Greasy Rockabilly Views

The Greasy Bachelor Life

2012-02-10T13:42:00.000-08:00

I recently read an article about life in the early twentieth century and why they would lock people up in a lunatic asylum. One of the reasons that was considered a mental illness was " living alone". Later on I suppose that condition was upgraded to being merely eccentric. This is a far cry from the celebrated "bachelor pad" of the 50's and 60's. As the word bachelor fell out of common usage, living alone simply became a fact of life upon graduating school or soon thereafter. As baby boomers began to marry and raise families, a new word emerged into the common parlance; "man cave".

Without disrespecting the fact that many people choose to live the married life and procreate, there are some alluring facets that are a ringing endorsement to greasy bachelorhood. Some of my married friends are fortunate enough to have their own man-caves, but the bachelor's place is, by default always a man-cave. I am not implying that living on your own means eschewing sanitary standards while breeding cockroaches the size of a computer mouse; I am just stating that there are certain liberating aspects that this lifestyle brings.

If one feels like having some Stromberg carburetors on the toilet tank, so be it. Most greasy dudes think that that is cool anyways. I know some cats that rebuild their motorcycles right there in their living room. This makes sense as you can watch TV and wrench at the same time. The grease spots on the floor are incidental and only mean that they won't get their security deposits back once they are finally, and inevitably, evicted. That is what is enticing about this lifestyle; the absolute impulsiveness that one can indulge in.

I once needed to spray paint something in my place, so I proceed to open a few a few windows and was only a few rattle can shakes away from completing the job. As the neighbors complaints began to trickle in regarding the acrid odor, I simply blamed it on the adjacent hairdressing salon. To paraphrase Yosemite Sam, "Hippies iz soooo stoopid." They believed me in their naivete, quick to believe that some " capitalist" was ready to poison them. It would never dawn on them that somebody would have the audacity to spray paint indoors ( the paint jobs turn out way better by the way). I was also able to explain away the mysterious grinding noise as a furnace malfunction, as they were not familiar with the sound of an angle grinder cutting into steel.

As I waited for the paint to dry I cranked the ole Rockabilly and drank many beers while appeasing one particularly psychotic hippie neighbor with empty beer cans. All this on a typical Monday night at the greasehouse.

A talented musician friend of mine had a few friends that were fairly conservative and down right judgmental. They failed to comprehend the underlying concept of the greasy bachelor pit. Needless to say, these dudes had bad taste taste in music and were always shocked by all the musical instruments lying about, the smell of rice and beans, Country music emanating from the stereo and all his greasy friends that kept showing up with more instruments. That was long ago and I am positive that those squares still don't get it.

The greasy bachelor never has to worry about all the empties lying around; he will eventually get to them. When there is a sufficient accumulation, he will call a friend who owns a pick up truck or an El Camino and make a run to the bottle depot. The rather hefty refund from the empties will be more than enough to throw a pretty substantial party and there won't be anyone around the next day to complain about excessive flatulence and yet more empties (and maybe one drunken buddy found snoring under a pile of clothes).

The greasecave can also literally be a greasy place as there will be cans of various types of pomades and hair grease stashed all around the apartment. The multitude of greasy surfaces, doornknobs, computer keyboards, appliances and every other item the greaser may come into to contact with don't bother the greaser in the least. Should the neighbor's cat happen to wander by, only a bachelor will see the humor in the situation when the cat returns to his owner with inexplicable chunks of matted, greasy fur.

There is something deeply primal and satisfying about being able to wail on a guitar and caterwaul to your heart's content while wearing dirty jeans and no socks. As the first few shots of whiskey kick in, it will get more intense and there is nobody there admonishing you to "Turn that damned hillbilly music down!" When you are getting too hammered to remember chords you can fire up a cheap cigar, pee on the toilet bowl rim, always leave the seat up and even go to sleep with your pants on if you are too drunk to remember how pants work. Next day you can have few strong cups of coffee as you belch like a cow while airing the place out from the odors of lingering methane gas and stale booze.

The greasy bachelor is far from helpless in domestic matters and will always be able to provide for himself. Any self-respecting bachelor is able to whip up a killer pot of chili, and can make it as insanely spicy as he able to withstand without enduring accusations of underhanded torture by way of excessive spiciness. If there are no space constraints, there will almost certainly be a BBQ on hand and large quivering slabs of meat will be cooked on it. As the meat cooks, it might liberally doused with some Jack Daniel's, with equal amounts being consumed directly from the bottle while waiting for the meat to cook. Once the food is ready, it will be great, even if the plates don't match.

The bachelor is not overly concerned about matching plates. The concept of guest soaps and towels which nobody are allowed touch is foreign to him. There will be, however, no shortage of Rock 'n' Roll paraphernalia and pictures of cars. If the bachelor feels inclined to display pictures of pin up girls with striking anatomy, there will be justification required. There are no set design guidelines imposed upon the bachelor except for the fact that there must be at least a few prerequisite tikis prominently displayed.

There is a certain zen-like quality that can be attributed to the quiet introspection that can be experienced by not seeing or speaking to anybody for three days straight. The bachelor can even post threatening notes on his door telling one and all to not even think about knocking. There might not even be any deep thinking going on at all, it may just simply be an ongoing project being executed on the kitchen table that requires full attention without interruption. Should he desire to take a break or need to make a beer run, the whole project can lay undisturbed on the kitchen table until he is ready to resume working on it. ( yes, a kitchen table makes for a perfectly acceptable workbench and a kitchen counter is a good place for a drill press).

Some were destined for eternal bachelorhood. They will sit upon a reclaimed office chair like a throne and reign upon their greasy kingdom. Other greasy bachelors will enter the kingdom like knights from other greasy places bearing booze, tunes and corn chips. They will sit in a circle and regale each other with stories of drinking prowess, recollections of crazy Rock 'n' Roll antics and wild tales of debauchery. As the years go by, the eldest of the greasy bachelors will come to terms with the credo "They can have my guitar and whiskey bottle, when they pry it out of my cold, dead hands". That's usually when the landlord shows up.

The Wrong Side

2012-02-01T13:59:00.000-08:00

Due to Vancouver's west coast location, a recent trend has emerged where some people import right-hand drive vehicles from Japan. I question the wisdom of such a purchase and the reasoning behind it eludes me. I recently saw a weird looking Mitsubishi van with right-hand drive and the smug owner was not amused when I jokingly told him. " hey boy, yer steering wheel's on the wrong side". I guess hippies' sense of humor is on the wrong side as well.

This whole driving on the left thing has its origins in medieval England where armed people rode horses. The scabbard was worn on the left and it was also easier to mount a horse on the left. So if they had the urge to take a swing at somebody's face with a sword, it made more sense to be on the left side of the road. Riding on the right side had its origins in France, most likely done purely out of spite towards the British, This still does not explain why cars made in France are so ugly and why the French hold their guitars so high.

Being on the wrong side seems to occur with more frequency than most people realize. No self respecting drinker can ever deny being on the wrong side of a bar (the floor) at least a few times over the years. The perspective from down there is unique and in that advanced stage of inebriation gives a whole new meaning to the expression "bottoms up".

This often leads to another situation where the impaired patron is asked to leave thereby putting him on the wrong side of the door; outside. This often leads to walking on the wrong side which is usually the exact opposite direction of home. This must be one of the irrefutable laws of physics; a drunk guy will always walk the in opposite direction of where he wants to be. Some of the staggering boozehounds may have a wife waiting at home who is completely sober and fails to see the humor in the situation that the drunken greaser finds so amusing. This is when he might find himself on the wrong side of the door and will acquaint himself with the proverbial doghouse. ( I wonder about the origins of this phrase, did some hillbilly at one time actually sleep in a doghouse?)

I recently found myself on the wrong side of the tracks, as it were. I decided to go see my friend's band play an outdoor show that was located a fair distance from my place. Being a nice sunny day, I decided to ride my bicycle. In an attempt to save time, I took a shortcut through an Indian Reserve which is considered private property under Federal law. There weren't too many people around so I saw no harm in it, until I heard a low frequency growl followed by a rapid pit-a-pat sound. As I craned my neck, I realized that I was being chased by a large angry dog. Nothing will get the adrenaline going like being chased by a wild animal hell bent on catching you. I don't recall ever hauling that much ass. I don't know how that dog knew that I wasn't supposed to be there (maybe he had a law degree or something) but that mangy critter knew the score. I was on the wrong side of the tracks and Federal Law. If that dog would have caught me my ass would have been on the wrong side of the emergency room.

Not so long ago, I was having a cup of coffee at the local Italian coffee shop as I spotted a youngish hippie couple hovering around my bike that was locked up out front. They locked their own bikes on the same rack, which annoyed me. Hippies are well known for their misunderstanding of personal space and are usually on the wrong side of it ie; right in your face, but I figured I should let it slide. These two mongrels then sat at a table adjacent to mine and not more than two minutes later the hippie dude sidled up behind me and started fiddling with the window shade without so much as an " excuse me". My initial involuntary reaction was too punch him in the face, because it startled the hell out of me. When I asked what he was doing he proceeded to whine that the sun was in his eyes. I told him that the sun would be going down in ten minutes and suggested that he should perhaps simply turn around and face the other direction. I guess he was too stupid to realize that he was sitting on the wrong side. He was equally oblivious to the fact that sneaking up on a greaser could get land him on his ass on the wrong side of the sidewalk (via the pane glass window). Not wanting to end up on the wrong side of a jail cell, I had to show a considerable amount of restraint.

This illustrates quite clearly why hippies are usually on the wrong side of everything. Something as simple as appropriate social interaction or basic manners eludes them. Their very demeanor and choice of clothing is specifically designed to be on the wrong side of everything. They usually find themselves on the wrong side of logic and common sense with their dogmatic new age beliefs about everything and anything. They will zealously adopt the opposite side of any issue simply for the sake of being against something, without fully understanding it.

It seems a lot of them usually stay on the wrong side of the shower as well as on the wrong side of decent musical taste. If they somehow manage to get a guitar in their hands that turns out to be the wrong side as well, they should turn the stringed side around so we could be spared from the caterwauling emanating from the wrong side of their brain. I once witnessed one particular hippie promptly drop the guitar on the floor as he got on stage which is pretty much the wrong side of everything ( this was most likely the direct result of lighting the wrong end of the joint).

This still does not explain why I was in a hippie bar in the first place; definitely the wrong side.

Quantum Theory Of Rockabilly

2012-01-16T13:16:00.000-08:00

I recently read an interview with Stephen Hawking, considered by many to be the most brilliant man alive. He had just turned 70 and had dedicated his life to, among other things, resolving the Theory of General Relativity and Quantum Mechanics into one unified theory. He hasn't quite arrived at that conclusion yet, but he's still working on it.

This got me to thinking and I began to see some parallels in my own greasy universe. Rockabillies are the errant sub-atomic particles of the straight world. Elusive and incompatible with the larger square particles due to their greasy nature, they tend to hang around in each others orbits. They are impossible to recreate in the lab and are understood by only a handful of people. This leads me to a conclusion that I discussed in an older post: it ain't easy being greasy.

I am not implying that we purposely attempt to make every facet of our lives an anachronism, it's just it's kind of difficult to fit in. Not that fitting in is an actual concern, quite the contrary, it's just that it's tedious to have explain one's self. We immerse ourselves in the culture with cool cars, good music and maybe some nice vintage threads, but one can't live inside a microcosm without emerging once in a while. There are certain situations that arise that make it seem like the entire universe is working very hard at squeezing all the grease out of us and eradicating every last trace of Rockabilly particles.

1. Get That Greaser!

As much as we enjoy being who we are, we are sometimes thrust into situations that leave us no choice but to de-grease and just ride it out. The first one that comes to mind would be that most unpleasant of experiences called a job interview.

These unavoidable encounters can be stressful enough for anyone, but it can be a humbling experience for the proud greaser in need of a job. Unless applying for a job that actually requires one to be greasy, like a tattoo parlor, guitar store, or a cool barber shop, the cold hard truth of the matter is that the pomp will have to be modified and somewhat de-greased. You will have to wear somewhat straight clothes. Most of us don't own any and will probably have to go to some geek thrift store to by a shirt and some fugly tie. We probably will have find somebody to help us tie a knot in that ridiculous symbol of conformity.

If you really don't want that crappy, low paying job, grease on my friends, get that pomp as high and greasy as as you can and enjoy the looks of horror from the interviewer. This is akin to showing up to a job interview with a mickey of Vodka and taking large swigs as you are answering questions.

Many greasers (and greaser-ettes as well) have tattoos, some have lots of tattoos and others still have shitloads of tattoos. You're gonna need to hide those I'm sorry to say. There are many prejudices that exist to this day concerning tattoos, and as mainstream as they have become, there seems to be a certain stigma attached to them in the straight world. Although useful for scaring straight people, that low level manager conducting the interview is better off not seeing them. If that guy turns out to be an asshole and you don't want to work there, you can nonchalantly roll up your sleeves and watch the look of horror as he sees engines, hula girls and maybe a couple of pistols.

If you happen to find yourself in a court of law, even for something as innocuous as a parking ticket, you will have to adopt a whole different strategy. When you appear before a judge it is best to look like as much of a goof as you can. If you dress too sharp, say like lawyer, the judge might see this as you thinking you are too smart for your britches. Try to find an ill fitting suit and grease your hair back like a used car salesman. The judge will probably think that you are too dumb to even park your car properly and might let you off the hook. Make sure you have dumb shoes as well, because if you are wearing creepers with a dumb suit, it will be a dead giveaway. Also, don't call the judge " daddy-o".

I have written quite extensively in the past about my disdain for border guards, and by that I mean specifically Canada Border Services. I hate those fuckers with a passion and I suspect that they weren't smart enough to pass the entrance exams for becoming a cop, and got this job instead. Their arrogance is bad enough, but the absolute power and arbitrary decision making that they are endowed with is downright frightening. I attempted to the best of my abilities to downplay my greasiness on many occasions upon my return to Canada but all to no avail. A lone greaser driving a rented Ford Focus means an automatic vehicle search and a visit from the local friendly drug-sniffing dog. It is probably wise to hide your tattoos unless you relish the thought of a full cavity search.

2. High Tech Redneck.

I don't particularly wish that I had lived in fifties. Even though but it seems that life was a little simpler, greasers were probably even more ostracized in a decade that embraced howdy-doody values. This post-war period resulted in some of the squarest values of the century to date and the emerging format of television embraced and glorified these values. The mass appeal of TV, along with the new concept of suburbs firmly entrenched these values and made it the norm. People tend to forgot that Elvis was considered a deviant, a rebel and a sinner who caused a furor when he first exploded onto the scene.

Where I find nostalgia is in the simplicity of the technology. Cars were simple and easy to fix, and most (with a few glaring exceptions) were cool. Some might argue that today's cars run a lot cleaner and are way safer, but the fact of the matter is that there are no cool cars. Some might think that I am spouting heresy, but I think that my greasy brethren will agree; today's cars is just plain ugly. There is a lack of aesthetic appeal and imagination making all cars more or less look alike ( see older post: Douchemobiles).

It's probably a lot easier to get a date or get together with friends because everyone is connected;all the time. It might have sucked trying to reach someone in fifties, hell answering machines hadn't even been invented, but I think that sometimes we are too connected. As recently as 10 years ago, a lot of my friends didn't even have cell phones. A certain local bar had Rockabilly nights every Saturday, and people would just show up, proving that there is something said about spontaneity. I do like my cell phone, because it used to be a real pain in the ass looking for phone booths. When you did find one it was either broken or you had no change. Texting one letter at a time is almost as much of a pain in the ass(don't ask).

Had computers never come into mainstream usage, I would not be writing this right now. We are surround by useful technology, but it can sometimes overwhelm us. I really don't need to know how most of this shit works, and in the instances when I do, I find it difficult to learn.

Therein lies the simple elegance of greasiness; the appreciation of a simpler music that had the raw energy rarely found today; driving a car that would work well and could be repaired without the need of an engineering degree; quality of products and clothing that could (and still do) last for decades.

I find simplicity in drinking cheap beer, cursing and belching with my buddies and eschewing political correctness of any kind. Oh yeah, cursing like a sailor is cathartic.... I mean cussing is a shitload of fucking fun.

3. Let's Jam.

I think that the central ethos that attract people from all walks of life to this lifestyle is the music. A large proportion of greasers actually play music and many of those play in a band on a regular basis. I myself have been involved in music on and off for many years and still am. Some people will assume that I play music just from the way that I look, or I might casually mention in passing that I play. This often followed by an enthusiastic invitation to " jam some time".

If there is one thing that I have learned over the years, it is to not go to jams; especially jams where people haven't even heard of Rockabilly. These directionless gatherings with their rag-tag assembly of musicians of various ilks can only end badly, and possibly erupt into a fist fight. Most times however, when you have a bunch of guys in a living room who have no understanding of the musical language of Rockabilly or Country, the jam will devolve into some real bad Blues, the real crappy white boy blues. If some of those cats have been smoking pot it will eventually deteriorate into a 20 minute version of Mustang Sally or ( horror of horrors) a reggae jam!

I've been to some jams that I knew were gonna suck when I spotted the instruments that were lying around. If there are classical guitars, djembes , lutes and other obscure instruments that you can't readily identify, the jam is sure to suck real hard. Throw in a bunch of alcohol and the ensuing mayhem is sure to make dogs howl and small children cry.

I often wonder why complete strangers, who upon finding out that I play music, will automatically want to jam. I'm sure they don't know any of my songs and I sure as hell don't want to know any of theirs. If they really wanted to bond, they would buy me a bunch of beers and leave it at that. The fact that we both own a guitar doesn't automatically make us buddies. Some of these guys evoke a desire in me to punch them in the face, so why the hell would I want to jam with them? I don't even have to go to their places to know that their taste in music sucks.

There are some social situations where the greaser unintentionally finds himself. Whatever set of circumstances led him there, he will find that he is the lone greaser there. This can cause discomfort for both the squares in attendance and the greaser, The inevitable questions about choice of hairstyle and taste in music will arise. Then something occurs which I call "the performing seal syndrome". One of the squares will produce a guitar, thrust it in the greaser's hand and demand that he "play something". I usually refuse, but can sometimes be persuaded if there is enough free booze on hand. Later on in the evening in a free-booze induced haze, I contemplate getting big floppy shoes and wig and go join a circus, because I end up feeling like a clown.

Another musical abomination that I avoid are open mikes. I see no point playing on a stage with an acoustic guitar trying to rock the room with a few Rockabilly tunes which will end up falling on mostly deaf ears. A few times someone managed to drag me to one of these were futile exercises in spending to much money on booze and listening to way too much bad music. These evenings are usually filled with eager wannabes desperately waiting for their turn up on the stage. There is always one dude playing the prerequisite Johnny Cash song who will then proceed to mangle it badly. Then there is the array of earnest hippie chicks playing "meaningful" songs in a falsetto voices and that's when I usually leave.

4. Cold Weather

Nothing messes with cool as what mother nature has to throw at us. Rockabillies living in northern latitudes are presented with some challenging obstacles. The very simple fact of walking around in 30 below temperature without a hat is that your ears may actually fall off. Nothing messes with a pomp like a big winter hat. It's also difficult to find warm jackets that don't make you look like an arctic explorer, so most of us are just freezing our asses off. Same goes for winter boots, so must of us will end up slipping and falling on our asses at least once during the winter . (What could blow your cool more than falling on your ass in public?)

