some guy who wouldn't even talk to us, he was so busy hitting on the drunken college hosebags at the next table. He sort of tossed our bill to us underhand after we had to beg for it like three times. Hope he enjoyed the buck tip.

I mean it, if you find yourself in the neighborhood and even consider for a second eating in this grimy suckhole, immediately punch yourself in the balls until the idea goes away.

More On Colbert

The thing about Colbert's performance and whether or not it was funny or appropriate is that basically, from a comedian's perspective, it's just another shitty private gig. Really, it's something that every comic with any time in this business at all has seen dozens of times.

You get hired by a company to do their annual party. The person who hires you tells you they want you to write jokes about the owner. They tell you he can take a joke, and they give you tons of stuff that they practically beg you to use. He cheats at golf, they say. He wears a wig. He yells at his secretary. Definitely mention how fat he's gotten, they tell you. Don't worry, he'll love it, they promise you. Then the night comes, and you get there, and as soon as the very first fat joke bombs, you can feel them turn, and the people who hired you suddenly pretend they had nothing to do with it, and you suffer through the silence, and when it's over, and you're talking to the very same people who told you to talk about the guy's wooden leg, they look at you and say, "What happened? You weren't funny."

History In The Making

Here's a little photo I like to call Legion of Doom. (Alternate title: Rick Jenkins' Nightmares Come True).

Colbert

Two things need to be said about Stephen Colbert's performance at the White House Correpondents Dinner:

1. It was Capital-F Funny. That's a term of art and admiration used by comics the world over, and always said just-so. In fact, when comics are evaluating other comics, it's preferable in a way to actual laughter, and I guarantee you if there'd been comics hanging out by the bar at the Correspondents' dinner, they would have been whispering to each other, "Dude, that is Funny."

2. I've discovered that there may not be anything in this world more likely to make me want to blow my head off than having to read analysis of comedy written by the kind of dry, pedantic dipshits who write or comment on political blogs of any stripe. Listening to these unfunny shut-ins, who would never be caught dead in any place so pedestrian as a comedy club, try to dissect, critique, and figure out Colbert's routine in the same condescedning tones they normally reserve for their re-hashed political analysis seriously makes me want to blow up the internet. Some basement dweller with a laptop feels qualified to discuss whether Colbert's timing was off? Or whether he should have "broken character?" Fuck you, tubby, and fuck the toaster streudel crumbs on your bathrobe, too.

EDIT: This is a perfect example of what I'm talking about. Seriously. Can we make a deal? I won't write any columns about general political jackoffery, and you guys will stop trying to talk comedy shop, okay?

Americana

In 1992, I graduated from The College of Santa Fe (motto: "Like Community College With Dorms!"), tended bar for a couple of extra months, bought a dog (a crazy German shepherd named Thelonious Mutt) and a truck and took off on a trip around the country.

I've bored you with detailed descriptions of assorted hijinx from my trip before, so I'll skip the misty-eyed chesnuts this time around. But I bring it up for a reason.

Little did I know that I'd be travelling this country at the end of an era, when you could go to different places in America and have them be, well, different. I ate different food in the South than I did in the Northwest. The beer tasted different in Arizona than it did in Maine. I bungee jumped in Oregon because they have cliffs there, and I went to a rodeo in Texas because they have bigass cows there. A po' boy in New Orleans was a completely different experience than a burger in Almira, Washington.

Those days are over, friends, and we're rapidly becoming one homogenized, bland, milquetoast strip mall from coast to coast. It's all Subway, TGIFridays, Old Navy, and WalMart. And it saddens me.

But the quirks, the kinks, the flavor of different parts of the country are still there, if you know where to look, and it's these things that keep America as great as we claim to be.

I love the fact that you can order a beignet in French in New Orleans.

I love the fact that you can get scrapple at a gas station in Pennsylvania.

I love the fact that southern strippers are still a category unto themselves.

And I love the fact that when you play for the Red Sox and then go play for the Yankees, you get your handsome ass booed.