I'm hungry, so I'm whining.
There is not one decent pizza to be found in SF. Sorry. It's the plain stinkin' truth.
I was a piedriver in high school. It was an honorable and not too humiliating summer job. As far as summer fast food-related jobs went it was OK. Not too greasy, not ensconced in some horrible mall, and only the shirt was polyester. I always felt so sorry for the Hotdog-On-A-Stick girls; those uniforms... I worked for Domino's, made enough cash to buy beer, gas, and guitar strings, went off-roading in the Domino's delivery truck while they weren't looking, nearly destroyed my dad's '67 Volvo, and probably hacked several years off my life by cramming all the pizza I could eat down my throat. At the Encinitas Domino's, it was a fun job. Lots of newly-arrived rich folks who tipped really well.
But, goddamnit, something is very wrong with the pie industry around here. Tonight, over 18 years after my days as a pie jockey, I got home from a Bedrockers rehearsal and all I wanted was a medium pepmush pizza to be delivered to my door. How hard can that be?
Brother's Pizza, my neighbors, have turned me off for good. Besides the OK-at-best pie, it seems they have a little Two Buck Chuck scam going on. They raid Trader Joe's for all the $24 cases they can get their grubby hands on, and turn around and sell the bottles for $9 each. I'm terrible at math, but that kind of markup leaves plain old free marketism in the dust. TJs isn't a wholesale outlet or a distributor, and I reckon that's gotta be seriously illegal. After 11 years I'm done with Brother's. Our Outer Sunset Palais de Danse just ain't no place for that kind of unfettered hronting greed. I even wrote a letter. Plus, with them I've always suspected ties with the Chinese/Russian/Lebanese Mafia. Long story. Ask me to define "hront" instead.
Mr. Pizza Man routinely takes an hour and a half to get here, and they always get it wrong. And to this day their logo still reminds me of Dave McShitbag barfing up one of their clam and garlic seafood specials (in his sleep) on Scott and Kat's floor.
Round Table Pizza wants $20 for a small.
Golden Gate Pizza and Indian Food is just too nasty to think about.
Pasquale's Pizza is just too nasty to think about, and they close at 7.
Pirro's Pizza caters to the Sunset's geriatric set, like Celia's Mexican food. Ever eaten fresh sawdust?
So... I heed the homing beacon and settle for my alma mater. Domino's.
Won't someone please open a real pizza place in SF? Again, how hard can it be? If only Best-a-wan in Cardiff would deliver up here...
An addendum to my last post; Patty Hughes is also a fine keyboard player in addition to P. Rusty Gunn, and among the finest of people. I hope she reads this before that...
Oh, the gigantic gulf between the public perception of big rock stars and the grim reality of it all...
So. Clutch and I set out from SF early Friday morning to spend the weekend being roadies/guitar & drum techs for that legendary band The Tubes. Not only have I been a fan for many years, as any right-minded person should be, but I have in various points been a student of their music. We covered "Talk To You Later" in high school, and it's harder than it sounds. Good bass players hate that song...
We hit the road by 8ish am, and promptly got a flat tire in Vacaville. Spare tire airless, and no lug wrench to be found. Bastards stole it along with my stereo some time ago. Clutch hopped the fence by the freeway, stormed into the little roadside motel looking for help. Meanwhile, there I am trying not to get hit by speeding semis and grateful that we had included "contingency time" into our travel plans. Nothing defines "contingency" quite like a flat tire.
15 minutes later, Clutch appears with a fatigues-clad motel groundskeeper in a golf cart, brandishing the most beautiful lug wrench I've ever seen. We thanked the man, put the flat donut on the car, and headed to the nearest tire dealership at 25 mph, 2 freeway exits away, directions provided by Fatigue Man. We somehow managed to keep his lug wrench.
Tire Boy was awfully friendly, and moved us to the head of the line. While we were waiting, Fatigue Man came roaring up out of nowhere, demanding to know where his wrench was. We gave it back to him, very apologetically. He decided to be an asshole, and called us some names before roaring away again. Can't blame him, really; we stole his appliance. But any guilt I felt was instantly assuaged by the Bush/Cheney sticker on his stupid SUV.
From flat to fix, 90 minutes. No problem. Plenty of time. Boisterously singing "On The Road Again", we charged down the 80 to Tahoe and got to the Tahoe Biltmore Hotel and Casino. Literally about six inches into Nevada. Nevada smells funny.