The Rockabilly gals are even tougher than the dudes; they brave the cold weather while wearing a dress and high heels. They pull it off with poise, and manage to never slide around in those high heels. When it's really cold, they will wisely choose to wear boots and carry their high heels in bags specifically designed for that purpose. When they get to the bar or the social gathering, they will proceed to change footwear. Meanwhile the guys are shivering in their unlined leather jackets and Converse ( take a wild guess who is smarter).

It's January and we only have few more months of cold weather. As I look out my window I see some snow on the ground and realize that I am out of beer . Maybe if I run real fast to the liquor store I won't freeze my toes and hopefully nobody will recognize me under that dumb hat.

Some Greasy Resolutions

2012-01-04T15:04:00.000-08:00

Every year around this time, a lot of people make New Year's resolutions. It has almost become cliche, because very few people actually stick to them, While it is true that regular habits can make one complacent, I think that most folks set the bar too high and set too many unrealistic goals. This is probably why February is the most depressing month of the year; it's cold, it's dark, credit card bills start rollin' in and most resolutions have long since gone by the wayside.

I try not to set myself up for disappointment, and learned many years ago to not get embroiled in this collective societal neurosis. If you have bad habits that you need to get rid of, any time of the year is a good time to address them, or you can simply choose to embrace your bad habits and go with that. It's all in the way one keeps perspective. If you have a pesky heroin habit, maybe you will need some help. If one of your bad habits is, say, picking your nose in public, that might be an easy fix.

I try not to be delusional about it, one cannot change a personality that in inherent to themselves. If someone cuts you off in traffic and you call them an asshole, ride with it, it's not a bad thing. If you yourself are an asshole, it might be time for some positive changes.

On January 1st I pondered the future and indulged in a bit of introspection. I realized two things; I didn't really want to change in any significant way, and I was also out of beer. The latter snapped me back to reality and as I made my way to the liquor store, I decided to keep it simple. Here's a few resolutions that I know I will be able to stick with.

1. I'm switching to Jim Beam.

A few days after christmas I got embroiled in a heated exchange with one of the semi-dented old ladies that prowl the alley and root around my trash looking for empty beer cans. I don't give a damn about cans but I do give a damn about the mess that they leave behind in their wake. It's infuriating to see the mounds of garbage strewn everywhere all for the sake of finding 20 cents worth of cans. The crows then descend upon these piles making an even bigger mess and producing the inevitable ensuing cacophany.

As this futile debate grew louder an my anger mounted, I saw in the corner of my eye something akin to one of those movie moments where a revelation is accompanied by bright lights and angelic voices. There sat, right in front of me on a fence post, an unopened bottle of Jim Beam. I guess one of my neighbors had indulged just a little too much during the holidays and decided to make an offering to the gods of hangovers.

The crazy lady completely missed this, most likely because she only sees value in empty bottles. I pounced on that sucker and brought it inside. I got some ice cubes and cracked the bottle. Mighty smooth! ( koff, koff...) After 4 stiff libations, cleaning up the trash in the alley didn't seem to bother me one bit.

I used to avoid Jack Daniels because of it's gasoline-like effect and the subsequent headaches and cases of the green apple two step. Ole Jim on the other hand had none of the deleterious effects. Jim is my new best buddy.

2. Bad Tunes.

The older you get, the less tolerance you have to music that you don't want to hear. The dictionary defines noise as unwanted sound, and that is precisely what that is. I have never been able to tolerate music that I hate ( and there is so much to hate out there). It's not that I am getting bitter, I am just used to being surrounded by like-minded people who don't to think twice when you say "Grady Martin". I take for granted the fact that I am constantly surround by stellar musicians almost every day. These cats know the history, understand the musical language and we can put a on Rockabilly show together without even thinking about it. And , no, it's never too loud, crank it up!

I was recently in a situation where I had a bit of work to do in a shop and one of the workers there liked to drink copiously while working. He also had a fondness for LOUD dance music blaring out of a crappy radio ( inexplicably, this is a grown man that I am talking about). Combined with hammers clanging and angle grinders cutting metal, this was, in fact, absolutely unbearable.

I would truly prefer getting a good stiff punch in the face, rather than being forced to endure this mindless, over-produced and auto-tuned "music". I think a punch would have hurt less. This produced actual emotional scars.

There is a certain coffee shop that I won't be going to anymore.This has been one of my favorite spots for years and the patio is strategically placed, enabling me to see many of my friends roll by. Unfortunately is is next door to a liquor store, and in this town, liquor stores attract beggars and some of the worst buskers this side of hell.

Some bring battery powered amps and I am forced to endure the insincere bullshit of a singer-song writer in a ratty sweater. Other times I am subject to the mangling of bagpipes wielded by some demented hippie wearing stilts fashioned like goat legs . There are the pseudo-jazz freakos that go out of their way to play nothing but atonal notes on some battered saxophone. The absolute worst though, is one dude who hogs the spot more than any other busker. He's gotta bad case o-dem-dirty-white-boy-blues.

I've seen some decent blues buskers, but he ain't one of them. I say blues, but I use the term loosely. This froot-loop can't can't really play, and his attempts to sing in a raspy blues voice are fucking horrific, because he can't really sing either. What makes it unbearable, other than the fact that this piece of shit is there every single day, is that after 7 or 8 years he hasn't improved one iota and he hasn't learned one fucking new song ! This has gone beyond arduous and is now bordering on sheer torture.

What kills me about this guy is that people actually give him money. Squares that just don't know any better. No accounting for taste or lack thereof, which illustrates why I refuse to get get caught up in musical discussions with classic rock people. It's real simple, their brains are fried from listening to all those tired old rock songs day in and day out. The fact that they know fuck-all is only apart of the problem, it's the fact that they are so convinced that are right about everything. They just conveniently ignore the decades of great music that came before that long hair music. It's always amusing to be accused of being close-minded because of my dedication to Rockabilly by one of these wankers.

3. Build More Bikes.

Considering all the terminal lifestyle abuse that I indulge in, riding a bike is not a bad thing. By bikes, I mean bicycle. I like to build kustom bicycles as a way to preserve my sanity. I also like to breathe welding smoke.

When it comes to cars however, I have come to the realization that I don't know my ass from a head gasket. All my hot rodder buddies seem to be stressed out all the time and I don't need that kind of high blood pressure. Some chick once admonished me for not having a fifties car and questioned my devotion to greaserdom. I answered that I sang and played guitar and that was plenty greasy. Haven't seen her since.

I occasionally participate in organized rides which are thinly veiled excuses for drinking outdoors. I like that just fine and the federales will pretty much leave you alone if you are riding a bike after having indulged in more than a few beers. Other than the risk of squashing some ants with your face, the legal ramifications are virtually non-existent. ( note to self; bring a drunk helmet along).

4. Greasy Greasy.

I have gained the favor of the hillbilly gods, they have smiled upon me and have endowed me with a good head of hair. Maybe I ain't too bright, I like to scream at hippies and enjoy farting in public, but I thank them for the hair. As an offering to the hillbilly gods I vow to try every type and brand of grease found upon this green earth. It might take a while, but I will die trying. When I do die, it will make it that much simpler for them to slide me into the coffin. No cremation for me, all that grease would probably blow the joint sky-high. It may also preserve me for eons and future archaeologists might be more than a little perplexed when they dig me up. By then of course, they might have the technology to re-animate me and I could live to do it all over again ( I just hope that they have Jim Beam in the future) .

5. Dang Hippies.

I resolve to never give the up fight when it comes to longhairs. I will denounce every one of their ridiculous proclamations, I will ridicule their misguided left wing propaganda bullshit. I will also scowl and openly show my disdain for their ratty clothes, disheveled demeanor and lack of personal hygiene.

I will not kick their bongos or cut their dreadlocks with a Husqvarna chainsaw because it seems that the cops take a dim view of this. I will continue to yell "get that shit away from me!" whenever the foul, noxious fumes of pot find their way into my olfactory passages.

Well, maybe this one is not so much of a resolution but more like business as usual.

Good luck with your New Year's resolutions and don't be too hard on yourselves, I'll raise a glass of Jim Beam for you all.

What An Animal.

2011-12-29T14:59:00.000-08:00

A few years back a term rose to popularity, which was the word anthropomorphize. Simply stated, it is attributing human characteristics to animals. It's a big fancy word that doesn't really mean a whole lot, because as much as some people would like to believe that their cat understands English , it does not. It's just that some people perceive critters to act in a human-like way. I would challenge some of these people to stick their arm in the lion's cage down at the zoo and observe what would happen next.

The truth of the matter is quite the opposite, us humans have it all backwards. Humans are far more susceptible to engage in animal-like behavior rather than to other way around. Being the top of the food chain and supposedly the most intelligent mammal on the planet doesn't seem to be an issue in some cases. Our language is replete with examples of animal names attributed to certain behaviors. calling someone a retard (amusing as that may be) does not convey the specific visual connotation that calling someone a certain animal does. The imagery is vivid and leaves no doubt as to the intended description. Here's a few examples.

1. Animal.

This a catch-all phrase that can be applied in many situations. Whenever I see someone horking on the street I involuntarily yell out "animal". If you were to see some dude lift a refrigerator all by himself, you might think to yourself "what a freakin' animal !"

Often the term animal is used for those engaging in semi-barbaric activities, not unlike your average UFC fan ( why they wear strangely effeminate clothing is a whole other subject).

I personally think of hippies as animals because of their questionable hygiene and deplorable way in which they live ( I cannot explain what I was doing inside a hippie house, I just happened to be there). When I go to a certain bike shop that is frequented by hippies in ratty clothes and am forced to endure the type of b.o. that emanates after a long lapse in bathing , I can only conclude that these people are animals. If I were to call them on it, I would be labeled an animal myself. My desire to beat them senseless and douse them with turpentine could also be considered animal-like.

If you really want to bring out the animal in me just leave some food, beer or bourbon lying around.

"What happened to all the beers?"
"I think Serge drank 'em".
" What an animal!"
Me, " Belch."

I think that applies to most greasers , so I don't feel so guilty. I might be breaking the greaser code on this one, but being alone in a room with a case of cold beer is too much temptation for me to bear.

2. Squirrely.

No one is called a squirrel per se, it is their behavior that is squirrely. One has only to observe some squirrels doing what they do naturally and this expression becomes self-explanatory. Some people just behave like 180 lb. squirrels. They flit around endlessly as if their brain has a short circuit and usually spout a barrage of endless and pointless yammering.

Back in the day these people were considered nuts, but there are many different levels of nutso and squirrely is one of them. They mostly have jobs but are just as likely to set your hair on fire just for fun. These are also the type of folks that will walk squarely into a glass door or spill at least one coffee or drink per day.

Speaking of drinks, you get some booze, or worse yet some pot, into these these people, then you have a flying squirrel, Turbo-squirrel, The nonsensical yammering is ramped up several notches, and depending on how crazy they are, the volume will go up to ear shattering levels, or to down to barely audible conspiratorial tones.

There is one alarming side-effect of being around squirrely people; their behavior can send you over to edge to the point where you begin to get a little squirrely yourself. Beware the squirrels.

3.Cat, Catty.

Cat is an expression that is familiar to all greasers and other cool folk. I think it dates back to the early years of the jazz era when musicians referred to each other as cats. The expression stuck, and with the exception of to many "cats" bands in the 80's, is still a vivid way of describing people.

Catty on the other hand, is an expression reserved for women. Not really understanding the dark and enigmatic mysteries that lurk in women's mind, I can't really explain what all this so-called catty behavior is all about. I know that is has something to with pejorative remarks that are directed at each other and men are rarely privy to this. What men do like however is cat fights. These are a rare occurrence and can be terrible sight, but men just seem to enjoy witnessing this strange phenomenon. That probably goes back to high school when the word would spread like wild fire. " Chick-fight!!" and everyone would run. I think that, all the clumps of hair strewn about notwithstanding, we all knew that nobody would really get hurt. And sometimes their boobs would pop out of their bras.

4.Dog

This is usually a term reserved for women when referring to men. If you're a guy and you are messing around with other women, you're a dog plain and simple, If you go out late with your buddies and come home drunk, then you are relegated to the doghouse.

I'm not sure where this expression came from originally. I don't condone dog-like behavior but I wonder why this behavior became analogous with dogs. Men don't go around sniffing each other's butts, eating trash, and pooping on neighbor's lawns. However some of us occasionally howl at the moon and pee frequently on inanimate objects.

5.Pig

This has many different meanings. It can be someone who is dirty and doesn't like showers. Sometimes it is someone that eats so much that the manager at the all you can eat buffet asks them to leave. Others have unsavory table manners and are said to eat like pigs. Some remote parts of some southern States seem to have a fondness for hearing people "squeal like pig".

Years ago in New York City, I was sitting in a parked car waiting for a friend as he was getting beer. Without even realizing, I found myself staring at the pretty curves of a gal walking by. I was awakened from my reverie when I heard "pig". I looked to my right and saw a lady scowling at me and she repeated " you're a pig". I was confused. Am I a pig or a dog?

6. Bush Pig.

Fucking Ugly.

7. Wart Hog

Fucking Ugly and obnoxious.

8. Cow.

Yet another term that women utilize amongst themselves to refer to others of their gender. A man is never a cow, although I have been known on more than one occasion to "drink like a cow".I am not sure why they pick cows specifically. I like cows , they have beautiful brown eyes and are so damn tasty.

9. Rat.

Usually used by criminal organizations, a rat is someone who is an informant. This can also happen at work when some son of a bitch ( see weasel) will rat you out to make themselves look good. Didn't we all learn this in kindergarten?; don't tell on people. Bikers; kills rats dead.

10. Weasel.

Everyone knows at least one weasel. These diminutive instigators will gnaw at you incessantly like their animal world counterparts. They will argue for no reason or will go running to the boss to tell him that you stayed in the can for more than ten minutes, They usually position themselves in situations where you cannot punch them in the head, and if the opportunity arises for direct confrontation, they will "weasel out of it".

You can also find weasels trying out low-level scams like the infamous "loudspeakers sold out of a white van". Another good one is the " I need 40 bucks to take a bus to see my ailing sister".

Weasels will also try to hit on your wife or girlfriend when you aren't looking. They can also be found in bars grabbing people's drinks and stealing tips off the bar.

Sometimes it is necessary to be a bit of a weasel one's self, such as when friends ask you to help them move or paint their house.

11. Snake.

Snakes are similar to weasels except that they usually nickname themselves " snake". Such rebels those snakes.

12. Baboon.

Another word for a dangerous retard. Usually possessing great strength and sharp teeth, like real baboons they are sometimes prone to showing their butt in public. Others are employed as bouncers at dance clubs.

There you have it folks. I wish you all a Happy New Year and as for myself, I will probably be acting like an animal on New Year's eve.

Santa Claus Ain't Hard Core

2011-12-21T12:26:00.000-08:00

I will not attempt to make this into an anti-christmas tirade, some people like and some people don't, plain and simple. Every year around this time I find myself trying to ignore it which seems to be an exercise in futility. The marketing juggernaut of christmas marketing will not let you forget for one minute that the impending date is looming in the not too distant future.

Every November 1st, like clockwork, christmas paraphernalia suddenly springs up at Home Depots across the continent. Soon after we are assaulted by a barrage of cheesy christmas music in any public place that has speakers hooked up. A few weeks after that, homeowners try to outdo each other with garish decorations and endless streams of lights that consume enough kilowatts to heat a small town or blind airline pilots.

All this relentless advertising and induced merriment seem to tacitly imply that you are a loser if you don't participate. For the vast majority, the religious connotations have long since fell by the wayside and the season to be merry has degenerated into an orgy of consumerism, over-spending and the inexplicable urge to wear really ugly xmas sweaters.

Families will get together and old beefs will resurface, many things come to a head on this night. At least one family member will get extra-christmas hammered and possibly start a fist fight. Some greasers have to endure a bunch of fool questions about hairstyle choices or wallet chains from semi-demented aunties drinking cheap-ass sparkly wine. Others will be forced to drink all sorts of vile xmas concoctions to be followed by much xmas puking.

It's also a shitty thing to do to kids. They are indoctrinated at a very young age with the bizarre myth of santa claus. What a perfect way to twist young impressionable minds by telling them about an overweight elf that goes around the world in under 24 hours propelled by magical flying herbivores. The laws of physics are further abused when it is never fully explained how he could squeeze into a chimney, and whatever other means of illegal entry necessary for houses that lack chimneys. When the kids reach a certain age, this myth is quickly dispelled when it is revealed to them that ole santy claus ain't real after all. That's a harsh lesson to learn as all this is wrenched away. This is of no concern to retailers and marketers; they have already created the next generation of consumers and possibly future Wal-Mart employees.

It may sound bitter, but that is my spin on it. So what to do on xmas eve for those that don't partake? All the freakin' bars are closed on this, the one night when me and my friends really need a drink. We always manage to find a secular, non xmas themed house party and hang out there until the booze makes us forget, but not before we are reminded that we have to do it all over again on New Year's and get even more inhumanely jacked up.

This year, through a happy set of coincidences, an opportunity arose that promises to make this the most memorable Dec 24th for about a thousand people; Brian Setzer is playing on xmas eve here in Vancouver, BC. at a place that is steeped with history called the Commodore Ballroom.

You read that correctly; Brian freakin' Setzer and his Rockabilly Riot. To make it a double-barreled shotgun kind of night , Cousin Harley will be opening ( do yourself a favor and check out Cousin Harley/ Paul Pigat on youtube and you will understand what I'm talkin' about). The Gretsch guitars will be twangin', the greasy pomps will be glimmering, and very loud Rockabilly will fill the air. The booze may not be flowing so much in my case, because this is one show that I don't want to forget in a hazy, booze-induced bout of amnesia. The Commodore is laid as such so that if you arrive early enough you are assured a good spot in front of the stage. If some dang squares start doing the arrhythmic convulsing that they call dancing in front of the stage, I will personally trip them or pour a beer down their pants.

Too me that is hard core Rockabilly and I would personally shoot down santa's sleigh with stinger missile in order not to miss this show. Many of my friends are sadly unable to attend. Now if I had a kid, I would tell him to hang out at McDonald's for a few hours because santa claus will showing up and handing out all the fries and Big Macs that the kid is able to stuff down his gullet.

Only a few more days of anticipation for what promises to be a memorable night. Henceforth this night will be known as Grease-mas. It will be a time for the kats and kittens to get extra greasy, listen to cool music and drink many festive beers. Until then, Merry Grease-mas to all, and I'll let you know if I survived New Year's eve.

The Lowdown

2011-12-12T11:34:00.000-08:00

I was recently listening to this CD and this particular song is one of the coolest that I've heard in while. I also think that The Lowlifes is a cool name for the band and all the images that it evokes, so much so in fact that I bought the T-shirt. Like many Rock n' Roll idioms, just because you're wearing a t-shirt that says "lowlife" it doesn't mean that you are one. I just liked the graphics and the tongue-in-cheek aspect of it. The name of the band is also not meant to be taken at face value, it is meat to conjure up images of dirty lowdown greasy Rock n' Roll. I have met Nick on a few occasions and he is one of the nicest and most down to earth cats that you could ever meet; anything but a lowlife.

