Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The day before my birthday that just passed some rat bastard bug decided to have a taste of my eyebrow while I was asleep. I awoke to what I thought was a zit with a nasty temperament, only to have my eyelid begin to droop down to my cheek bone ala Rocky Balboa. As I began to resemble a byproduct of incest more and my old funny looking self less, I decided I needed to go to the doctors office to get an educated assessment of my optical malady. I saw two doctors and two assistants and they all started with something along the lines of "Who did this to you, or Who'd you piss of? I would have liked to have told them I was in a bar and got into a brawl in a place where there's sawdust on the floor and guys with bullets crisscrossing their chests sit at the bar talking of the nefarious acts they do for money or women. In just sounds more impressive than a god damn bug bit me. Or maybe i stopped a hold up at a Jason's Deli but not before the robber pistol whipped me. And as a reward the workers at the deli gave me my lunch for free after I regained consciousness. Nonetheless, it really just came down to a a bug and me. Bug one, Luke zero. I'm not leaving the house for a few days as I'm getting lingering looks from people that scream "Damn, who got a hold of you?" However, i went to Radioshack yesterday, and the guy that helped me had what appeared to be 10 percent of his conjoined twin remaining on the side of his head and I immediately felt at ease. I had hoped that what could come out of this is the bug bite could affect me eyesight forcing me to wear glasses thereby enabling me to realize my dream of wearing the kind of glasses worn by Elvis Costello or serial killers from the 60's. The doctor said not to plan on getting and prescription glasses anytime soon, but to get used to looking like I was married to Ike Turner for the rest of the week. I said that wasn't much of a consolation prize. I told him the glasses would offset what will surely be a head void of hair in the future and that I didn't have the gall to attempt the award winning, gravity defying come over my uncle has sported since the early nineties. He said he was sorry to hear about my uncles blue ribbon winning come over, but my Elvis Costello weren't in the cards, for now. I left his office and the receptionist looked at me and started to giggle while asking me how my day was going. At least she didn't ask who did this to me.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
In observance of the fast approaching Fathers Day, I tried to assemble a short list of songs that pay tribute to fathers. I discovered that a good number of songs recognize that some men love to haul ass out of their respective domestic situations. Papa was a rolling stone, Gone daddy gone, Papa's got a brand new bag, etc...not very flattering. So I''ll just tell you about my pops. Charlie Freteluco is a Marxist, and an avid Sam Cooke fan. He adheres to all rules established by the Catholic church and often times finds himself in the confessional telling someone he says the word fuck too much and comments on every woman's bottom he sees. Even the big ones. He is an old country western movie aficionado yet, surprisingly, he was not thrilled when I duped him into watching Brokeback Mountain. Even as I am making my way to 40, my dad still asks if I'd like various women for a new step mom. He had 10 kids, and probably would have had more but he said 10 was a good number. He could start a sports team with 10. His litmus test of how strongly he dislikes someone is when he says "I wouldn't pee on them if they were on fire." I assured him the likelihood of his ever seeing an enemy engulfed in flames, while having a near-bursting bladder was decidedly low. I asked if he would pee on someone he liked? Her said I was being silly and to knock it off. We were both in a bar in Flagstaff, AZ and as a joke, my dad asked a woman to dance with me. I danced with girls in Middle School, stepped on a lot of toes, reviled in the prepubescent awkwardness of it all. But I had never danced with a grown woman. He asked some woman who was noticeably older than me to dance with me and I was not thrilled in the least. I told the lady my hips and feet were inherently white, and that dancing was not in the cards for me. She said she wasn't getting shot down by me. I didn't like how that sounded. So I danced with her to the song that plays in La Bamba when Richie Valens dies. Its an instrumental number called Sleepwalk. While we were dancing I quickly noticed that the bar was filled with Hells Angels members. I'm not sure if they carry cards, but lets assume they do, so these were bona fied card carrying Hells Angels. They didn't seem violent, they weren't brandishing weapons or doing doughnuts on their bikes in the bar. But there was a ton of them in this bar. I always wanted to act out the scene in Pee Wee's Big Adventure where he knocks over the bikes then saved himself with an impromptu performance of the Tramps Tequila. So call yer pop's on Fathers Day.
Your Pal, Luke
Your Pal, Luke
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I loved the mix tape. Consider the mix tape another antiquated piece of years gone by swept under the rug of life by the relentless onslaught of technology. I make a mix cd every Christmas season, but it's not quite as charming. The more seasoned mix tape producer could walk the tight rope that is the difference between over self-indulgence (perhaps a 10 minute Sonic Youth song) and pandering (pop songs, mostly). I was a miser of a little kid and tried to recycle my mix tapes, often times after my mom had made her own mix tape with assorted Latin band and oldies numbers on it. One time I went to a girlfriends house in a last ditch effort to keep our relationship together and I knew I had to have an assortment of songs that screamed "this man is in pain. His misery star burns bright and true and his eagerness to wallow in it with the help of Robert Smith knows no end." I didn't realize that when you record over a cassette so frequently the songs that were recorded over will eventually bleed through. So as I was attempting to convey the urgency and emotional investment in the situation, the unmistakable sound of a Mariachi bands horns and oompa oompa bass parts come crawling out from beneath the emotional wreckage of Dramarama's ode to desperation and gateway to stalking "Anything, Anything, Anything". Did my lo-fi mash-up of Latino drinking music and 80's one hit wonders kill the moment? Absolutely. Did she break up with me? Oh yeah. But she did make out with me right before we broke up, which was a distant, distant second best thing.