For the next 4 hours or so, I started making friends with real genuine rock stars (this outing there were three original members; Fee Waybill, Rick Anderson, and Roger Steen. The drummer was Lou Molino, who plays with Trevor Rabin and Yes, among others. Prairie Prince, the founding drummer, was on tour in Japan with Todd Rundgren. Dave and Gary were the keyboard players). Let me tell you, if they don't strike you at first as total assholes, they strike you as just normal people. This band does have at least two assholes in it. More about keyboard players later...
The first show was great, despite the whiney pissant monitor mixer's utter lack of skill or talent whatsoever (a note to monitor guys; howling painful feedback is completely inexcusable, and you should be dragged out into the alley and beaten with your own arms if it happens more than once and/or longer than 2 seconds. I didn't get this guy's name, but he might want to think about a nice safe cubicle job somewhere). And DAMN, can this band sing! 4 part harmonies all over the place, rarely a dropped note, completely rehearsed and tight, all from the gut.
Strange hotel. There was a buffet backstage that was open 24 hours, and we could just go and attack it any time we wanted. Clutch made the mistake of having some of the funny-lookin' potato salad, and was up all night long driving the porcelain bus. Poor bastard. I did a little gambling, and lost all of $5. Fine by me. I'm glad I've been spared that vice. Casinos are sad places. Nobody had any praise for the altitude. Rick: "Get me off this goddamn mountain!! I can't fucking breathe!"
Show #2. Pouring-ass rain. Sacramento is a very odd place. Looks like San Jose, but a lot deader. We pull into the Crest Theater (oh BOY do they not make 'em like that anymore) and only then do we discover that this gig is a very expensive wedding reception. The Tubes playing a wedding: "I told them it should be Spinal Tap first, Puppet Show second..." Oh, how the bitching and moaning flew. After the show, Geoff, the long-time road manager/sound guy, remarked that it was the worst show they had played in 25 years.
As promised, a nasty word or nine about keyboard players, prefaced by an old saw of a joke:
What do you call a thousand keyboard players chained together at the bottom of a lake?
I don't know, Eric. What DO you call a thousand keyboard players chained together at the bottom of a lake?
A good start.
At the risk of displaying dreadful partisanship, all of them can just more or less kiss my dimpled ass. P. Rusty Gunn is the only exception I can think of at the moment. You goddamn keys guys need to learn a thing or two about how to treat other people, other musicians, and especially people who are hauling your gear. "Please" and "Thank you" (remember your mom telling you about those words? Sesame Street maybe?) go a long way toward making a happy road crew, and these guys were just a little too slow with them. Gary and Dave are the two newbies in this band. Dave has been in it for 8 years, and Gary for about 4. They fight at every gig, venting in front of everybody. They fight about the stupidest shit imaginable. I'll never understand why being a "superior" musician like a keyboard player somehow automatically provides the entitlement to tell others the way everything under the sun should be. Also, laptops on stage should be hidden, not shown off, especially if you're singing and your computer is obscuring your face. They just look stupid. They torpedo the crucial discipline of stage aesthetics. Billium, if you read this, I'd love for you to spout about all this, because I'm pretty sure you have the answers...
Next show, 3 hours later, at The Boardwalk in Sac. A racehorse of a loadout and loadin, and accomplished like champs. One of the finest shows I've ever seen, pouring rain again, packed club. Nice.
The Tubes. What a fun hairy adventure that was, and I'm still sore as hell. 30 years and counting, and egos still a'flyin'. Olivia Newton John beat them out sometime in the early 80s with "Xanadu" for Best Song at the Grammys. I'd be pissed too.
Fee Waybill remains to this day one of the most vital and powerful singers rock music has ever produced. He is a consumate entertainer, the best kind of professional, and a nice fellow to boot. He did the Quay Lude thing twice, and I genuinely feared for his safety a few times. Roger and Rick are also swell fellas, and better musicians you could never hope to hear.
Geoff says he'll call me for more of the same in the future. I'll do it for free if we can open the show...
www.thetubes.com
La Jolla Country Day School, La Jolla, CA.
Ah yes.