This brings to mind the use of the word low in the English language. Many use it because because it certainly has some rebelious connotations, others use it because a lot of stuff looks way cooler when it is low. Here's the lowdown on some low stuff.

1. Lowlife.

Over the years this has been used to describe people of questionable morals and possibly hygiene as well. A true lowlife is just as likely to snatch your grandma's purse or steal your car. The word has given way to other more descriptive terms which are more specific. These days the term lowlife has become a little more innocuous. A lowlife might be the stinky bum who just mooched a free ride on the bus. It may be the dude that dove right into a dumpster.

Sometimes regular folks can be lowlifes. Let's face it, if you've had fifteen beers and staggering home after seeing a show, regular folks could easily mistake you for a lowlife. Your clothes will be disheveled, you're hair (maybe yours, but not mine) will be messed up, you will stink of booze and you will at some point, pee in an alley. Yep;lowlife. If you drank some really cheap whiskey you may end up talkin' shit and intently staring at strangers wanting to pick a fight for no reason, that too can be interpreted as lowlife behavior. These are hypothetical situations... none of these things ever actually happened to me... moving on.

2. Lowdown.

Lowdowns are as far down the evolutionary scale as lowlifes, just misguided. A lowdown will indeed drink your last beer, but he'll buy you one next time. Say there is a twenty dollar bill on the floor at the local 7-11, the lowdown will simply put his foot on it and pick it up when no one's looking, He may also rope you into helping to fix his car on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but he might have some beers on hand.

Sometimes lowdown behavior is necessary and amusing. Let's say some fucking self-righteous hippie is constantly annoying all the smokers at a nearby coffee shop. A punch in the head might be good, but the cops frown on that. Instead when you see the hippie going into the liquor store next door, you follow the brazen hippie and tell security guard that you saw the hippie pocket a bottle of booze. Lots of free chuckles and sweet retribution.

Another necessary lowdown action could happen at the same coffee shop. I think that we can all agree that bike thieves are some the lowest life forms around. It's an easy crime and it happens all too frequently in our cities. It may not be high on the list of despicable crimes, but damn it's infuriating. If you were so inclined to be lowdown, maybe you could leave an unlocked bike in plain view and watch from afar. What you have to do first, however, is loosen every nut and bolt on that bike. As an unlocked bike would soon attract the attention of the thief, it would be unbelievably hilarious to see him go flying as he tried to rapidly abscond with the bike,

3. Low I.Q.

Judging by the way that the vast majority of people drive, one could easily surmise that we live in a collectively retarded society. That is not the case because a lot of these people are nice, well-adjusted folks and can be quite intelligent. Their only problem is that they can't drive worth a shit; must be a left-brain right-brain thing. On a day to day basis I see people do many stupid things which constantly cause me to ask myself if they are truly stupid ore just inconsiderate assholes.

In a rainy city such as this one, I am often perplexed that a lot of people haven't mastered the fine art of using an umbrella. I have nearly lost an eye one more than one occasion and was perceived as being a lowlife for loudly admonishing the perpetrator of the eye-gouge.

I have mentioned on more that one occasion about dudes sporting all that glittery clothing. Their sartorial choices often leave me wondering about their I.Q. because I fail to understand the aesthetic appeal of Affliction or Ed Hardy. There has to be something wrong with a dude who will walk into a store, look at these abominations and think to himself " Coo-ool" The glittery hats that are sometimes worn with these get-ups seems to say " I just got out of the institute today."

I tend to avoid musical discussions with non-greasy people because they never end well. The classic rock crowd are the worst, and it is always ironic to be accused of being close-minded because of my love of Rockabilly by these sadly misinformed rockers. What could be more open minded than listening to same 500 tired old rock songs ad infinitum every single damned day? If that isn't an I.Q. issue, then I don't know what else it could be.

Hippies are not known for their high I.Q. especially the new-age variety ones. Their strange blend of folk medicine, Eastern Mysticism and conspiracy theories make it very easy to delude themselves and conveniently avoid learning any scientific facts whatsoever. Like Homer Simpson once said about jazz " They make that up as they go along", it is sadly enough, too true in this case. You can say anything when you make shit up to back up some charlatan pseudo-science. Not only are these people dumb, they really make me angry with their smugness and unshakable belief that they, and only they, hold the truth. I also question the intelligence of playing bongos in a drum circle, but that may just be the direct result of marijuana burning out brain cells.

4. Lowriders.

One has to admire the ingenuity and the engineering that goes in to low riders. To think of the sheer genius that was required to think of this in the first place is impressive. As I was told, this happened in the sixties when custom car dudes began slamming cars real low. Even though this was very cool, the main drawback soon became apparent; in some cases they couldn't get the cars out of the driveway. Someone had the brilliant idea of using hydraulic cylinders from small tailgates and adapting them to the car's suspension and a whole new type of kustom was born.

The lowrider culture has evolved into a very sophisticated one, and some of the lowriders that I have seen truly are rolling works of art. A friend of mine has air-bagged a 1960 Buick and he can literally slam it right down to the ground. I never drove it but that wasn't really the point; I just wanted to mess around with the airbags. One evening he let me do just that. The system has many switches that let you raise the front, the back or each wheel individually. I sat in that car for an hour with a couple of beers and just played with the switches. That it itself was so cool, that I did not need to drive the car. I was transformed that day and now have visions of air bagging everything I own; my bed, my chair, my bikes, even my shoes. Maybe the neighbor's dog would look cool with airbags, I''ll have to think about that one.

5. Low Risk of Precipitation.

It will definitely rain.

6. Low Interest.

You will get screwed.

7. Low Note.

Usually the lowest note on an upright bass (low E) . The note is usually lower when dome drunken fool wanders up onto the stage and knocks over said bass. The sound of the bass player's fist connecting with the drunk's face is a fairly low frequency as well.

Low notes are sometimes triggered by eating too many burritos.

Flatheads produce interesting low notes like no other engine, but good luck finding parts.

Looking inside your wallet and realizing that you only have two five dollar bills. You will be drinking some really lowdown cheap booze on that day.

8. Laying Low

Laying low is usually reserved for people who have done something wrong or for people who owe you money. It is more than coincidental that certain people will completely disappear for an extended period after you lend them twenty bucks.

Consequently some people will lay really low if their ex happens to roll by, it's not hiding;it's laying low. Whatever the reason may be, many people just want to avoid uncomfortable situations or run the risk of loudly being called a douchebag in a public place.

Some people are just dying to try out the latest engine modification on their car. They may take it up to 100 mph just to try it out. The cops parked over at the donut shop may not understand that the boys just wanna have a little bit of fun and will give chase. Best to find a densely wooded area and lay low. Maybe for a couple of days.

9. Low Resolution.

There is no shortage of cheap and crappy electronic devices these days and the old warning of caveat emptor has never rung truer. This is what happens when you buy a 40 dollar digital camera; you will get a bunch of low resolution pictures. The resolution won't matter however because all the pictures will be blurry. Note to self; the more beers you drink, the blurrier the image will be.

Low resolution also happens every year around the beginning of February. This is usually the time when all those unrealistic New Year's resolutions begin to fall by the wayside. There is usually a spike in beer and cigarette sales at this time of year and craigslist is suddenly inundated with ads for for good deals on bicycles that were "only ridden twice". There also seems to be a bunch of exercise machines that mysteriously appear in alleys all around the city.

10. Lowball.

Craigslist can be a useful tool for making a few extra bucks or finding some free dirt. The only problem with craigslist is that when you are selling you will be assailed by a barrage of dumb questions and a lot of weirdos will be coming over to your house. I'm not sure when the ole craigslist lowball first made its appearance, but it never fails. The lower priced items will always get the most phone calls, and if you are selling something for 15 bucks you can be sure that the first person who gets there will offer you 11 bucks. You will probably waste more than 4 dollars of brain cells dealing with this inane transaction.

The higher priced items are quite a bit more frustrating, as the potential buyers make you offers that border on the insulting. They use the age old trick of bringing only the amount of cash that they plan to offer. Maybe they can't read, or maybe their brain don't work so good, but a $ 300 bicycle does not translate to $50 in the real world. Fortunately most transactions are quick and painless. The service is free and you are making tax-free dineros. You can also save yourself a few trips to the garbage can because craigslist has proven to me that some people will indeed buy anything.

There's the lowdown for you . I urge you to give a listen to that Nick Curran CD; you will dig it. I gotta go because my pomp is low and I'm running low on grease and that's a lowdown dirty feeling.

Occupy This

2011-11-27T14:39:00.000-08:00

Thankfully, this whole Occupy (your City) has run out of steam and all the penniless hippies have gone home. There are a few crusty stragglers that remain, but they too will soon be gone. It was once said that the main purpose of protests is to annoy people that aren't in them and truer words have never been spoken. I, and many others, are left perplexed in the wake of all this nonsense, because the point of it all is vague and lacks focus. I suspect that the shit-disturbers weren't fully cognizant of why they were there either. It became obvious after a few days that these unwashed denizens didn't seem to have any form of employment.

It is a sad legacy of the sixties that has given us this breed of super-hippie with their excessive self righteousness and absolute sense of self entitlement, On a more personal scale, these are the same people that feel it is their duty to tell complete strangers what to do. Snide comments about lack of bike helmets or smoking in parks can be infuriating and I want to occupy their face with my fist. I , and my friends, have to show restraint unfortunately, because we don't to end up occupying a jail cell.

On a larger scale, these leftoid miscreants feel that they can impose their ridiculous ideas anywhere and anytime they feel, disrupting the lives or regular working folk and wreaking havoc on rush hour traffic. They pontificate mindlessly making shit up as they go along. The ultimate hypocrisy lies in the fact that if you don't agree with them then you are most certainly dead wrong. That makes them close minded vigilantes who have no respect for other peoples rights or privacy.

Te beauty of living in Canada or the US is the absolute freedoms that we are guaranteed. If you want to say crazy shit in public or espouse radical political beliefs, you are well within your rights to do so. As an individual, I also have the right to disagree with you, but have to recognize your right to be a complete fucking retard.

Rarely will you find greasers engaging in any of these activities because in an ironic twist of irony it the longhairs who are are acting like hooligans and it is the greasers who are zen. All the greasers that I know derive immense satisfaction from working on their cars, playing some tunes on their old guitar, catching a couple of bands, just being generally greasy and minding their own goddam business. Occupy has a whole different meaning to us, here's a few things that I and my greasy buddies like to occupy.

1.Occupy the Bar Stool,

O, the crazy times that we have had sitting on that bar stool, Tall tales were told, musical discussions that went on for hours were held, bullshit stories about the opposite sex, even more bullshit about how much horse power one had and all around good times. And when it was time to leave, maybe one more round. We never gave a damn about taking on big corporations, we just wanted to know where to get a hard to find carburetor or when the next good show was coming up.

Another important difference with us and the freakos is that all of us had occupied a shower before going to the bar. At no time did any of us get the urge to sleep in a cardboard box outside the bar and display crudely written signs with lots of spelling errors. ( on a related note, you gotta be nuts to camp out in front of Best Buy to save 20 bucks on a TV, but that's another story)

I recently occupied a neighborhood bar where a friend of mine is the cook. A greasy cat possessing that legendary Australian friendliness, he is also an avid fan of Rockabilly and Honky Tonk. Whenever I show up Rockabilly music fills the air and the pints flow freely. I never knew that Melbourne had such a vibrant Rockabilly scene, judging by all the cool bands that I hear in that bar, and I just want another round, I stay for while then I stagger up the hill to occupy my bed for the next 8 hours.

2.Occupy Interstate 5.

Even though we have good beer in Canada one of the sad realities is that it is completely impossible to get good hair grease up here. Maybe because we have to many squares with bad haircuts and vast throngs of unwashed hippies who don't use shampoo, much less hair products. Or maybe it's too damned cold, I just don't know. Once in a while I have to make a pilgrimage to Everett WA , which is the nearest town where I can find Tres Flores and Nu-Nile. I love going down there, but I unfortunately have to occupy a two hour line up at the border. I don't mind because it's worth the wait and as a small reward to myself on the way back, I will occupy the Chevron in Blaine WA an get 24 Pabst for a ridiculously low price. Upon my return, the grease will occupy my hair, the beer will occupy my liver and all is right in the universe.

3. Occupy the Deserted CD Store.

I used to love buying CD's. Every single one that I own holds memories and many of them were given to me by the bands themselves. I enjoyed the artwork and reading who worked on the CD and sometimes the lyrics would even be included. People from a younger generation view me as some sort of oddball. It seems eccentric to them that I am obsessed by what they view as an archaic artifact.

I recently went to HMV, which used to be one the largest music retailers. The music section has been relegated to the second floor and I could almost imagine tumbleweeds rolling around; that place was dead. The selection was sparse but I managed to actually find a CD that I wanted. ( Derailers covering Buck Owens songs). As I made my way to the cash register I think I woke the clerk up from a nap. I asked the bleary-eyed cashier if I was the only idiot still buying CDs. " Yep, pretty much," he deadpanned without any trace of irony. ( HMV will closing its doors in a few months)

I am using an old Mac because there isn't 2 grand occupying my wallet to buy a new one. So these days, I have been occupying the homes of some my computer-savvy friends and getting them to download stuff for me.

4. Occupy The Garage.

A lot of my friends seem happiest when they are lying on a creeper under some old car. I have realized one thing over the years and that is the fact that working on cars would eventually lead me to occupy an insane asylum. I find it more satisfying watching my friends do it. I get to hand them tools as I occupy my ass on a milk crate and every few hours occupy the liquor store when I am sent on beer runs.

As I have mentioned in some older posts, I prefer making bikes. I derive the same amount of satisfaction and I can ride them when I've had 10 beers without any fear of retribution.Not to worry though, I am a seasoned rider and my bikes have a low center of gravity so I never occupy the pavement with my face.

5. Occupy The Barber Chair.

Getting a haircut from a real barber who knows how to do pomps is a quintessential dude thing. There are no women around and you can curse and talk about dirty shit to your heart's content. Hell, you can even have a few beers if you are so inclined. It is one my favorite ways to spend a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon and my barber occupies his stereo with cool music. There a truly satisfying feeling that comes with walking out the door sporting a fresh haircut. I have to occupy the sidewalk for a few minutes because my ass is usually numb from occupying the barber chair ( sorry. was that too much info?)

6. Occupy Vegas.

No list like this would be complete without mentioning the holy grail of Rockabilly that is Viva Las Vegas. Those who have attended know exactly what I mean and it would be difficult to convey the sense of it to those who haven't . You will definitely need to occupy your sofa for few days to rest up from this vacation. 4 days of non-stop bands, excessive drinking, debauchery, did I mention drinking staggering amounts of booze?, hot chicks, cool threads, unbelievable vintage vendors and excessive drinking. Then there is the mother of all hot rod shows. Granted some car shows are bigger, but this one features the cream of the crop when it comes to traditional hot rods. To top it off you're in Vegas. I urge anyone who has never attended to check it out at least once, you will dig it but your liver, not so much.

There you have it, a short list of things that greasers like to occupy. As for myself, I think I will occupy the beer store today and check out some vintage bikes until I am cross-eyed.

64 El Camino: Redneck For a Day

2011-11-13T15:16:00.000-08:00

Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, a friend of mine recently had his license suspended for 90 days. He runs a small business and a vehicle is an absolute necessity. One of the company vehicles just happens to be a '64 El Camino. He needed someone to drive him around, and that's where I come in.

This is no ordinary El Camino however. It looks fairly stock but it 's a sleeper. The original 327 was replaced with a 350 that had a lot of work done to it, including performance cams, Edelbrock manifold, headers, Accel ignition, big ass carburetor and somebody did something funny to the cam. As quintessentially redneck as these upgrades sound, this car actually hauls some serious ass. Did I mention that the car came from North Carolina? No self respecting redneck drives a car that is stock.

A lot of people seem to lump greasers and rednecks into the same derogatory label. I am not a redneck per se, but I got to act like one and I was diggin' it. This is the ultimate redneck car; not sure if it's a truck or car, this strange hybrid especially appeals to rednecks. You can haul chicken feed in the back and it feels all classy like in the front. This is precisely the same thing that a mullet accomplishes. "All yee-haw in the back and jes regler stuff in thuh front". This is the mullet of the car world.

So here I was, enlisted to drive a mullet car for the next few weeks. A mullet car that does 0 to 60 mph in 6 seconds. The prospect had potential for some good ole boy type of fun.

I made my way down to my buddy's shop to go for little test drive to familiarize myself with the car. Our first mission was a relatively easy one; a beer run. I got into the driver's seat, turned the ignition that doesn't require a key and the engine roared to life. As I gently revved the engine a satisfying deep rumble emanated from the dual exhaust. My buddy is shorter than me, so I was right up against the steering wheel. The seat adjustment was broken (of course it was) so I would be stuck driving right up against the massive steering wheel, like a senior citizen in Florida driving a big Cadillac.

I pulled out of the alley and headed for the bridge. Once on the bridge my friend encouraged me to open her up. I stomped on the gas pedal and all four barrels opened up. I could feel my neck getting slightly red. Once we bought some beer and headed back to the shop, a suit-wearing douchebag in a BMW sidled up to my right at a red light was arrogantly going to attempt to pass me on the right. I knew was he was planning and when the light turned green I punched it. The car laid some rubber and sprang forth like a cheetah, easily leaving the large BMW in my dust. I was gone too fast to see the expression on the other guy's face, but I did let out a loud "yeee-haw". It just came out. My friend was busy clutching the seat and telling me to slow down. He jokingly said that my behavior was anti-social. I agreed as I revved the engine and lunged at some jaywalkers (the horn is also busted).

Our next mission was to do a small repair job at a ski resort that was two hours away. We stopped at McDonald's to stock up on some burgers. I haven't set foot in a McDonald's in years, but I somehow developed a craving for a whole bunch of those tiny cheeseburgers that they have. As I hit the highway steering in one hand and cheesburger in other, I noticed that people in passing cars were giving us strange looks.

The highway that we were on hugs mountains overlooking a very large body of water. It is precarious with it's many twists and turns, and has one lane in each direction for most of the way. I was holding up traffic because the speedometer was broken ( of course it was). I noticed a long line of traffic behind me that was unable to pass me because of the double yellow line. I punched it again and was amazed that this old Chevy was actually accelerating going up a steep grade. I left the line up of Range Rovers and BMW's in my dust once again as I let out yet another involuntary yeee-haw. You gotta love low end torque. The good ole boy in North Carolina knew what he was doing when he built this car. It must be atavistic knowledge that was acquired from generations of outrunning revenooers.

There weren't any revenooers where we were going. it was much worse. Squares and lots of them, the real uppity kind with lots of money. We were heading to Whislter BC, you see, an awful, soulless place where people look at my greasy kind with contempt. This was gonna be fun.

We arrived at our destination and caused many heads to turn as we cruised up the main drag. I just stepped on the gas a little which caused mufflers to rumble and the front end to lurch up and I knew we wasn't gonna be welcome. We checked into the hotel and then made our way to the liquor store. As I my buddy went inside to purchase copious quantities of booze , I decided to practice a few burnouts in the parking lot, much to the consternation of the locals. As my buddy returned to the car with large bags of alky-hol I did one more little burnout, leaving a cloud of acrid rubber smoke in my wake. Yee-haw.

We didn't do any work whatsoever that day, unless you want to count drinking all that booze as work. I got up very early the next as my friend slept in. The only task assigned to me that morning was to go to the job site and take few measurements every hour. I fired up the El Camino and headed to the Starbucks for some coffee. The gal slinging the coffee began to give strange looks, and as I sipped my coffee, realized that it might have been because I was staring at her ample cleavage. Yee-haw.

I jumped into the Camino and burned out of the parking lot. As I headed up the hill to the job site, I had a strange craving to hear some Lynyrd Skynryd. My wandering thoughts were soon interrupted by the sensation of hot coffee on my lap;they hadn't yet invented cup holders in 1964.

I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon going back and forth doing short burnouts, going fast on some back roads and scaring the shit out of squirrels that were in my way. I wasn't worried about cops, because there weren't that many in this burg and they had their hands full chasing drunken Australians, really drunken dudes with knives and errant bears that kept wandering into restaurants ( all true, I read it in the local paper). " Bears," I thought to myself, " maybe I better get myself a shotgun." Yee-haw.

By the time we were ready to leave, half the town had heard about the commotion that I had been causing. The only people that seemed amused was the myriad of groundskeepers that were employed there. They would all wave at me as I burned rubber and blasted through town. As we stopped for gas I stocked up on beef jerky, BBQ chips and a huge bottle of Mountain Dew. I made another stop at McDonald's halfway back to town and got me some Big Macs. I only slowed down once as we passed an inexplicably alluring trailer park on the outskirts of town . Yaa-hoo.

I was glad to get back home after having spent a few days in such a sterile place but it seemed no different in the city . I was still getting of lot of dirty looks as I observed how easily people will judge you according to the car that you drive. Even though a lot of them are unfamiliar with old El Caminos, they are convinced that it is a redneck car. While stopped at a red light, I was amused to see some yuppie chick in the passenger seat of a BMW as she stared at me. She looked at the car, then looked upwards at my pomp, back to the car and then back up at the hair. I did a mini burnout as the light turned green just to get her more flustered.

The El Camino needed some work so for the next few days so I was given another vehicle to drive around in for the many errands that needed to be done. There, in the parking lot, sat the biggest Dodge Ram 4x4 that I had ever seen. I climbed (literally climbed) into the cab of this behemoth. There was a giant pile of metal in the bed that had to be disposed of at a junkyard.

As I drove around for the next few hours, I realized that I was way more comfortable driving this gigantic truck. People really do get out of your way, and the huge steel guard on the front demonstrates in no uncertain terms that a redneck is coming and you best git outta the way. Our last stop before we hit the junkyard was a liquor store. Not just any liquor store, but the most pretentious one in town where they have wine tastings and obscure $1000 bottles of tequila. I parked right out front in a no parking zone and watched the looks of distaste as the yuppies looked at the huge truck with a big pile of junk in the back.

As we got back to the shop and cracked open a couple Pabst, I toyed with the idea of buying a shotgun rack for the Dodge and thought that a couple of dirt bikes would fit quite nicely in there. I had visions of me jumping dirt bikes off of rickety home-made ramps and possibly smashing into a tree. I was also thinking that maybe we could put the El Camino on blocks and fix it some other time. I fortunately got back to reality as my buddy passed me another beer, and soon made my way home.

When I awoke the next day, I found myself hoping that my friend gets his license back soon, because as much as I like driving a fast car, I just wouldn't look good with a mullet.

Thirteen

2011-11-07T16:22:00.000-08:00

As advanced as our society has become, there is still an element of superstition associated with the number thirteen, As recently as the '80's designers and builders of tall buildings would omit the 13th floor. Due to this fact, this number was appropriated by many groups as a mild form of rebellion. Nowadays, however it has become time worn Rockabilly cliche. There is even a certain clothing manufacturer called Lucky 13 that sells this trite symbol in an overtly commercialized attempt to sell rebelliousness and charge a lot of money for bad-ass imagery.

Some of their stuff is cool, but I have difficulty in seeing the rebel spirit that it intends to convey when thousands of people are wearing it. That is only my opinion, because the company seems to be doing well and lots of people are buying their clothes, thereby proving the strong allure and certain cachet still associated with the number thirteen.

To me, it's just another number. It has other connotations that occur in day to day life and here are some things that add up to thirteen.

1. Thirteen beers may seem like a lot, but depending on the circumstances , can be one hell of a party. 13 shots of whiskey, not so much, as the monstrous headache that you will have the next day will prove. Speaking as a seasoned Canadian beer swiller, I can assure you that when I go to the U.S.A., that number can easily go to 26, and I am still standing. This is why I prefer American beer, that's a hell of a party, unfortunately 13 is also the number of times per hour that you will have to go the bathroom.

2. 13 is the number of bars that you will be playing in a 12 bar song when attending aforementioned party and participating in a jam. Yeah jams can be fun sometimes, as long as everybody knows the tunes and understands the style. Booze and guitars are a good mix for the first few beers, but things start deteriorating after that. You just can't nail the rhythm and end up with 13 bar tunes as the whole thing folds up into its own asshole. The funny part is that nobody really notices and everyone thinks they are rockin' when in fact, everybody was stinkin'. This also produces another side effect because, coincidentally, 13 is also the number of guitar strings that you will bust at one of these greasy beer parties.

3. 13 seems to the the exact number of times that a greaser will attempt to get his hair right while getting ready to go out. I know this from personal experience as me and my friends mumble and curse trying to get that damned hair just right. Sometimes up to 13 different types of hair grease will be used in even more futile attempts at getting the recalcitrant pomp to cooperate. When it is finally done and that Saturday night is over, 13 is the amount of showers that it will take to remove the accumulation of all that greasy shit from your hair.

4. 13 is the amount of hours that you will spend on hold attempting to speak to a live human being at the company that provides your internet. When someone does eventually answer, you've forgotten what the original question was.

5. Thirteen is also the amount of hours that you will spend trying to remove ball joints. Of all the seemingly simple mechanical operations on older cars, this seems to be the most frustrating. 13 is also how many times per hour that you yell "faaa-aack" very loudly , annoying your neighbors and scaring children. In the end, you might just give up and drink those 13 beers. The following weekend you will require the help of 13 of your buddies to finally get the damned things off and that will end up costing you 169 beers.

6. This is also the average interval in months when hippies decide to take a shower. This usually ends up costing them roughly 13 cents worth of soap, but the real hardcore hippies will buy 20 dollar bars of organic soy based soap, meaning that they are suckers as well as dirty. This number also works well in drum circles, because 13 bongos seems to be the amount required to produce the right amount of dissonance thereby producing the maximum annoyance factor. 13 is also the factor at which the average person's blood pressure rises upon coming into contact with the horrific sound of the drum circle. 13,000 is how many RPM are required for a chainsaw to be able to slice through dreadlocks; those suckers are a densely packed amalgam of dirt, knots, sweat, tofu, bird droppings and sand.

7. Some people may not want to admit it or discuss it openly, but we are all surrounded by idiots at work and 13 seems to be the amount of idiots that will be in your immediate vicinity at any given time. They always seem to speak about 13 decibels too loud. You feel like screaming obscenities at them and sometimes have the urge to punch them in the head, but you will get fired and soon end up with 13 cents in your pocket. This is probably why you drink 13 cups of coffee per day at work and usually require 13 beers after work. Better not drive your car though, because 13 is the number of times per day that you will be picking up soap in the prison shower.

8. If you own a pick up truck, 13 is the amount of requests per week that you will receive from people asking you to move them. There is often the promise of beer and pizza, but your truck don't run on pizza and as mentioned above, not a good idea to drive after many beers. It gets more and more difficult to weasel out of all this unnecessary, and unpaid, work. A good idea would be to throw 13 tires in the bed and tell people that your truck is full, and at any rate, isn't 13 bucks what a gallon of gas costs these days?

9. 13 seems to be the right number of sub-woofers for those boom box cars with the bowel-liquefying bass. This is not even bass ( the frequency isn't that low, it's jut a lot of loud mid-bass) and is more akin to some secret military weapon. I'm not one to shy away from loud Rock 'n' Roll, but these guys are two feet away from 13 really big speakers. I suspect that that has also partially liquefied their brains. They fail to notice that their car is breaking itself to pieces and I suspect that this hip-hop induced brain damage is what causes them to buy glittery shirts and wear their pants 13 inches below their butts. Strangely coincidental is that a lot of these cars ride on 13 inch wheels, but the cars are not air bagged because they blew all their cash on the audio system. It seems like they are thinking that if they crank the bass higher maybe, just maybe, they can get the front end to hop off the ground.

10. 13 was the number of heavily armed SWAT team cops outside my apartment door a few years back. It seems that a psychotic neighbor had called the police claiming to have heard gunshots emanating from my place. It was in fact some kids setting off firecrackers nearby. I thought it was fairly amusing when I answered my door and saw those very serious cops crouched all around in full battle regalia toting semi-automatic weapons. The sarge asked me to step in the hallway and asked if they could search my place. I thought it even more amusing as I stood in the hallway barefoot still clutching my beer, that the SWAT guys were searching my room in vain while the Rockabilly was blaring from my stereo. They apologized profusely when they realized that it was a false alarm and left. They had a long talk with the psycho neighbor as I went back to beers and tunes, relived that I been able to be coherent and hadn't had my 13th beer yet.

It Ain't a Costume

2011-10-31T13:36:00.000-07:00

This town, like many other North American cities I'm sure, is rapidly turning into a haven for yuppies. They revel in their stupid square endeavors, completely oblivious to everything else. OK, we get it, the world revolves around them and the sun shines outta their ass.

I have written many times about my disdain for yuppies ( for lack of a better term) and their decadent lifestyles. Their scornful leers make laugh, much to their consternation, which amuses me even more. One thing is for certain however, they have absolutely no clue as to what a greaser is. They always seemed perplexed and sometimes intimidated by my, and my friends', demeanor.

Rolling through the epicenter of yuppie-ville last week, I felt the need for a coffee. Unfortunately the only place around was a Starbuck's. I hate their coffee and the contrived atmosphere makes me antsy. Some yoga-pants wearing yuppie princess was giving me the stinkeye. I was wearing some really nasty grease that I had found called "Lusti". That slimy shit is red. Bright red. Even when you comb it in, it leaves red and orange streaks in your hair. It was cold, so I was wearing my leather perfecto jacket. Guess they don't see to much of that in that part of town. Man, it's like shooting fish in a barrel.

A few years ago I attended a buddy's birthday at some rib joint in one of way too many snooty parts of town. A woman approached us and asked if we were going to a fifties party. My buddy had the presence of mind to answer that we were the fifties party. She was taken aback and briskly walked away, never fully understanding why we looked the way we did and the irony of the answer to her query.

Halloween on the other hand is a whole other story. This is the time of year that annoys the greasy cats and kittens the most. No, it ain't a costume and YES, we dress like this all the time.

I myself don't partake in this ritual. I can't really be bothered with messing around with make-up and costumes and such. I do enjoy looking at all the gals wearing various skanky costumes that seem to have become popular over the years, but that's about the extent of it.

I usually tend to stay home, because people assume that I am dressed up as a greaser and it fucking annoys me. I made an exception this year because my favorite Rockabilly band , Cousin Harley, were playing at a dance hall a few blocks away.

I usually end up hanging around the sizeable band room backstage, and I soon as I walked into that room I was confronted by probably the stupidest comment that I've heard for a long time. Some hippie, which I was trying to ignore, was babbling some nonsense and I heard "Robert Gordon' and " Howdy Doody" interspersed in his idiotic discourse. I look like Howdy Doody?! That moron was too stupid to realize how close he came to a punch in the head. Howdy Doody time hippie! Thwack !

Another moronic comment directed our way is " Eee-eh". Not the Canadian "eh" as in " This is good beer, eh?". It is intended to be a Fonzie "eh". I'm not always sure how to take it, but I suspect that is always said with a certain amount of disdain. This what the perception of fifties culture has boiled down to in modern society; a TV character from the seventies that was a caricature at best.

I watched some reruns of that show, and it wasn't all that funny. The Fonz " jumped the shark" long ago. This refers to the episode where he actually jumped over a shark and became the expression became synonymous with TV shows going bad. If we wanted to split hairs, we could look at the inaccuracy of the Fonz persona, which seemed to me a lot more Disco than Greaser.

Firstly the hair was all wrong, it covered his ears and wasn't greasy. His leather jacket had no lapels like a motorcycle jacket and looked like cheesy Disco wear. The jeans were all wrong as well. Being way too tight to begin with, they were too pale. He didn't wear a belt and, horror of horrors, they were not cuffed ! They got the motorcycle right, which was a '49 Triumph, although that seems a poor choice for a sit-com set in Milwaukee where Harley Davidson is headquartered.

At least when someone says "Eee-eeh" to a Canadian greaser we can respond with the apt retort of "Take off, eh?!"

Some of us also have a fondness of western shirts. Some people will smirk and sarcastically ask . " Where's your horse". Even in Western Canada where horse culture thrives, if you can believe it. There is no real appropriate response for a comment that dumb, so I just let it slide. There is one interesting advantage to wearing fancy western shirts: door staff, bouncers and bar owners ALWAYS assume that you are with the band. The benefit is that you never wait in line, are never charged cover, good for a few free drinks and chicks dig it. They don't need to know that I'm not in this particular band.

When the cold weather hits a warm jacket is required. A good choice as I had mentioned, is the leather perfecto jacket. This classic motorcycle jacket popularized by Marlon Brando is a good way to keep warm while still maintaining your cool. Many people will automatically assume that we ride motorcycles. I am often asked what I'm riding and always derive pleasure at seeing the expression on people's face when I point to a bicycle. Cops also seem to indulge in that misconception as well. Outdated as their perception may be, they still seem to have this antiquated belief that bad guys wear motorcycle jackets. Musicians wear motorcycle jackets, bad guys wear those ugly-ass glittery shirts and hats.

It is difficult to understands why people perceive certain things in certain ways, but I suspect that pop culture has a lot to do with it. Me and my greasy buddies just enjoy being greasy and that's it. There are only two exceptions to the rule, when you have to de-grease as it were: job interviews and appearing before a judge. You have to de-pomp your hair and borrow a "normal" shirt.Yikes!

That to me is truly frightening. That is a greaser's Halloween, way more scary than the real thing.

Frozen Grease.

2011-10-11T12:22:00.000-07:00

Most people reading this are probably aware that I am based in Vancouver BC, which more or less Canada's answer to Seattle. Even though it rains a lot, it rarely gets below freezing. As for the rest of Canada, I can safely assure anybody reading this in the US, or anywhere else in the world, that the cliches are all true; it is fucking cold up here ( and yes, we occasionally intersperse our conversations with "eh").

If you are in Minnesota or Finland, you may relate to what I am talking about. The skin-numbing, ball-shrinking, bone chilling cold that feels like a switchblade in the back. A large section of the world's population live in this type of climate and have acclimatized themselves to it. Unfortunately this a horrible environment for greasers. Even proselytizing hippies, drunken cougars trying to touch our hair or lack of a decent supply of hair grease ( hard to get good grease in Canada) aren't close to what cold weather does to cramp our style.

I speak from experience, as I am originally from eastern Canada where the cold could freeze your very soul, hence my relocation to the west coast. The harrowing experiences that I had were enough to deter even the heartiest of greasers to leave their house for 6 months . Let me explain.

1. The Tony Lama Paradox.

I used to have a fondness for Tony Lama boots that were so pointy, that I could kick a cockroach in the eyeball. I liked the exotic skins, and had a particular fondness for Iguana or any other reptile skin. Cool as they may have looked indoors, these were a poor choice for cold weather. It was like walking barefoot, as these paper thin excuses for warm boots would let the cold freeze your toes within five minutes. The leather soles were slick enough in warm weather, but when frozen to temperatures of 30 below the friction co-efficient of walking on snow or ice would be negative. That means that you end up on you ass as soon as you set foot out the door.

By fall on your ass, I mean the passage of time would cease to exist, judging by the speed at which you fell. I use ass metaphorically because you would invariably fall on your face. I have the stitches on my eyebrow to prove it. Nothing will blow your cool like falling flat onto your forehead and hurry home as blood drips in the snow.

You don't even think of wearing Converse is this kind of weather. Unless you enjoy getting gangrene and having a few few toes amputated.

2. What The Hell is Snow For ?

All my friends in the South don't really understand what the fuss is all about, but my Canadian friends know all too well what I mean. You get up in the morning and look out the window. There is literally 5 feet of snow. There is a slight hump in front of your house; that is your car.

Wet snow weighs more than cement, but you still have to dig your car out. This is a great way to discover what an actual heart attack feels like.

Once you car emerges from the avalanche that has engulfed it, you pray to whatever gods you may believe in because your battery has one shot to start the car. At 30 below it is at 5% of its capacity. Never mind the math, Celsius or Fahrenheit , 30 below is unbelievably fucking cold. All your vehicles fluids are like molasses at these extreme temperatures and the experience of sitting on a frozen vinyl seat initiates some rather extreme testicular activity.

There always seems a few people driving around too oblivious, lazy or stupid to care that they have three feet of snow on the roof of their car. As they accelerate, they create a mini-blizzard in their wake blinding drivers unlucky enough to be following them. The cops can't chase them; their car is stuck in a snow bank.

Snow has a few useful functions however. It is the perfect beer cooler. You can jam 96 beers in the snowbank that is on your balcony or backyard. It holds them perfectly and keeps them at the right temperature. Some beers do go missing. This manifests itself in Spring, when the snow banks begin to thaw and recede, revealing lost beers, hundreds of piles of dog shit, and once every few years, a couple of frozen crackheads.

3. Stone Cold Pomp.

Cold weather's effect on a pomp is twofold: Once you get your pomp just right, all you have to do is step outdoors and the cold will immediately lock it into place, but you will pay the price with frostbitten ears.

In Canada we have these caps called toques ( pronounced tukes). Some have a huge pom-pom sewn on the apex ( I don't know why). While these are ok for small children to wear as they build snowmen, nothing says retard like wearing a toque. Menetal aptients and hippies are fond of these, although many hippies prefer those pretentious Peruvian wool caps with the two strings ( these closely resemble what the human cannonball at the circus wears).

It is a given that nothing wreaks havoc on a pomp like a tight woolen cap. This why you see greasers scurrying about in winter with their hands covering their ears. Also, their ass is mighty cold, because they don't like long underwear.

A note of caution for selecting the right hair product for extreme weather, it might look good frozen, but once you arrive at the bar it may start to melt and you will end up looking like some sort of Emo goof. Carry spare grease.

4. Don't Even Think About It.

There are some things that should not even be considered in snow and cold weather. Bike riding comes to mind. You will still see some of the more psycho bike messengers doing it anyway. These two wheeled hippies are not usually known for possessing sound judgment, and seeing them lurch about in a snowstorm attempting to follow tracks left by cars in the snow just proves it.