A fine institution, really, and a good place to have spent grades 6-12 (except 10, spent at St. Edward's School in Oxford, UK). The school has produced some truly fine folks; civic leaders, world-class athletes, captains of industry, movers and shakers in virtually every worldly discipline, and, naturally, my brother and me. That's what the school was for, to prepare some smart and lucky kids to charge headlong out into the world and make a true difference. A loud and positive difference. The school's charter is such that the United Nations should envy and adopt it. Tragically, even the attacks of 9/11 came knocking on the school gates; Deora Bodley, class of 2000 I think, was on the plane that crashed in PA. Too sad for words. Despite some of my snottier classmates, I am proud to be a LJCDS grad of the Class of 1986, and I still maintain some very close friendships from those days.
Regretably not all of LJCDS's former students are such wonderful people. Tucker Carlson, the snivelling self-important bow-tied ham-faced host of CNN's "Crossfire" is one such person. He was a year below me, and I don't remember if he graduated from CD or not. It doesn't matter. Oh, he charged headlong out into the world, alright, only to become an addle-brained, tongue-tied, irrelevant, whining mouthpiece for all things hardcore Republican. Maybe not even Republican necessarily. Maybe just for all things that nobody with a brain in their head gives a good goddamn about. A complete waste of airtime. An endless diarrhetic barrage of meaningless words forming semi-coherent sentences, delivered with all the talent, erudition, and wit of a box of nails. And that voice... like an ice pick to the brain stem.
So thank god for John Stewart. Watch this:
mediamatters.org
Watching Tucker get his tongue served to him a fajita and seeing him squirm was delightful. He was a pompous blowhard asshole in school lo those many years ago, and he's an even bigger pompous blowhard asshole now. I think I'll write my old school and suggest that they disavow any relationship with him. Even though you, dear reader, most likely went to a different school, I'd urge you to do the same. Mention my name and get a good seat at www.ljcds.org. The little boy with the bow tie must be deflated.
Traditionally I have viewed most poetry as the literary equivilant of the flute; capable of expressing only the most shallow of human emotions. Thankfully there are more exceptions to that rule when applied to poetry than to the flute...
A couple gems from my favorite poet, Pam Ayres:
In Favour Of Pushing Your Car Over A Cliff And Buying A Bike...
I am a mighty Garage,
On the corner of the Square,
And it is all my pleasure,
To provide a quick repair,
Or I can do your service,
In the blinking of an eye,
I wouldn't say it's thorough,
But it'll get you by.
If you break down, we might tow you in,
I suppose that's what we're for,
Despite the astronomic bill,
It's still a bloody chore,
We'll glare beneath your bonnet,
And we'll reel it off so pat,
Did you know that needs replacing'?
And that? And that? And that?
Or we might buy your little car,
For half of what it's worth,
After we've convinced you,
It's got every fault on earth,
But pass me by and presto!
In the window it'll be,
As Clean! One Owner! Spotless!
And the price tag that you see,
Will bear no fond resemblance,
To the price in our demands,
When we said how much we'd give you
Just to take it off your hands,
The price will strangely rocket.
And the things we said were wrong,
Without help from the mechanics
Are conveniently gone!
But when the next poor muggins
He comes looking for a car,
And asks a few odd questions,
They won't get him very far,
We don't say the sub-frame's rotten
Or the whining from the rear,
Is out of the back axle,
And not ringing in his ear.
For I'm such a busy garage,
And my memory is short,
I don't want people trusting me,
Or troubles of that sort,
We don't want you dissenters,
Butting into our sales pitch,
We just sit here, on the corner,
Growing big. And fat. And rich
Like You Would
Well I got up in the morning,
Like you would.
And I cooked a bit of breakfast,
Like you would
But at the door I stopped.
For a message had been dropped,
And I picked it up, and read it,
Like you would.
"Oh Blimey!" I said,
Like you would,
"Have a read of this,
This is good!"
It said: "I live across the way,
And admire you every day,
And my heart, it breaks without you."
Well, it would.
It said: "I'd buy you furs and jewels,
If I could,"
And I go along with that,
I think he should,
It said: "Meet me in the Park,
When it's good and dark,
And so me wife won't see,
I'll wear a hood."
Oh, I blushed with shame and horror,
Like you would,
That a man would ask me that,
As if I could!
So I wrote him back a letter,
Saying "No, I think it's better,
If I meet you in the Rose and Crown,
Like we did last Thursday."