Outdoor shows just ain't gonna happen. Never mind try play a fretboard on a guitar at 30 below, just exposing the guitar to the cold air would make it shatter into hundreds of pieces. The singer would be in a coma after 5 minutes of inhaling copious amounts of Arctic air and it would be pointless, because the only audience that you would have would be snowbanks and a few pigeons. The bike messengers wouldn't be there, the would be too busy trying to show how hard core they were.

It is inevitable that on some drunken walk home you will need to pee. While writing your name in the snow can be fun , it should not be attempted at really cold temperatures. 10 below means hurry up, twenty below means you better find a gas station quick, or suffer the consequences ( better learn to sing soprano).

Ok, so you live in SoCal and you have a cool hot rod with an exposed engine, no side windows, no wipers and no heater, that's great for California, but up here we commonly refer to those as Ski-Doo's. The only difference is that you have to wear a special thermal snowmobile suit, heated socks and carry a large bottle of Brandy.

5. Why ?

So why do we do it? Why do we choose live in a place that freezing half the year? I don't know precisely, but it makes you appreciate a few things. There is nothing like arriving at a bar and feeling its warm embrace and ordering a couple of beers and a whiskey. Maybe we enjoy driving big ass four by fours and plowing through snowbanks. Maybe some of us derive pleasure from watching people fall on their ass. Perhaps we get a few more days off, because calling your boss to tell him you're snowed in is a plausible excuse.

All those reasons aside, I suspect that there is one factor that motivates us above all else: Canadian beer.

The Monkey Speaks His Mind

2011-09-24T13:15:00.000-07:00

It has been scientifically proven that chimpanzees share 98% of their DNA with us. While highly intelligent, chimps have their limitations. Some freakos even like to dress some poor unsuspecting chimp in people clothes in a misguided ( and possibly drug influenced) attempt at anthropomorphizing these critters.

Who doesn't love monkeys though? Their antics at the zoo or on talk shows are always highly entertaining. People will bring their kids to the zoo and point at the monkeys all the while thinking "stupid monkeys". These people are subconsciously smug about the innate superiority of the human race over our simian cousins. Casual observation of people in general over the years causes me to question this genetic superiority. As I observe certain behavior, I often ask myself what differentiates some people from monkeys. Armed with superior intellect and opposable thumbs, some people partake in activities that seem to require no more than the intellect of a monkey. Let me elaborate.

1. Bongos and Drum Circles.

Not everyone is endowed with the gift of natural rhythm but that doesn't stop hippies and various other freaks from bangin' on bongos. As I have stated on many occasions, they seem to naturally gravitate to these instruments because no training whatsoever is required to play them. They are only too happy to indulge in this arrhythmic cacophony for hours on end, and are rarely able to duplicate the same beat. Chimps are often seen doing the very same thing. They will bang on logs as they sit in a circle and happily shriek. They are just as hairy as your average hippie and have roughly the same amount of fleas on their bodies. The chimps have at least enough sense to groom each other and pick the fleas out and they never mooch bananas from other chimps; they get their own damn bananas.

2. Chimp-mobile.

Years ago, circuses used to train chimps to drive around little tiny cars. They would ram into to each and shriek at the other chimps. They would sometimes eat bananas as they drove, which would subsequently cause even more crashes and shrieking. Sometimes the cars would flip over but the chimps didn't know what to do . Sometimes one chimp-mobile would roll right over top another one right over the other chimp's head. More shrieking would ensue and sometimes a vicious monkey brawl would break out. Then the clowns with the enormous feet would have to step in to break it up. Now substitute banana for cel phone. That is how a lot of humans drive.

3. Incoming !

Monkeys don't take shit. They just toss it. When they are tired of spectators gawking at them at the zoo, they will just toss a big hunk of their own feces, everybody gets grossed out and promptly leaves. Problem solved, now the monkey can get some peace and quiet, Even in the jungle, when other monkeys start getting on one particular monkey's nerves, he will toss shit at them and they will stop bothering him.

Humans, civilized as they are, do not go around tossing shit. Instead they go about talking shit. In my previous post post, I discussed the energy sucking vampires that assault you with a verbal barrage of shit. That's pretty shitty, but it gets worst. Some humans love to talk about how great they are. Others like to drop names or exotic locations that they have visited. Others love to overindulge in conspiracy theories. They are all talking shit and are also full of shit. I sometimes wish I was more like a monkey and could throw my own feces at these shit talkin' retards. Problem solved.

4.Downtown Saturday Night.

It's Saturday night and as the sun goes down, there are the sounds of drums beating in the distance. There is shrieking and chest pounding. There is the ingestion of fermented bananas and subsequent vomiting. Many monkey-fights erupt , sometimes causing fur to fly. There is wanton peeing in all the dark corners and sometimes even fornication. Much bigger monkeys are called in to quell the mayhem. An average Saturday night in the Jungle. No, just an average Saturday night downtown in the club district.

This city's administration, in their infinite wisdom, decide to create a so-called " entertainment zone" downtown where all the clubs are jammed together in a five block strip. The ensuing mayhem that I have described is what happens on any given weekend. When the clubs close and all the drunken clubbers pour out into the streets simultaneously. It's less like a chimp argument and more like a brawl in a large baboon community. Some of the female baboons even expose their ass. The only difference is that baboons don't drink booze and the humans have nicer shirts. Baboons have an alpha male and he usually puts an end to it all with a lot of biting and hitting with a large branch. We have cops and paddy wagons, which usually fixes the situation. Until next Saturday.

5. The Night Bus.

This loser cruiser is one of the craziest and sometimes most dangerous rides around. It scoops up all the left over drunks from downtown and skid row and crams them all together on one bus. Picture , if you will, cramming 150 chimps in a rolling box and shutting the door. The lurching motion of the bus would jostle the monkeys around until they reached a state of frenzy and started gouging each others eyes out. The shrieking could be heard for miles around as the monkeys get more and more agitated. Being monkeys, they don't know where they are or what their stop is and will just stay on the bus until some other monkey throws them off the bus.

Sometimes the big monkey driving the bus will just leave it at the bus stop and run away. The monkeys will be confused and wonder why the box has stopped moving, until it dawns on them that they will have to walk.The stagger off the bus still not knowing where they are and wander off into the night. Moral of the story: always have twenty bucks for a cab.

6. The Famous Monkey.

I am fairly certain that monkeys don't have celebrities or teen idols, just big ass monkeys that can kick other monkey's assess and that's about it. If they did have a famous monkey teen idol , I can guarantee that his monkey fans would be a lot more civilized and way quieter than a bunch of teenage girls heading to Justin Bieber concert. I experienced that first hand a while ago, and I was scared.

7. The Sale.

I was once hired as a bouncer on Boxing day in a clothing store that catered to fashion victims. Once the doors were flung open it was a truly frightening sight as people tore through the piles of clothing and tossed them about. Monkeys don't have behavior that even closely resembles what I saw that day. It seemed more like what would happen if a monkey fell into a river infested with piranhas. He would be ripped to shreds in a matter of seconds, leaving behind nothing but bones.

Pretty sure monkeys wouldn't wait outside Future Shop in the cold for 24 hours to save 50 bucks on plasma tv on Boxing day either.

8. Monkey See Monkey Do.

All chimps are pretty much the same. They don't seem to know the difference, nor do they care.It's just a good way for them to know the difference between themselves and,say, an orangutan. This avoids embarrassing encounters or getting hit in the head with a coconut.

Hipsters, on the other hands don't have an excuse. They think of themselves as so individualistic, yet they all look exactly alike. This what makes them easy to identify and almost begs our contempt. With their ridiculous ironic mustaches, cartoon sunglasses and demented fixie bikes they seem oblivious to the fact that they are perceived as idiots.

They are fond of throwing parties and cramming 100 people into their tiny basement suites. The noise levels rise as they try to outdo each other in pretentious pronouncements. Around midnite, after the many cans of PBR kick in, the very loud hipster party sounds like a bunch of hyenas misquoting Charles Bukowski with a nasal intonation and slight lisp.

Even monkeys have more sense.

A Punch In The Face

2011-09-19T14:15:00.000-07:00

Whut r you lookin' at?

I think that most dudes reading this have, at one time or another, been on the receiving end of a punch in the face ( hey, maybe even some tough chicks have as well). Some of them hurt more than others depending on the assailant's skill, level of inebriation or just plain luck. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but either way you have defended yourself.

It seems to me that there are aural, visual and olfactory equivalents to a punch in the face and there seems to be very little that we can do about it. Even an actual punch in the face wouldn't solve the problem. These all too common assaults on the senses are virtually everywhere and it takes a lot of tact and social skill to avoid confrontation. Here's an overview.

1. Man Toes.

Nobody in the history of civilization ever needed to look at a man's toes. Ever. When I see dudes walking around in public wearing flip flops, other than the fact that I throw up in my mouth a little, it has the same effect as a punch in the face, except it's in my eyeballs.

Too make this visual assault even more ridiculous, some dudes sport their flip flops during winter in this town. Not unlike a car crash or a puddle of puke on the sidewalk, we are somehow compelled to look at this abomination. Sandals with socks are the equivalent of a sucker punch; it doesn't hurt as much, but it pisses you off way more. Men! Get shoes!

2. Too Much Perfume.

Even though this mainly applies to women, some dudes are guilty of the same. This often found in office environments or lingering for hours in elevators. I wonder what motivates someone to completely douse themselves with (sometimes very expensive) perfume. Those who have experienced this first hand will now what I mean. It usually hits you about 60 seconds after the person has walked by. You can almost physically sense the wafting saccharine wave as it overwhelms your nose and goes straight to your brain. In my case, it produces anger. The difference with a punch in the face is that it only hurts for a few seconds, the perfume barrage is the pain that keeps on giving.

I also find it hard to look these people straight in the eye, because I cannot take them seriously. Common sense seems to elude them, as well as the fact that so much excessive odor is exactly the same as smelling a steaming pile of shit.

The same applies to hippie morons who douse themselves with patchouli oil. This is even more offensive, because they are doing it in some misguided attempt at making a statement. Since hippies have no jobs, they will rarely be found in office towers, so you are safe as long as you are downwind.

3. Shut up. Shut up right now.

There are many people out there too willing to talk their fool heads off and subsequently your ears. It seems that the stupider or crazier that they are, the more nonsense they are able to spout. Not to over- employ scatological references, but this is less like a punch in the face and more like a big pile of shit thrown at your face.

Yet another personality type oblivious to their own demeanor and surroundings, these froot loops have the ability to yak away for hours on end, in what sometimes feels like one long run-on sentence.

They are clueless to body language and fail to see when the urge to punch them in the face arises from the person that they confronting. I suspect that they would keep yakking though.

I build custom bicycles for fun, then I like to ride them and drink beer, ride some more and have more beer. I like to chill by the water, but it rarely happens because every two-wheeled nutbar automatically assumes that there is some sort of tacit kinship between us. They usually know fuck all about bikes, but are content to blather incessantly. They ask questions but rarely want to hear the answer. Like all other wackos, the basic principles of physics is beyond their grasp, and explanations of basic geometry just wither in the wind. There has to be pot linked to this somehow.

The same applies to my musician friends who always have an endless parade of music freako-s and self-proclaimed musical "experts" following them around. They yak, yammer, spaz out and sometimes inadvertently spit in the faces of the musicians that they are harassing. They pretty much do everything, except actually listen to music.

4. Bad Music.

Being subject to music that you don't want to hear, or worse, shitty music, is the aural equivalent of a punch in the face. It's funny that way, when you are checking out a band that you really like or cranking your stereo at home, it's never loud enough. Some shitty busker with a 10 watt pignose amp is pure torture.

Sometimes the visual combination can be even worse. Being forced to endure some ineptly played hippie music is bad enough, but having to watch these idiots do it is unendurable. The ratty sweaters and twenty scarves that are worn with arch-significance and the smug expressions meant to convey that they are playing something "meaningful, man" really do feel like a punch in the face.

Poetry slams. Now poetry slams really make me mad. Any mediocre pot-addled idiot who can say random words interlaced with grunts into a microphone thinks of his or herself as a true poet. The truth of the matter is that poetry slams aren't really a simile for a punch in the face; They are much close to what a kick in the balls feels like.

5. Computers.

I am obviously not averse to computers per se, I am using one right now. I am using a Mac which makes things a lot less frustrating, but it is still a challenge. People like myself who are from the analog era find trying to do anything but the most basic tasks challenging to say the least. If you happen to be using a PC then the problems that can arise multiply tenfold. Things inexplicably freeze up, stuff is incompatible with other stuff, and attempting to do something as simple as looking at pictures can be more daunting than reading assembly instructions that were translated verbatim from a foreign language.

Every frustrating experience on a computer is a punch in the face, and as I have found out through empirical research, computers are themselves impervious to punches. We are inextricably linked with computers forever, so it looks like I will be getting several punches in the face every single day.

6. Hot Sauce.

I love hot sauce, the hotter the better. I often wonder why I do this to myself, I can't help it. Yeah sure, it feels like a punch in the face, but it's as if it was a really hot naked woman doing the punching. It only hurts a little, but it was worth it.

7. Bagpipes.

I love the sound of bagpipes. I don't have a drop of Scottish blood in me, but their tone is something that I enjoy immensely, so much so that I often attend Highland games. What I really enjoy though, is watching the reactions of people who don't like bagpipes (which is most people). It literally looks like they have just received a punch in the face, been bitten by a pit bull, are constipated or all three. Hi-larious.

8.My Hair.

To a greaser, the ultimate insult is some drunken fool attempting to touch his hair. This is often attempted by drunken cougars for some inexplicable reason. I'm not sure what they think they will accomplish or what information they will garner from this futile act, but rest assured; for a greaser, that is the ultimate punch in the face.

The Sounds of Rockabilly

2011-09-10T12:02:00.000-07:00

As I aimlessly roamed the alley behind my place clutching a beer and scarin' the neighbors, a very distinct sound caught my attention. It produced a Pavlovian response as I realized that the clear ping sound was that of a tool being dropped on a concrete floor. I followed the sound to a nearby garage where one of my neighbors was working on his '63 Buick Kustom.

This made me understand the power of sound and the emotions and memories that it can trigger and caused me to ask myself, " does Rockabilly have a sound?" The rhetorical answer was a resounding " hell yeah". There are proprietary sounds associated with the culture and the lifestyle and I will try to describe them.

1. Ping.

That's the sound of tools when someone is working on a hot rod. It is always followed by multiple pings as the hot rodder's level of frustration increase causes him (or her) to throw said tools around the garage. This is usually followed by a string of epithets or guttural shouts. It is always, without exception, followed by a 'pfft" which is the sound of a beer can being opened.

2. Pfft.

As I just mentioned , that is the satisfying sound of a beer being cracked and will usually attract greasers from miles around . The hearing ability of greaser to hear a PBR being opened rivals that of any dog's high frequency abilities. The greasers will hone in on the epicenter of these sounds and many, many "pffts" will follow.

Another associated sound will be "aaww" which is the exhortation of the unlucky greaser that has been elected to do a beer run. As the " pffts" continue on into the night the malodorous consequences of drinking lots of beers will manifest itself with many rude sounds such as very loud belches and other bodily emanations.

The only sound that will not be produced is the sound of an engine coming to life, because no actual work got done.

3. Mwenk!

That is the annoying sound of an ATM announcing to the world that you are broke. I hate that sound. Everybody in line behind you smirks as that ridiculous machine seems to take perverse pleasure in going "mwenk!'. Hot rodders and guitar players are all too familiar with that disheartening sound and the average greaser who partied like an animal on the weekend is bound to hear it early Monday morning.

This is sometimes followed by a sound that it remarkably similar to a campfire - that would be the sound of your credit cards beginning spontaneous combustion.

4. Splork

That is the satisfying sound of two fingers dipping onto a fresh can of hair grease. The one hour of preening and greasy fingerprints in the bathroom mirror seem to produce another type of high pitched sound as the said greaser's girlfriend or wife gets a load of this greasy mess.

Either way, when the hair is finally done, the anticipation of good times that night might cause more than a few "yee-haws".

Sometimes " Doh!" can be the result as someone attempts to ride a bike with greasy hands and they keep slipping off the grips or maybe repeatedly dropping their beer, as the inevitable laws of physics kick in and friction is reduced to zero.

5. Bweee-eee

This sound is usually heard inside a greaser's head the day after having attended a show that featured a really loud band(Dick Dale comes to mind). The greasers' machismo will cause them to declare "I don't need no damn ear plugs" or " If it's too loud your too old."

There won't be much conversation that day because he will see people's lips moving but all he will hear is " bweee-eee!" followed by a constant stream of "huh?" Best to avoid areas where there is lots of traffic for the rest of the day.

6. Thwoong.

This the sound of a guitar being dropped after when guitar players imbibe way too much Jack during a show. Coincidentally it is exactly the same sound a guitar makes after hitting some idiot in the head who has been yelling " Skynyrd!!" the whole night.

7. Grrr-rrr

The involuntary growling that greasers produce when they hear bongos being played, see hipsters strutting defiantly towards them, see hippies in outrageous clothing or get a whiff of patchouli. In my case the said odor of patchouli always causes me to me to say "fucking idiot" out loud.

8. Krunch.

That is usually the sound of a transmission breathing its last breath or a differential that has just shattered into a million pieces. This will soon be followed by many "mwenks" at the ATM. The only other sound that will be heard inside the car is a very quiet "uh-oh."

9. Doh!

This has nothing to do with Rockabilly, but cracks me up nevertheless. It is the sound of uncoordinated morons who fall off their bikes or smack into trees. It's just funny, that's all.

10. Faaa-aaak.

This is the barely perceptible sound that greasers utter when a really hot women walks by. It is precisely the same sound that occurs when a really cool car rolls by. The same exact sound, go figure.

11. Clompity-clomp

This sounds rather like a small herd of buffalo. It is usually produced when even an allusion to free beer is mentioned. It also similar to the sound made by the neighbors as they bang on the ceiling with a broom stick at 4 am.

A series of reverse " clompity-clomps' will then occur as 40 drunken greasers stumble down the stairs and attempt to remember where they live.

"Clompity clomp" at double the regular tempo and leading in the opposite direction usually means that the cops are on the way. Woe to the greaser who can't keep up, because he might just hear "Vlump" within the next few days- that is the sound of soap being dropped in a shower.

12. Chunk-a-chunka

That is the sound a twenty or so greasers being whipped into a frenzy by a band which causes them to play invisible upright basses. Safer than moshing and a whole lot quieter.

13. Sqwank-sqwink.

That is the sound of a leather jacket when you are moving around. It can be annoying because dogs can hear this sound. It also seems to convince drunken assholes that this a signal to start a fight. Convenience store employees seem to get nervous around this sound for some reason. Cops don't seem to take too kindly to it either. It also makes it very hard to skulk about at 4 am and not wake up the wife. This might be followed by the sounds of crickets.

14. Ow- eh?

This the sound that Canadian greasers produce after a night of drinking. " Let's go to the bar. eh" "Gimme another beer, eh" , "Jack Daniels shooters, great idea, eh?" , " Call me a cab, eh", " the room is spinning, eh", " What a hangover. Ow, eh"

15. Yep

That's what we mutter to ourselves after a bit of introspection causes us to realise how fortunate we are. We don't live the mind-numbing, soul destroying lifestyle of the squares and even though there are certain rules of society that we are compelled to follow, it is intensely satisfying to make one's own way in life. Now if only I didn't hear so many of those damn "Mwenks!"

Point A to Point B

2011-09-02T13:25:00.000-07:00

Not everyone is fortunate enough to own a hot rod. In my case my preponderance for all things beer related make my transportation choice of really low chopper bicycles a logical one. Even in an advanced state of inebriation, the low center of gravity ensures that I get home safely. The lack of engine and license plates usually assures that I will not attract any kind of attention from those damn federales.

I also just don't have the patience to be fucking around with internal combustion engines. Every one of my hot rod buddies throws at least one over-the-top fit a week. High blood pressure, uncontrollable fits of rage, flying tools, busted knuckles and empty bank account. I think I'll just stick to booze and bikes, less complicated, less stressful.

That said however, everyone needs to get somewhere. We all need some sort of mode of conveyance to get us from point A to Point B. We need to get to work, carry tools, get groceries, abandon the kids somewhere very far from home or maybe make a real quick getaway if we just happened to have robbed a bank.

Most people find that a regular car or pick up truck will serve their needs well. People who work in large cities sometimes prefer public transportation due to downtown congestion and high cost of parking. Urban dwellers who are fortunate enough to live in temperate climates sometimes choose to bike to work if it's close enough.

Sounds fairly straightforward, logical and efficient. Think again. Wherever there are sensible solutions and instances where common sense should prevail, rest assured that are throngs of idiots and douchebags who cannot grasp these concepts or consciously go against them in some misguided attempt at rebellion.

Vancouver, being a quintessential West Coast city, has a higher percentage of hippies, weirdos and just plain fucking idiots. Their lack of intelligence, ability to make good decisions, sometimes lack of hygiene and sometimes sense of self-entitlement cause them to make truly mind-boggling choices for transportation. Let me elaborate.

1. Public Transportation.

I have covered my adventures on the proletariat chariot in an earlier post , but I want to reiterate my absolute disdain of buses. It's not that the system in this town is inefficient, it's the yahoos on the inside of the bus. I've ridden buses in Vegas, New York, Boston, Montreal, Edmonton and Toronto and let me assure that this is the worst . Every filthy bum and messed up crack head mooches free rides and always want to engage me in some sort of demented bum conversation, I've been threatened (almost smashing my guitar in the process), broken up fights, listened to many loud pointless conversations and smelled odors that no human should ever have to smell. In the evening certain bus routes become rolling drunk tanks. Everybody is drinkin' right there on the bus, most are hammered and they are havin' a grand ole time; all at ear splitting levels nearing 130 dB. Better off walking.

2. Roller Blades.

I wonder when roller blades became an acceptable form of transportation. In the fifties , these were called roller skates and had four wheels like a car. Some steroid filled sports freak (albeit probably a rich one by now) decided to put the four wheels in line.

Some people arrived at the conclusion that it was a good idea to go to and from work with these, completely oblivious to the fact that a) they are slow as shit, b) they are dangerous and c) you will look absolutely ridiculous.

There should probably be some new by laws created preventing sports shops for EVER renting roller blades to tourists. Yeah sure it's amusing to see the people lurching about and act like a spaz, but their total lack of motor skills makes them a public hazard. Also you can look at morons spazzing out for only so long before getting angry. Get the hell outta my way.

3. Shopping Cart Convoys.

Many bums and crackheads are content to simply ride around their stolen bicycles. Some of the more clever ones have managed to steal one of those kiddie trailers so they can go around stealing even more shit.

Then you have the bums who have their trusty shopping carts. You can hear the ubiquitous and very annoying sound of hard rubber wheels on pavement, and junk rattling around in a metal frame in every alley. Some bums have convoys of three or four lashed together like a miniature freight train laden with crap, stolen crap, crap they stole from you and empty beer cans. This is why the proverbial bum fights occur, beer cans.

One particular recycling place is at the top of a rather steep hill. Once the bums have sold the cans they are in a mad rush to get some crack, so they ride the shopping cart down the hill. They get on the back of it and drag one foot as a rudimentary brake. They are determined, so they usually blow right through stop signs. To paraphrase the Darwin Awards, they are improving the gene pool by removing themselves from it.

4. Art Cars.

I wonder if you have these " works of art" in your town, The art of the art car is to glue as much shit onto it as humanly possible. This field of endeavor is usually the domain of crazed hippies who have no metal fabrication skills or mechanical aptitude whatsoever. Like all hippie projects, these eyesores lack any style, planning or any type of design. Bits of plastic and junk are haphazardly glued on and you gots yerself some art.

This type of affront to cooler sensibilities and general aesthetics is illegal in many states and provinces. In Texas these things actually draw gunfire.

5. Dumb Bikes.

Once again, the hippie type of circular logic comes into play. It seems however that some of stupidest ideas that hippies have ( and there are plenty let me assure you) always seem to revolve around bikes.

It is not to say that only hippies have dumb two wheel concepts, I question the reasoning and logic behind riding a $ 5000 road bike in full spandex regalia 3 miles to an office job. Only a hippie however would think it's a good idea to ride a unicycle as a primary means of transportation. I hear circus music in my head every time I see one. Same goes for those tiny folding bikes.

I have discussed fixed gear bicycles in this forum many times. Hippies and hipsters alike are fond of these contraptions that have no freewheel ( they pedal forward as well as backward) and no brakes. It's always amusing to see these fashion victims attempt to stop if they get cut off as the bike careens back and forth as they attempt to "stop" by pedaling backwards.

The real hard core hippies, whose lack of ambition is only matched by their lack of skill, are fond of crappy old mountain bikes. They will often get a few cans of different colored fluorescent spray paint and " paint" them. There is far to much labor involved in disassembling a bike so they usually just paint the whole thing. Chain, pedals tires; everything. Some of the craftier ones like to put macrame in the wheels, this increases the annoyance factor and in their delusional minds, is a way of stickin' to the man.

By far, the dumbest, most illogical form of hippie transportation is what they fondly call the tall bike.( dig them crazy hippie pants!). The first person who ever decided to modify (chop) a motorcycle, and subsequently a bicycle, instinctively knew that you go back, forth and then down, not up. Hippies where never able to figure this out.

They somehow manage to find some hippie dude who actually knows how to weld . They will bring him a few old bike frames and he will cheese them together one on top of another. All the other hippies will be impressed.

People often criticize me for my excessive hippie tirades, but this speaks for itself. Who else but a hippie would think that's it's a good idea to ride a bike that is 8 or 10 feet tall. Considerations such as stopping or maybe getting off the bike are no obstacles to the hippies' desire to own one of these foolish contraptions. The reason they ride is because they actually think these things are cool, but they might as well be carrying a very tall sign that says very clearly in block letters " I"m a fucking idiot, and I want the whole world to know it". Enjoy your trip to the hospital hippie ( at least you will be forced to bathe).

6. Green Machine.

As I have mentioned in the past hippies have always had and , still to this day have, a natural affinity for VW micro buses. They still manage to find these pieces of shit in running condition. They will get the old spray bombs out and proceed to paint crude rainbows on the side, but they will always be searching in vain for parts and guys that know how to fix them.

These vehicle were a bad idea right from the moment of conception. A big metal box powered by a 60 hp air-cooled engine. Hippies just seem to embrace bad ideas, and along with bad musical choices, this car seems like a great idea.

What completely eludes them however is the lack of a catalytic converter or any type of anti-pollution devices spews black smoke straight out of the exhaust pipe. With all their green posturing and organic dogma the most basic fact is not anywhere near their grasp. These shitboxes spew out more toxic fumes than a couple of Peterbilts combined.

7. Really Big Ass 4x4's

It's not that I have anything against these behemoths. I'm a red-blooded dude and these trucks just quicken my pulse. It's impressive to see these things up close. All the heavy-duty suspension parts, quadruple shock absorbers and massive tires just reek of testosterone. It's just that I wonder what they are doing on the street. Unless you are running the Baja 500 it's more or less pointless to be cruising down the boulevard. Adding to the confusion is that some of these have very expensive paint jobs, so it would be madness to take them off-roading in the bush. But then again........ this is starting to hurt my brain dammit.

Maybe they just drive these things knowing that they will never get a parking ticket because the parking enforcement dude can't get to the windshield. Or maybe not unlike myself, they like to scare hippies.

Happy motoring and as for myself, I think I'll just get on my bike and get some beers, cuz I sure as hell ain't walkin'

More Shit That Makes Me Mad

2011-08-24T16:56:00.000-07:00

There is a tired old cliche that has been going around for years that states don't sweat the small stuff. In my experience, it's ALL small stuff. It's the culmination of minor irritants and daily bullshit that one has to deal with that adds up to a big ball of shit that is greater than the sum of its parts.

Some people would argue that things such as politics, the world economy and foreign dictators are more worthy subjects of discussion. That may be so, but I find it difficult to give a damn about stuff that I can't change or have any effect on whatsoever. The stinky hippie or loud-mouth retard in my immediate vicinity however, I can do do something about in no uncertain terms. Here's a few random thoughts that are a follow up to one of my earlier posts entitled " Shit That Makes Me Mad".

1. Damned Wind

In my opinion, few things will make you look as inept, or possibly demented as attempting to read a newspaper on a windy day. Try reading a broadsheet paper and the futility will be increased twofold. I'm not sure why I repeatedly do this. Einstein once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

As I sit on the patio of a coffee shop, passers-by must be amused at my mounting anger. Flailing about with the recalcitrant paper flapping in the wind accompanied by vehement exclamations of " Jee-zus Christ!" might be comical, but dang, nothin' will ruin your cool like a public display of this type.

I usually end up with a strong desire to punch the paper or the wind, or both. I just usually give up in disgust as the unread newspaper ends up in a big crumpled ball.

2. You Know What You Should Do?

Yes. Yes I do. Any phrase that begins with that rhetorical question, I can almost guarantee that I don't want to hear. The reason I don't wanna hear it is because whatever lame advice may follow it just serves to infuriate me even more. I also resent the fact that it seems to imply that I some sort of low IQ cretin who just can't seem to figure out the most basic of day to day tasks.

Sometimes it might be slightly more innocuous, such as times where you may find yourself out of work and well-meaning friends offer advice. It is however, just as irritating. It is hardly an earth shattering revelation to find out that the godamned Home Depot is hiring.

My hot rod building buddies will certainly relate to my next point. People who build custom stuff seemingly out of thin air already know what they should do. They have done it and there it sits in all its glory for the world to see. The offending comments always, without fail, are offered by freaks who couldn't build a sandwich, much less an entire car.

In my case, I build custom bicycles, and this seems to attract way more asocial weirdos. These demented bike enthusiasts seem to follow me wherever I go and are always enthusiastic about telling how I should have designed the frame completely differently or painted it a whole different color. Like most freaks, stoned-out hippies and fucked up crackheads, they are too caught up in their incoherent tirades to see how offensive it is and how angry I am getting. A more direct approach like telling them to build their own damned bike and then get back to me just falls on deaf ears. I'll move on to the next subject cuz I'm getting bent out of shape just thinking about this one.

3.Why Is Your Hair Like That?

No, I didn't get caught in a wind storm, it's supposed to be like that. It's all about Rockabilly and it's called a pomp. Like I have stated many times, I wish squares would quit bothering me and look it up on Wikipedia. I recently had a precocious five year old ask me the very same thing. I told her because I play Rock n Roll and the kid asked me to prove it. I got the guitar and played her a tune. She also said that I smelled funny, but I didn't feel like explaining about the beer in my hand nor about the ones that I had before.Cute kid, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I have witnessed a smart-ass in the making.

4.Tell Me More About Your Cat.

People actually do that, sometimes in excruciating detail. I have nothing against cats per se. I am presently babysitting Zorro the Rockabilly cat. He's all greasy on top cuz he spends a lot of time under cars and when the neighbor's cat wandered into the house, Zorro the Rockabilly cat sprung into action and the other cat fucked right off. Hey, wait a minute, that sounds like a lot of my friends. I digress, seriously, nobody wants to hear a half hour account of what a cat did today. Unless of course you scared the living shit out of a cat and made it jump 4 feet straight up, then I wanna hear about it.

5.The Color Pink.

I wonder what industrial accident ended up mixing red and white and creating that nauseating color called pink. Even the word is unpleasant to hear and I don't even want to utter it out loud. Yeah sure, Elvis wore some pink stuff in the fifties, but that doesn't make me like it any more. There is something about the color temperature of pink in the electromagnetic spectrum that has retina searing results. I saw one those Mary Kay pink Cadillacs rolling down the street and it was possibly the ugliest object in the history of civilization. The body shop that agreed to paint a once decent car this bilious shade should be painted pink itself and all its employees forced to wear pink.

I am not necessarily implying that it has effeminate connotations ( which it sorta does) I just think that this color should not exist. Some metrosexuals have taken to wearing pink clothing recently. I not sure what type of fashion statement they are trying to make, but man, that is just wrong (turn down that damned collar while you're at it).

I am no expert on parenting by any means, but some parents seem to enjoy saturating their girls with pink. Pink clothes, pink bedroom, pink fucking everything! There will be some very expensive therapy required about 15 years down the pike ( this is precisely why they don't paint rooms pink at lunatic asylums).

6.Tofu

How a quivering slab of pasty white bio-matter can trigger hunger in some people is unfathomable. It tastes even worse than it looks. For some it seems to be an assertion of some sort of moral superiority. They are somehow saving the planet ( and think are better than you in the process) by consuming this dietary equivalent of the spawn of satan. Even flies and cockroaches won't go near the stuff ( although in all fairness, the same applies to Big Macs).

Like sculpting clay, this slimy shit can be molded into all sorts of ersatz food formations. The hippies that came up with "tofurkey" must have smoked copious quntities of powerful pot or maybe consumed some hallucinogenics to come up with that one.

Someone once tried to slip me a tofu hot dog at a BBQ once. They laughed as I chewed this rubbery substance and found it impossible to swallow. Silly hippies, everybody knows that hot dogs are supposed to made of lips and assholes.

7.Whistlers

There are some people that whistle in public. I am perplexed by this. Can't they afford an I-pod or if they are that stupid, maybe a cassette Walkman? This is akin to the Chinese water torture.One of my neighbors does this as he does yard work. Classic rock being blared out of crappy speakers would be less annoying. Even insane people down at the nervous hospital have enough common sense to not do this for fear of inciting a large retard donnybrook.

Hipsters on fixie bikes have recently taken to whistling and will look at you to make sure that they have sufficiently annoyed you. As if they weren't annoying enough with their ridiculous pink bikes ( oh dang there's that word again) and their skinny jeans, they have given decent folks everywhere one more reason to want to punch them right in the ironic mustache.

8. First Day On The Job.

From the lowly laborer to the biggest hot shot executive, there are few things as uncomfortable as the first day on a new job. At this point, you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground and you get that what-the-hell-are-we-gonna-do-with-you kinda vibe.

It's almost like first grade all over again as you are shown around and introduced to your new co-workers. Greasers are usually well advised to keep the pomp altitude low and the grease sheen at low reflectivity for these first few days. Best to keep bad-ass tattoos out of view as well.

It can be daunting to see all the new procedures that you will have to learn and getting everybody's name straight. Not to worry however, you will soon fit right in ,know what to do and eventually realize that you hate 90% of your co-workers.

9. Lack of Beer.

This can be traumatizing for some and down right tragic for others. Nothing more depressing than a refrigerator without any beer inside. The refrigerator is sad, I can tell. Any greaser worth his salt however, never runs out of beer, so I will end on this note as I head to the beer store.

In The Bag

2011-08-14T15:45:00.000-07:00

Vikings most likely invented the bag. With their frequent outings to pillage and grab stuff, they needed something to put all their ill-gotten booty in, hence the invention of the bag. Over the following centuries bags became ubiquitous and almost indispensable. The now almost defunct brown bag was a good invention. You could put sandwiches in them, bank robbers would use them to carry big wads of cash, you could cut eye holes in them and act like retard or you could easily blow into them and pop them for a lowbrow attempt at humour.

The word "bag" has a nice crisp sound and its meaning is succinct. As a noun, it became useful for describing certain people or things in everyday parlance. The meanings are descriptive and vivid, although some maybe outdated, such as "Old Bag" which was usually reserved for a crazed neighbor who had 17 cats and always kept the balls that landed in her yard. Here's a few more.

1. Not My Bag, man. (always followed by man)

This expression is used exclusively by the modern day hippie. A throwback to the 60's, it has lingered on ( as did the insidious hippie culture) its meaning untainted and undiluted. Not my bag, man generally applies to work in general because hippies spend an inordinate amount of time trying to avoid it (as they do showers, common sense and coherent speaking). They also own many different types of bags to carry their shit in. They usually own one large hemp bag which is used to tote their bongos to various drum circles. They might also use the same bag to carry organic rocks back from the organic store. Others have even larger hemp bags that they use as clothing. It's cheaper than pants and is the ultimate hippie statement.

Hippies also have special large bags that are dedicated for the storage of weed. Like the perquisite bongo or didgeridoo, the hippie never leaves home without it. And by home, I mean the filthy shithole that he shares with 13 other unemployed hippies. The hippie might run out of tofu, but his weed bag never goes empty. When the phalanx of crusty hippies finally get evicted, they will pack their random possessions that were acquired from dumpsters and pack them into hundreds of plastic bags.

2. Dirt Bag

Usually reserved for various forms of lowlife type people. Low level crack dealers on BMX bikes are a good example. All the various dirt bags that they sell crack to are another. The one thing that they have in common is that have no compunctions about stealing your stuff. They will even steal each others' stuff and sell it over and over to each other. The crappy bikes that you see them riding around on have been stolen at least 6 times. Some of the classier dirtbags will use a portable bathroom called a shitbag, rather than going right there in the alley.

They are usually found downtown mooching change, getting free bus rides and engaging in the odd bum fight over the territorial rights of dumpsters. If you give them a smoke or a quarter they will eventually go away, but not after telling you some interminable pointless anecdote.

3. Scumbags.

Scumbags are more dangerous than dirtbags. These are the types of people that rob banks, kick dogs and constantly spit for no reason. Some dress in Tapout or Ed Hardy and usually look slightly inbred. Their low IQ makes them prone to violence. It's best to avoid contact with the scumbags unless your looking to fence a stolen car or score some crystal meth.

4. Douchebags.

Once the the purview of old ladies in Florida with skin like a catcher's mitt, this expression has recently made a comeback, Being dangerously close to being overused it can mean many things these days. A douchebag can run the gamut from someone stealing your last beer to someone selling military secrets to foreign governments.

Another variety are dudes in suits driving expensive cars while talking on a cel phone. They would think nothing of running over your dog or your grandma cuz they got shit to do, man! Should you confront them, they all seem to respond in the same manner. "Homo!" seems to be their battle cry. Should you exit your vehicle to get them to elaborate they usually fuck right off at top speed.

Other douchebags can be found at the local bar. They are the ones speaking the loudest and talkin' the most shit. This applies to both genders, but female douchebags can often be found downtown walking little tiny dogs in their yoga pants and their peroxide blond hair in a pony tail. They are oblivious to dirty looks, because, in their eyes, it is you who is the douchebag.