Amazing what can fall into your lap sometimes.
My drummer, Clutch Burnoutski, aka Mike Nelson, is close friends with/drum tech to Prairie Prince, Bay Area legendary drummer, of The Tubes and Jefferson Starship and who knows who else. He probably played with Journey at some point. Super nice guy. It's all very incestuous up here.
Turns out The Tubes are playing 3 shows this weekend. 1 in Tahoe and 2 in one day in Sacto, and they needed a guitar tech. I leapt on the opportunity, and so I'm going to hront with The Tubes this weekend, wrangling Strats and Teles, taking no goddamn guff from the spare Les Paul, etc.
The Tubes. The Friggin' Tubes.
Wow.
Anyone reading this is most likely familiar with at least their bigger hits (Talk To You Later, Sushi Girl, She's A Beauty, etc). But this band has been at it for 30 years and is as good as ever. Roadying for one of the greatest bands the world has ever known. Humbling, I must say. Let's see if I can't parlay an opening gig out of this...
Notes from the road next week, assuming I survive all the rock and roll mayhem and love.
The San Mateo County Vehicle Code (annotated)
All true. No really. I looked it up...
sec. 101.1:
Any motorist operating a vehicle with an original or used sticker price in excess of $75,000 shall be subject to a fine of $450,000 in the event of non-tailgating at freeway speeds.
sec. 101.2
Intentional use of turn signal in vehicles not already equipped with the mandatory TSD (Turn Signal Defeat) switch shall be punishable by a year in federal prison and/or a fine not exceeding $50,000, to be determined by judicial discretion.
sec. 102.3
All male drivers under the age of 49 and female drivers under the age of 55 shall, under penalty of mandatory committment for life to a state psychiatric facility, display rage and hostility at all times while engaged in the operation of a motor vehicle, regardless of its cost.
sec. 103.9
Any operator of any motor vehicle, provided that operator of said motor vehicle is a domicilary of San Mateo County, shall be awarded, with the blessing of the Governor of The State of California, the equivilant of the appropriate week's lottery jackpot should said operator of said motor vehicle run off the road in as ghastly a manner possible one '93 Toyota Corolla, red, already beat to shit, licence # 4JJB404, operated by tall skinnyish white dude resembling John Cusack and/or Pete Townsend and/or Alan Rickman and/or Kevin Costner.
Lovin' my new, soon to be old, commute...
A word or two about spirituality, just because I stumbled upon the topic somewhere on the Kendig.org Cavalcade of Fun. Bill's heard this crap before, and I'm sure he'll notice the edits...
I am not a religious person. I have some very big issues with organized religions, but that hairy-ass debate can wait until I run for president in 2012. If anything I'm Jewish, but very half-assed at that. I had a bar mitzvah but my mom is not Jewish, so I'm stuck in this odd little gray area as far as Lordy Lord is concerned. If I've had a few with Scott and in a Metal Mood I might be tempted to say rock and roll is my religion and my law, but, darn it, that's just so...well...Ozzy.
I "believe in" my god, who doesn't give two turds about much of anything except me and my interests. He would never compel me to stomp around saying that he's better than anyone else's gods (although he makes fun of them a lot...) which rules out flying airplanes into buildings. The sumbitch can't even drive a stick.
He and Allah go bowling together sometimes and just giggle like loons at us all. A little secret; Allah hates Osama bin Laden, and thinks he should yank the big weed out of his cornhole, have a nice Guiness or twelve, put down the AK-47, and calm the fuck down.
War in my god's name is utterly out of the question because of crippling budget cuts. He would love to see Eminem and Lenny Kravitz strapped to a barge, shoved out to sea, and then nuked.
I think he's a Pisces and he loves sushi.
He sure does get a kick out of watching people make stupid mistakes and telling me about them so I don't repeat them, and he laughed his fucking hiney off when I announced I was going to law school: "Fine, kid. Go ahead... I'll hold your guitar for you."
Above all, my god never lets me forget that the complete totality of human perception, understanding, and accomplishment is pretty damn small. He keeps reminding me of all those creatures at the bottom of the ocean that don't even know there's such a thing as light, simply because they don't have eyes. Who needs eyes if there's no light? Consenquently, I derive enormous pleasure thinking about all the shit we don't or can't know about just because neither human physiology nor our handy little gadgets can detect it all.