Other douchebags are fond of playing music. They can be found at any given jam or open mike hogging the stage. They sing badly and are prone to indulge in 25 minute guitar solos, completely unaware of the annoyance factor or even the right key to play in. The truly talentless ones with musical aspirations can usually be found at a karaoke night, but they don't really annoy anyone because they are surrounded by much bigger douchebags.

Two wheeled douchebags love to think of their bike-riding as some sort of moral manifesto. Their self-righteousness is often directed at other cyclists who don't wear helmets. They ride where they please and their sense of self-entitlement knows no bounds. Should you have the audacity to honk at them or hell, even ring your bicycle bell, you will automatically get the one finger salute, but being the true douchebags that they are, they will also take off real quick at the first sign that they about to be on the receiving end of a punch in the face. Funny that you don't see a lot them when it rains.

Wal-Mart douchebags are usually the white trash track pants wearing idiots who yell at all retail staff. I don't know if they're angry cuz they're buying crap of they're buying crap cuz they're angry, but they always seem to take it out on some poor unsuspecting minimum wage-earning cashier. They usually go back to whatever shithole they came from pretty quick, so they aren't around for too long. They will be back, though, cuz they're gonna need more crap.

There are so many different types of douchebags, that it would be difficult to compile in this list, but observe the world around you and you will see them.

5. The Bag

Predominantly a Canadian expression, it is a not so subtle reference to male anatomy. A threat to receive a kick in the bag is fightin' words up here, but is usually reserved for work, such " I worked my bag off". Often it in regard to menial work that was underpaid or something that you got roped into, like when your best buddy decides he needs to move on a hot July day. You will indeed work your bag off, but you will also sweat your bag off. Warm beer and slimy pizza are hardly worthy compensation for such Herculean tasks. (FYI, the female equivalent of a kick in the bag is a kick in the taco).

6. Shitbag.

As explained earlier on, a device which dirtbags and hobos employ for bathroom purposes, coincidentally it is also a device that douchebags with tiny little dogs employ ( the real douchy ones don't even bother to pick it up.

Shitbag is sometimes used to describe shabby surroundings. "This hippie Vegan restaurant is pretty shitbag". It more commonly used in the form of bag o' shit. Like after a night of hard drinkin' and partying you will wake up the next day feeling like a bag of shit. Or your friends may use it to describe your appearance when you have a bad cold or a black eye from a barroom brawl, " Man, you look like a bag o' shit!"

Sometimes it is used to describe someone's lack of intelligence. " That hippie is dumber than a bag o' shit." Hippies are pretty dumb, some dumber than a bag of hammers, but dumber than a bag o' shit takes it to an even deeper level of stupidity.

7. Half In The Bag.

This is probably not used often anymore, but it implies that you are only partially hammered. You will still be able to find your zipper and possibly not pee on the floor. You are not quite at the level of getting a slap in the face from some gal, but you ain't far from it. At this point the bouncer is eyeballin' you just in case.

8. Bag of Wine.

Usually the preferred choice of Wal-Mart douchebags and karaoke douchebags, this corrosive swill comes in a large aluminum bag with a spigot, and is enclosed in a box with a convenient carrying handle. As I have stated many times, I am no fan of wine and all the pretentious connotations associated with it, because a 2 dollar bottle and a 200 dollar bottle both taste like ass to me and get you just as hammered. However, nothin' says I have absolutely no fucking class as a bag of wine. Throw in some 100mm menthol cigarettes and some scratchy lotto tickets and the image is complete.

9. Bagpipes.

This list would not be complete without the inclusion of bagpipes. For some strange reason, I love bagpipes. Others do not. It evokes images of many cats having their tails pulled simultaneously.

As an instrument of of war, it must have terrified uncivilized barbarians. Today, they just seem to terrify regular folks. This amuses me though, because I enjoy watching people's disdain at the sound and their consternation at my enjoyment. It's as if they were watching a pirate drink a whole bottle of hot sauce and go " Yaa-aar". Take my advice and never drink whiskey with pipers, I came nigh to ruinin' me pantaloons.

I will sign off cuz I have to go to the liquor store to get some a beers.They will put them in a bag with the name of the store emblazoned on it. I might go down by the water and possibly get half in the bag. Hopefully the cops won't see me, cuz I might spend the night in the can.

48 Hours of Grease

2011-08-06T12:51:00.000-07:00

As I pondered the vast musical wasteland that is prevalent in our town when it pertains to Rockabilly, even my usual disdain of hippies was at its lowest ebb.

Bongos in the distance, stupid outfits, even stupider bikes and the overly ripe smell of unwashed hippies barely raised my ire as I pondered deeper greasy existentialism.

There just seemed to be a shortage of all things Rockabilly. Many US bands simply won't make the trek north of the border cuz them damn revenooers won't leave 'em alone. Canada Border Services just don't like the looks of tattoos, pomps and a bunch of greasers riding shotgun in a '78 Chevy van. Hell, them sumbitches don't even like the looks of me, and I live here.

A few of the cool car shows that used to happen have all gone by the wayside. There are still some car shows left, but keep in mind that there are many hosers here north of 49. How many jacked up '74 Plymouth Dusters or Chevy Novas with furry dashboards can you look at ?

In a strange twist of fate several things happened all at on once that renewed my faith and jump started my fervor for all things greasy.

The catalyst for all this revved up behavior was a book that I purchased. I highly recommend it.http://www.bookgasm.com/reviews/entertainment/rockabilly/. It is surprisingly detailed for an illustrated book. There are many cool pics and the layout is beautifully done. A lot of research went into this book because it touches on many aspects of the genre and delves into the obscure performers that are often forgotten. I could hear all the tunes in my head as I read this book. Unfortunately, I was sitting at my favorite Italian coffee shop at the time and they insist on blaring crappy music on their patio, which usually drowns out any cool music that may be floating around inside people's heads.

I went to the coffee shop, because I had attempted to read the book the previous evening while having a few cold ones on a patio, but had to stop after several beers. I kept reading and re-reading the same paragraph and was having a hard time assimilating the information. It was if I had suddenly become a retard and couldn't understand. I was starting to get funny looks, because I think that I began to read out loud in a semi-mumble.

I was still getting strange looks from passers-by at the coffee shop, and realized that they couldn't correlate two seemingly opposite images. A greaser reading a book was something that squares didn't think possible. Yeah it had a lot of pictures but there were a lot of whattya call them things......yeah...words.

Dang squares , yeah we can read books, although I must admit that I have a lot of friends who read nothing but shop manuals and wiring diagrams, but I digress.

After three espressos I was starting to get a little squirrely and realized that it was time to partake in the most revered of Rockabilly rituals;the haircut. Getting it just right can be a harrowing experience ( see earlier post called Greasy Hair Stories) but I had found the right place and this dude can cut a wicked DA ( duck ass for the uninitiated). My barber is actually a buddy of mine and digs Rockabilly so he cranked up some tunes when I showed up, much to the consternation of some of the other patrons. This place does both men and women so there a rather strange cross section of customers.

The place was abuzz, but it wasn't because of all the twanginess emanating from the dude section in the back. Everyone was getting all bent out of shape because a Hollywood actress was getting her hair done. I am always perplexed and sometimes annoyed when people act like demented basset hounds around stars ( it makes me understand the stars' point of view). They are just another person, no different than anyone else.

Turns out that I knew this certain Hollywood person's sisters. When my haircut was done. I went over to say howdy and then left. Meh...no big deal. As I shut the door on my way out I could still see some of the young girls in there acting more squirelly than me after 5 espressos.

It was OK though, I had that mild euphoria derived from having just gotten a fresh and damned greasy haircut. That's a great feeling, beer being a very close runner up. Very close to that satisfying moment earlier that day when I had been riding my bike and some hippie snidely asked where my helmet was. The look on his scruffy bearded face was priceless when I informed him that I left my bike helmet at his momma's place.

I had to get going cuz I was heading out to Squaresville to see a show. Good friend and guitar ace Paul Pigat was doing a show with his band Cousin Harley. There was some sort of arts festival and his band had been booked to play there. Only problem was this was deep in the heart if Squaresville. I decided to ride a bike there because it was the quickest option. I rode my bike a while to get to this floating loser cruiser called a Seabus. I made the 20 minute crossing while the tub was bobbing back and forth, and the funny looks were already starting.

I knew some shortcuts on the North Shore and started out on the half hour ride. I illegally cut through and Indian reserve and I heard something in back of me. I hauled ass as I realized that I was being chased by a pack of dogs. Man, nuthin' gets the ole adrenaline pumping like being chased by wild animals.

As I finally arrived at the stage where the band was playing people looked at me like I was a wild animal. Compared to them, maybe I was. The band had already started and oddly enough, everyone was seated in folding chairs. The heads kept turning in my direction as I tried to find a spot to stand, like security cameras tracking bad guys.

The band rocked out and people seemed to dig it, but the absolute lack of booze or pubs was making me a little loco. Paul's girlfriend had wisely packed some booze in the bandmobile and we weren't foolin' no one as we guzzled cider from enormous plastic containers. This is a pretty uppity place so there is a conspicuous lack of dirt bags and crackheads ( not necessarily a bad thing) but that night, I was the West Vancouver official dirt bag.

On a side note, in the aforementioned book, one of the chapters is an interview with Brian Setzer. When asked who his favorite modern Rockabilly guitar players were, Brian cited Paul Pigat as one of them. Good on ya, Paul.

It was an early show so I headed back to the city. The greasy folk here take over a nice little hole in the wall pub once a month and make it into a Rockabilly night. There were some hot rods parked out front and that created a sense of familiarity that I find satisfying; or maybe that was the booze. The evening continued on to the sound track of cool tunes and good friends and I did what any self respecting greaser would do on a night like this; I proceeded to get shithouse hammered. So much so in fact, that it had become impossible to ride a bike. The buses were still running and I could see my buddies across the street laughing as I struggled ( and failed) to put my bike on the bike rack that they have on the front of buses. The driver had to do it for me. That night, I was the Gastown village idiot.

The Friday preceding this weekend had probably set the tone. After work, I stopped by the water for a few cold ones in the shade. I noticed someone attempting to take my picture. I struck up a conversation with them. They were sorta hippie-ish folks from Portland OR, but really nice. We had a few drinks and it was time for me to leave. But I couldn't you see, because my wallet chain had firmly wedged itself into the park bench (again). The Portland folks laughed and gently admonished me as they said, " Oh, you Rockabilly people". Yep. They GOT it.

Greasy Makes 'Em Uneasy

2011-07-23T12:51:00.000-07:00

Yuppies was a term that was coined quite a while back. I haven't really found a suitable replacement for it, so I assume that everyone knows what I'm talking about. Not unlike a virus, the yuppies seemed to have mutated into a new form, a sort of super yuppie if you will.

The last ten years in this town has seen an unprecedented growth in greed and short sighted urban planning resulting in gentrification on a truly frightening scale. New Yorkers had figured this out decades ago and grass roots movements emerged preventing greedy land developers from gentrifying vibrant neighborhoods. They had an inherent understanding of city life that yuppies, squares and real estate hogs had, and still do, failed to fathom: people like funky neighborhoods, cheap booze, dive bars, mom and pop diners and sleazy live music venues.

Vancouver BC seems to be one of the worst offenders in North America in this regard. Heritage buildings are wantonly tore down without any respect of history. Neighborhoods are decimated as condo towers sprout up like poisonous mushrooms between old buildings that used to have cheap rent. Some once industrial 'hoods have all but vanished only to be replaced with more of the ubiquitous green-windowed condo towers, leaving lifeless concrete canyons in their wake.

Parks and green spaces are homogenized where regular folk on shitty bikes, down-and-outers, greaseballs and working men are not welcome.

Then there is the infamous yuppie scowl. Having the unshakable belief that they are better than everyone else, they will be visibly annoyed at someone who does not share their misguided sense of aesthetics. What kills me is that they are so certain that they are right about everything, yet lack the understanding of the world around them.

In their world of small minded thinking there is no room for rock' n' roll or alternative cultures. They perceive everything through a money-driven green lens. They will perceive it as their way and anything else as the hillbilly way. I'm here to explain the hillbilly way.

1. Vancouver is a city that is by the water, therefore, there are boats moored all over the place. Some these boats are the size of football stadiums and I am forced to ponder why. Why the hell would somebody need a boat that big if not simply for ostentatious displays of wealth. Yeah we get it , you have money but what's the boat fer?

Now the hillbilly brain will see a Winnebago and think ," Hey, now that there's some cheap rent". And if he or she should ever find themselves unemployed and compounded with the astronomical rents in this city, why the hell not. The yuppie would scowl and almost become nauseous at the mere thought. But , I ask you; what is a boat but a floating Winnebago?

A boat, like a Winnebago, has got folding beds, a tiny beer fridge, a small plastic toilet bowl connected to a big poop tank, weird windows and a steering wheel in the kitchen. The advantage of a Winnebago is that is has wheels and you can go places with it. Also when you get home drunk there is no danger of falling into the water and drowning. Also most hillbillies know how to fix the motor.

Yuppies admire people who live on boats year round and think of them as adventurous. Just try telling one these pretentious fucks that you live down at the ole trailer park and see the ensuing reaction. At the end of the day, the yuppies will have to empty that large poop tank.

2. The yuppies love their wine. I suspect that it's not for the actual taste but for the snob value. They will admire friends who have just "acquired" (never just bought) a $ 300 dollar bottle of Merlot ( whatever the fuck that is) and will gladly attend pretentious affairs called wine tastings. They will endlessly discuss the merits of various wines and employ as many obscure adjectives as they can find.

Amidst all this self-delusional behavior they will still have the nerve to look down their noses at a couple of hillbillies enjoying a 3 dollar jug of wine with a screw top on a park bench. They fail to see the obvious; All of it is red, made from grapes, tastes like ass and will eventually get you shithouse plastered. Nothing more pathetic than some fool in 400 dollar shirt drunkenly stumbling around looking for his BMW.

Hillbillies have at least enough common sense to sleep it off in the bed of their pick up truck.

3. Yuppies have a fondness for so-called pure bred dogs. What they fail to realize is that these unfortunate mutts are the product of severe inbreeding and are usually stupider than a sack of shit. These dumb critters pee with impunity anywhere they damned well please and the yuppies think it's cute. Often these overly pampered dogs will pee on the wheel of my bike, and those fuckers think it's funny, yet they will heap scorn on a hillbilly who just happens to be peeing in a bush. At least hillbillies are happy with junkyard dogs or old smell hounds.

4. Yuppies love rituals and the funny uniforms that they require. Jogging is one of their favorite ones because it's a big performance. These running fools are out in droves clad in their expensive jogging clothes. They run and they run, as they scowl at their heart rate monitors, drink sport drinks, and huff and puff as they slyly look around to make sure that are being seen. In an added bid for attention they will occasionally stop to do funny looking and extremely annoying exercises.

If the prancing douchebags see a hillbilly running by, they will assume that he is running from the law. That doesn't happen often because hillbillies don't run.

Another ritual favored by the yuppie is the very expensive road bike and the prerequisite spandex uniform that goes with it. That's what you need for a friendly evening spin; a $6000 carbon fiber road bike and a grand worth of spandex plastered with corporate logos ( I don't know why the biggest logo is always on the ass). They look oh-so-serious as they zoom by scaring small children and almost squashing other yuppies' microscopic dogs. They feel smug in their superiority as they indulge in the delusion that they could easily run the Tour De France.

They may look down on hillbillies riding old vintage bikes.Think again yuppie fool, because, fueled by beer, cheap cigars and even cheaper whiskey, me and bike riding hillbilly buddies can outlast and out ride any of the latte-sipping road warriors.

5. As I have stated many times in the past, I'm sick of trying to explain Rockabilly to squares. Greasy is as greasy does and let's leave it a that. When I roll through a particularly gentrified part of of town, I get lots of scowls from the skanks who have tanned themselves to the color of a Cheetoh. The dudes with long, squashed, square toed shoes and pink shirts also scowl.

They scowl because they are confronted with something that they don't understand. It's square peg in their round world and it threatens them somehow. But all is not what it seems, however, because I can see from behind my shades, the sidelong glances from some of the gals as they sip wine in humongous glasses and listen to their emasculated date talk about the stock market. They dig the grease, and they all secretly wish that they were hillbillies, where they could walk around with no shoes in a park and drink beer in a can while shooting squirrels.

Time for me to get some cheap beer and scare some squares as I sit on the park bench and mutter "I tell you what" at the passing joggers.

Greasy Obstacle Course

2011-07-16T13:43:00.000-07:00

In the 1950's North American cities, particularly Canadian cities, were far less crowded places. This might have been the neolithic era of technology, where computers were decades away on the horizon, but shit still got done. This was simpler time when parents would send their 8 year olds to the liquor store to get beer and cigarettes, and nobody would bat an eye as the kids toted the case of beer back home.

Customer service usually entailed speaking to an actual human being and going to the bank was almost ritualistic. Some employers even paid cash and if you were paid with a check, the local bar was always more than willing to cash it for you.

Although I was not personally there, I'm sure that the 50's had its fair share of retards trying to fuck your day up, but I'm convinced that the percentage is way higher today. One could take a stroll or go to a bar and not have to worry about being sidetracked or sidestepping some sort of obstacle. There was far less dogshit to worry about on the sidewalk because dogs mainly lived in the country or pooped in their own yard. The concept of carrying a plastic bag and scooping another creature's feces had yet to be invented.

Dog piles on the sidewalk notwithstanding, a stroll down the street has become a far more complex activity these days. One can barely walk ten feet without being accosted in one way or another and basic retail transactions have become frustrating Kafkaesque exchanges. Here's a few thoughts on the matter.

1. Do The Walk.

While there certainly were drugs and addicts in the fifties ( Johnny Cash being one of the famous examples) drug addicts did not roam the streets with impunity as they do today. Crazy propaganda movies like Reefer Madness probably did little to curtail drug use. Crack hadn't been invented yet and drug addicts stayed behind closed doors with the lights down low.

A midday walk in the city is now an obstacle course where one has to run a gauntlet of crackheads. We've all seen them rapidly shuffling along doing their crack-walk. There is no need to avoid eye contact, because they will inevitably accost you. Talking on a cel phone or to another person don't matter to them, they want something. Most of these emaciated fast-talking cretins have mastered the art of subterfuge and are impervious to being told to fuck right off. I am perplexed by their obsession at wanting to know the time. Where do they need to go? Does the crackhouse have certain operating hours?

These human cockroaches wouldn't have survived the fifties. Good old fashioned cops with good old fashioned wooden billy clubs would have taken care of that. Crackhead was the sound you heard when the billy club did its thing and safe injection site is where they disposed of the bodies.

No smokes for you crackhead.

2. The Zombies.

If you happened to be airily strolling down the sidewalk while reading a book in fifties, they would have locked you up. Or maybe the local greasers would give a beat down just for being a goof. I still occasionally see this, but mainly by hippies who want to show how deep they are by reading some dumb book with an arcane title.

The Zombies are far more insidious. I am speaking of course of texting zombies. They can be seen walking everywhere, head bent down, intently staring at their I-phones with a pained expression as if their bowels were about to liquefy while furiously poking their I-phone with two thumbs. They will keep walking impervious to everything around them, they will keep walking through red lights like moths attracted to a flame. The world around them ceases to exist as they ignore verbal warnings, chest butts, forearm slams, screeching tires, loud car horns and irate drivers. Here's a text for ya: GO FK YRSLF.