The thing I like most about my god? He has "blessed" (HA!) me with the desire to keep him to my damn self. Selfishness in the holy extreme. I won't share. He's mine, and you can't have him. Why? Because he doesn't care a rat's ass about you. I do, my dear friends, but he sure don't. I sure do like the idea of the world being a better place if everyone would just keep their gods to themselves. Whaddaya think?
This nonsense brought to you by the fine folks at Bill's Idol Hut, home of the 2-for-1 salt pillars. Audio hopefully coming soon...
-e
Those of you who have ever visited me out here at the palatial Chateau Sur La Plage, aka The Sandbox, know that this really is a fabulous neighborhood. Quiet, no shortage of parking (an exception to the rule in SF), and where some folks have a front yard, I have the Pacific Ocean. Next stop, Honolulu. I love the fog; it's a small price to pay for those clear days when you can count the bugs crawling around on the Marin headlands.
Until recently, what my immediate stomping ground had always been missing is a decent little watering hole to go sit and have a nice beer with the nice neighbors. For years we had The Sand Bar just around the corner, which I always derisively refered to as The Very Worst Bar In San Francisco (and that's giving it the best of it). A place where women could go to get beat up. Always a fine layer of vomit coating the sidewalk on Sunday mornings. I could cross the street to walk by on my way to the corner store, and even then I'd be nauseated by the whif. In short, the most downtrodden hellhole populated by the worst kind of toothless derelict career alcoholics. Made Moe's Tavern look like The Top Of The Mark.
There was a palpable cry of elation in the neighborhood when in 2002 the sheriff padlocked the door, telling the owner to get the hell out because it just wasn't cool to be dealing coke to underage homeless folks after hours. The doors remained shut for 18 months, and we liked it that way.
One day last summer I was walking by, and found the door open. I poked my head in, and there's my buddy Les James, tools in hand, gutting the place, telling me he had bought the lowly Sand Bar and was planning to turn it into a cool new Sunset bar catering to surfers and musicians. Former Sand Bar inmates would have to take a driving test before they were allowed in, and any comments to the efffect of "I was friends with the old owner" would be grounds for immediate 86 stautus. Aside, Les James is a swell fellow, one of SFs truly great drummers, and plays with the bands Red Meat and Plain High Drifters. Go see them. If you don't like country music now, you will...
Fast forward to about 2 months ago. The bar, rechristened The Riptide, is humming along nicely, and the clientele has improved 100%. There I am at the bar, feeling nice, chatting aimlessly with the others who are glad the place is open again in a non-lame way. I had allowed Cheryl The New Bartender to use me as a guinea pig for her martini skills (she needs help, but I'm happy to do my part).
There's one in every bar, of course, but the guy directly across from me was starting to explore the depths of his cups verbally. After he muttered for a minute about the "new yuppie fags in my bar" and how "this crap music was too fucking loud", I pegged him as a hold-over from the old days. In his late 50s, ponytail and balding (WHEN will that end?!?), complexion of deep-fried beef jerky, sucking on a shot of something vile and brown. Then he started yelling about the noise. I suggested quietly that this wasn't The Sand Bar anymore. He didn't like that remark, apparently.
Now, anyone that knows me knows I'm not an aggressive fellow. I've never really had an opportunity to hone any real fighting skills at all (except maybe while I was on the worst fencing team on earth in 10th grade) because I can't recall anyone ever picking a fight with me, and figure there's no point really. I haven't thrown a punch since maybe the second grade. I like it that way.
Laughing Boy got up from his barstool and came over to me, apparently to voice some objection to my offhand remark. As he was walking over I stood up to show him that I was at least six inches taller and 60 pounds heavier than he was, but he seemed intent on starting it all up. I smiled at the little daggers coming out of his bloodshot eyes (pointing in different directions I might add), and that set him off. He shoved me with both hands in the middle of my chest, I tripped over my erstwhile barstool, fell just perfectly on my ass, twisted my left ankle. The little man turned tail and ran out the door before I even hit the floor.
The moral of the story-- you can take the angry little drunken asshole out of the horrible little derelict-haven bar...
Come visit me at Fly Bar on Saturday nights. Divis and Fulton here in SF. Always nice to check the ID of a friendly face...