Equally annoying are the hands free cel phone louts. Just as insidious as regular public cel phone conversations held at space shuttle -like decibel levels, this has the added comical effect of making the person look like they're talking to themselves and insane. Again; Fifties=lock up in the whack house.

As for the idiots blocking traffic as they try to decipher their GPS: " Hey Stoopid, git yerself a map!"

3. Dang Tourists.

There weren't any tourists in Canada in the fifties. Even Canadians didn't travel cuz there weren't any roads. ( The so-called Trans Canada highway is still a two lane bush road, but that's a whole other story). The really brave might venture to New York City thus explaining New Yorkers famous disdain of tourists.

Modern day Vancouver is overrun by tourists. Nearby ski resorts, a cruise ship terminal and proximity to Asia assure this town a year round steady flow of tourists. They usually travel in gaggles of six or more and always walk 4 or 5 abreast taking up the whole sidewalk. They gawk like a deer in headlights as they read all the signs on stores out loud. Sometimes they stand on the corner squinting at their upside down maps. Others can't seem to fathom even the simplest of transactions such as getting a cup of coffee ( although I must admit our money is pretty funny lookin').

This multilingual obstacle course is thankfully relegated to the downtown core and other tourist areas. If asked for directions, I never reveal the location of the truly cool parts of town and, if I'm in a foul mood, I will purposely give false directions.

I'll be seein' ya in Idaho, fool !

4. Where's My Damned Coffee.

Let's say you felt the urge for a cup of coffee in fifties. You would find a nearby diner, sit down and promptly be served a cup of coffee in an actual cup. Hell, the ashtray was right there on the table and you could fire up a smoke if the desire arose.

Getting a coffee at that Orwellian institution known as Starbucks (or one of its many imitators) is a convoluted and frustrating experience. The massive line ups are created by the ridiculous concoctions that have to be prepared and the strange Starbucks dialect that one is forced to learn. The stress levels continue to rise as you are forced to listen to soulless crappy music that they are trying to pass off as Jazz. The oppressive, sterile atmosphere makes your blood pressure rise as you are still waiting your turn. As you are waiting you should contemplate the fact that every single douchebag ahead of you who is ordering some sort of complex soy-based cup of puke that's not even on the menu will be paying with a debit card.

5. All Them Damned Hippies.

As I have stated many times before, there are many varieties of hippies and that unto itself could be an entire book. Most hippies are content with annoying people with drum circles in the park or really loud house parties. Others, however, have taken to the streets. Lacking any employment or sense of direction they will usually be blocking the sidewalk as you try to get by. If you yell at them they will get upset and accuse you of " harshing their mellow". They can easily be dispersed just by showing them a bar of soap.

Other hippies have a "cause" and they want everybody to know about it. They think nothing of harassing ordinary citizens going about their business. Sometimes they are young altruists volunteering ( cuz being paid would be wrong, man) for PETA or Greenpeace, but usually it's some ridiculous cause like save the one-armed Guatemalan dwarfs, CIA conspiracies pertaining to Kurt Cobain, Stop the Colonel from experimenting on chickens, Social Security for cats, stop the evil soap conspiracy, or some nonsense or other relating to pot advocacy ( it always boils down to pot with hippies).

The scariest hippies of all are the Hare Krishnas. They don't parade down the sidewalk too often, but when they do it's a terrible sight. They usually sport that pie eyed expression displayed by all cult members. I feel sorry for the poor kids that they always seem to drag along with them. You can hear them coming from quite a distance as they produce their cacophony interspersed with chants of " hare, hare !" How can one not be amused at this pathetic yet comical display that is way more entertaining than clowns.

No I don't want a free meal at your temple, hippie, and I think you missed a spot when you were trimming your sideways ponytail.

6. Nexus

The point of convergence for every manner of dirtbag seems to be the liquor store. As I have previously explained, here in Canada most people buy booze at the government run store. Those stores attract freaks like a magnet and they set up camp right there.

You will see it all at the liquor store; garden variety bums, crackheads, bad buskers with their repertoire of the same 5 crappy songs, crusty punks with their cardboard signs begging for money and the prerequisite bedraggled dog in tow, really, really drunk people, freaks selling junk that they found in the trash on a dirty blanket and always one really drunk bum who just shoplifted a bottle of whisky and wants to sell it for five bucks.

They all have one thing in common however; they are standing between me and my booze. Now get the hell outta my way !

May your travels be safe and obstacle free.

The Rockabilly Way

2011-07-09T12:32:00.000-07:00

Some sort of paradigm shift seems to have occurred in our society over the last few years or so. Men have lost their way. Judging by the amount of man-purse toting manicured fops that I see scurrying to the nearest wine bar after work, I am convinced that there is something askew. Somebody must be making a fortune selling those really long squashed shoes and really skinny suits.

Worse yet, many young males have chosen the path of hipsterism. This inexplicable and unfortunate choice seems to be proliferating rather than waning. With all it's ironic overtones and veiled references to male archetypes the end result is surprisingly effeminate. The skinny jeans, dress shoes without socks, dumb haircuts, ironic mustaches and over sized dumb glasses must be impeding the flow of testosterone. This is directly manifested by the lack of swagger and constant whining. Oh yes, my friends, I do feel an uncontrollable urge to punch these wankers right in the face and bust all the spokes on their fixed gear bicycles with the pink wheels. I cannot think of a worst affront to greasy sensibilities.

At the opposite end of the spectrum are the gangsta wannabe louts sporting lots of cheap gold chains and glorifying violence. Indeed, their neanderthal sensibilities know nothing but violence. Their monosyllabic conversations interspersed with cursing and lots of idle spitting are frightening to listen to as they regale each other with tales of their fighting prowess. They adulate ultimate fighting performers and revel in the violence. They too have lost their way, completely oblivious to the values that once meant something.

One can choose to live any way they desire, misguided as it may be. I have made my choice long ago regarding the way; I choose the Rockabilly way.

1. Add Metal 'Til It Works.

Most greasers like to build things and work with their hands. It's an innate desire for self-expression. Most greasers don't have a hundred grand kicking around to buy a hot rod, so they just make do with what they have. Some projects may turn out a little wonky, so the only solution for most self respecting greasers is to whip out the welder and keep welding bits of metal onto the the errant part that seems to have been crooked from the start until it holds. Weight and rust are not considerations and when in doubt, just spray paint the sucker flat black. Some really clever dudes will have access to big cans of Bondo: problem solved.

Another reason that shit ends up crooked or looks like is was engineered by a monkey is other greasers. We just love hanging around shops and garages when our buddies are working on something. Greasers, shops and beers go hand in hand. This is a fun but volatile combination and shit is bound to go south sooner or later. Nothing that half a dozen hammered greasers can't fix though. Out comes the chop saw, grinder and welder and eventually the problem will be fixed.

Once that recalcitrant piece of metal, motor mount or floor panel has been cheesed into place, the satisfied greasers will keep drinking. The will bask in the congratulatory atmosphere while sniffing Bondo and 5 dollar spray bomb fumes. If nobody lost an eye or a digit, it was a good day.

2. Greasers Don't Camp.

At one point or another, someone usually will try to buffalo the greaser to go camping. This seems unsavory and is goes against the greaser's natural aversion to shitting in the woods. By someone, I meant some gal. Greasers never feel the need to initiate a suggestion to go camping. The reason it may happen is the possibility of eventual poon-tang, but often, the greaser's powerful disdain of sleeping inside a sealed piece of canvas prevails. The only thing that may possibly override this is the promise of copious quantities of free beer and being in charge of a really large bonfire and maybe some shotguns with lots of ammo.

3. Man Time.

Greasers are finely attuned to the fact that dudes need man-time. Greasy gals seem to understand that, and willingly oblige. Even if he's single, he needs that man-time. Some time spent alone in a greasy enclave far from the daily irritants such as noise, dirty hippies and just plain fucking idiots.

Man time is usually spent in a man cave. This can be a room, a garage or even some old shack in the back yard. There will be hours spent in solitude wailing on a guitar and singing at the top of his lungs. There will be howling at the moon. There will be much whiskey drinking, nose picking and scratching of the bag. The farts will fly fast and furious and guitar strings will break. After a trip to the beer store to re-stock, the stereo will be cranked and he will be overcome with an instinctive desire to bang on shit really hard with a hammer. If his eye sight is still intact, this would probably be a good time to get out the ole .22 and shoot some cans or some squirrels (or both). He will wake up still wearing his pants amidst the detritus of empty beer cans, cigarette butts, busted guitar strings and a new hat made of squirrel hide. A good night indeed and the cops didn't even show up.

4. What. Me Worry?

The concerns of the greaser are simple. Make sure the hair is kept intact and everything else will fall into place. So there is grease on his jeans, ain't no big deal. Dirt under the fingernails? He'll take care of that some other times. There is only a few other things to keep straight such as washing t-shirts inside out so the cool picture won't fade. A constant supply of hair grease, big-assed cans of Mennen speed stick and combs keep the greaser going. Lots of meat, bacon and many beers in the fridge are always kept on hand. There is also usually a large bottle of Febreeze on hand to dispel the smell of motor oil, beer farts, wet dog smell and burning electronics.

There may be a transmission or an entire motorcycle in the living room but that seems completely natural. Having plenty of tools on hand is an endless source of satisfaction. Even if they aren't used for a while, it's good to have 600 wrenches on hand should the need to hang a picture or fix a leaky toilet arise.

5. Don't Give A Damn.

The greaser's habits are consistent as well as the places that he might frequent. House parties are popular because he will be with like-minded people, the music will not suck and there usually won't be any assholes around to raise the greaser's ire and desire for face punching. There are many places where you will never find a greaser and it is near impossible to trick him into going. The reason for the the greaser's flat out refussal is one of his mantras; " cuz it sounds like a king sized drag".

You will most definitely never find greasers at poetry slams. This is like karaoke for deranged sociopaths and should a greaser have the misfortune to find himself there, there will be slamming of poets.

Same goes for wine bars, where they pump in the pretension via special air ducts. The icy stares of the ultra douchebags that frequent these establishments is like fightin' words to the greaser.

Folk festivals. Are you tryin' to make angry ? Dirt, dreadlocks and 8000 fucking bongos. Just what you need to get the adrenaline flowing.

Live theater. I can't of anything that would make the skin crawl more than this snoozefest. These hippies-on-steroids regard themselves as Thespians and that alone makes me want to run for the hills.

Bad outdoor concerts in the daytime without booze. These usually attract squares from the burbs who have absolutely no interest in music.

If you're looking for greasers you will find them in their natural habitat; late at night at a Rockabilly show with drink in each hand.

keep on walkin' the walk.

Shit That Makes Me Mad.

2011-07-02T12:32:00.000-07:00

Everyone gets mad once in a while. There are certain visual or auditory triggers that seem to increase the flow of adrenaline. Noise ( which is defined as unwanted sound) has been proven to increase blood pressure in some individuals. Everyone has a pet peeve of some sort. Some people get their panties in a knot over politics ( a completely futile exercise ) . Others will punch each other in the face over the outcome of some professional sport. ( See previous blog entry: The Bad Canadian).

Some have accused me of being crotchety, or worse, a curmudgeon. I can most definitely assure you that I have always been this ornery. It's not that I'm mean, it's just that I have always had a low tolerance for stupidity. Some shit makes me mad for no particular reason. It's impossible to explain, but it just does.

Maybe all theses years of observing life through a greasy lens has made many things seem abnormal. Then again, I may be right. You decide, here goes.

1. Bongos.

My disdain for bongos ( congas, tam-tams etc.) is well known amongst my friends and readers alike. They are the bane of my existence and are usually wielded by yet another bane; the ubiquitous hippie. They are pervasive because any idiot can play them. Stoned idiots seem to derive satisfaction from playing for hours on end. And always in my immediate vicinity. I seem to attract them like a pile of dog shit attracts flies.

Just last night I was subjected to their mysterious apparition. I needed to find a secluded spot as far away from civilization as I could find so I could drink some beers and rehearse some tunes on my guitar. I found a rocky beach and started playing but something seemed wrong with my guitar. I was playing in G but after every chord change my git seemed to produce this "hugga-bugga" sound. I wasn't hammered yet so there was nothing wrong with brain. As I put the guitar down and looked around, I spotted a couple of hippies that crawled out of a bush and were playin' their bongos. They were obviously baked and they were "trippin' man" as their dreadlocks qauvered in the the breeze.

There weren't any cops or witnesses around for miles, so I could have ripped the shit out of the bongo skins and slice off their dreadlocks with no one being the wiser. I just went home instead and played loud country on my headphones to get the bongo-stink out of my brain.

2. Clown Pants.

My disdain of hippies and their ilk is well documented, so I won't go into an in depth rant ( it could take days). However when I see some hippie stink-bot walkin' down the street in those multi colored hippie clown pants, I start twitching. I want to rip the hair-in-a bun off the top of his head and kick him in the bag. Where the fuck do you get pants that stupid? Johnson Tent and Awning maybe. It's infuriates me even more to realize that the pants (and its contents) haven't been washed in quite some time.

3. Begone Foul Tricksters.

Every couple of years Cirque du Soleil sets up their multi colored tent here in town. It's not the colors that make mad, it's the ridiculous antics that go on inside. Effeminate and medieval comes to mind. Clowns aren't supposed to wear tights and dance around like ballet dancers. Clowns drive little tiny cars and wear ridiculously large shoes and they are meant to scare small children.

Those idiots in jester outfits seem to be popular with the masses but whenever I drive by their tent, I automatically shout " Begone foul tricksters!"

4. Wind Chimes.

I think I may covered this a while back, but let me reiterate; wind chimes drive me fucking nusto! I wonder what goes through the half-stoned mind of the delusional idiot who thinks that these instruments of torture would be a great idea. Maybe in the Bronze age where primitive cultures used them to ward off evil spirits they made sense. In today's densely populated urban settings they will succeed in pissing off as many neighbors as possible.

I don't understand how that tinkly sound can be considered soothing. It enrages me as I walk in the alley late at night. It might have more severe repercussions however. You know those guys that snap and end up on a roof tip with a high powered rifle? Always caused by wind chimes.

5. Bananas

Yeah, that's what I said; Bananas. I hate bananas and they make me mad. It sounds irrational but seeing them makes me angry. When one is peeled open, the smell makes me grit my teeth. There is always some retard eating a banana next me. Eating on a bus, in an elevator or on the street is bad enough, but when I am subjected to a banana being eaten in close proximity, I am filled with rage. No one ever looks too smart eating a banana either. Their blank features take on a simian aspect and even monkeys are getting angry.

The bananas must have got wind of this and plan to exact revenge however, because something happened to me that I had, as of then, only seen in cartoons; you guessed it, I slipped on a banana peel ( true story) and landed on my my ass. Fuck you, you filthy bananas, I'm gonna get you!

6. Spaghetti Squash.

People are fooling themselves. That don't look like spaghetti; that looks like a big bowl of puke.

7. Shut Up, Birds.

Birds are the retards of the animal world. Like retards, deranged crackheads and drunken hobos, they always have to be vocal. Now take a fish. Fish are quiet and they never bother anybody. Also you can throw a stick of dynamite in a lake and have an instant fish dinner.

Birds on the other hand have the ability to take off if you so much as pretend to throw a rock at them. They will be back soon to mock you however. With their riotous varieties of caw-caws and choip-choips, they will straddle a power line and mock you for hours at maximum decibel levels. Unfortunately you can't hurl sticks of dynamite in the city without having a few negative consequences and I 'm pretty sure the cops would show up.

So I am relegated to tossing rocks at them and cursing, but those fuckers never shut up, they just keep mocking me in their evil bird-language.

8. Man Purses.

Hey fool clutching the man purse, do I really gotta explain this one? It's a purse. Men aren't supposed to have that much shit to carry anyways. It's been simple for time immemorial: Cash on the right, comb back left, big-assed wallet back right, keys on the belt. A simple concept that even the smartest metro-sexual can't seem to comprehend.

While we're on the subject; put some damn shoes on! I've stated this before; no one wants to see man-toes in flip flops. Maybe if you're in the Marines and are having one of those thirty second showers while the drill sergeant is yelling at you, yes, flip flops are appropriate. Otherwise, get shoes !

Also, why are some of these white trash gastropods walking around a crowded street with no shirt on? Maybe they were on their way to a wrestling match or a tractor pull and got lost. Put that Led Zeppelin t-shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.

9. No I Don't Have a Smoke. Quit askin'.

10. Victorian Values.

This one might require an in depth analysis, but I will keep it to a brief synopsis. Squares and the middle class class seem to dogmatically adhere to Victorian values. Hence the antiquated drinking laws here in Canada, this unnatural fascination with christmas and some truly ugly furniture.

I roll by some furniture stores and it makes me mad. I ask myself who would make furniture this ugly and even more perplexing, who would buy it? I have had the misfortune several times over the years to attend theses homes who were seemingly appointed by Queen Victoria herself. It was a terrible and frightening experience, not unlike attending a gothic funeral in an abandoned Scottish church. I got one word for you. IKEA.

11. Shitty Psychobilly Bands.

There are lots of good musicians out there, but there seems to be an over-abundance of bad ones. Many of those bad musicians like Rockabilly, but lacking any sort of musical proficiency, they will indulge themselves by starting a Psychobilly band. The main reason is because they like the name. They can pretend to be all psycho and crank up the volume with complete disregard to chord structure.

I'm more afraid of bands like Phish. A band that indulges in forty five minute solos must be unhinged to begin with and it probably wouldn't take much for them to snap and go all psycho on you for real.

Tribute bands also scare me. It takes a special type of psycho to play some tired old rock cliches day in and day out. Playing nothing but AC/DC every single weekend is bound to break even the hardiest of individuals. Even copious quantities of booze cannot alleviate the water torture-like effect that this may have. I think of people who pay to see these bands and that is even scarier. Maybe it makes their mullets grow faster.

Just a few random rants for you.

Back To The Fifties

2011-06-26T13:07:00.000-07:00

There remains a lingering fascination with the crazy decade called to fifties in modern society. Hollywood still cranks out the odd period piece once in a while. To Rockabillies, this fascination has gone through metamorphosis and has become an actual lifestyle. To others who barely acknowledge the historical relevance of this decade, it has become an amalgam of a few trite cliches. Judging by the amount of retro furniture stores that have popped up in recent years, many people have acquired a taste for mid century modern furniture and decor.

Whatever reason one may have for liking this decade and the culture it has spawned, it is hard to deny its relevance even today. Not being a Luddite by any means, I myself have fully embraced the convenience of modern technology and communication. ( I ain't writin' this on a manual typewriter, that's for damn sure). Without indulging in nostalgia or pining for "the good ol' days", ponder for a second how our overly permissive society, laced with excessive amounts of political correctness, would be like if we applied societal rules from the fifties.

It might result in a little more order, civility and cooler music. Then again it might be as exciting as post war communist Russia. You be the judge.

If you wanted to call somebody, you went in the kitchen and dialed a long string of numbers on a rotary phone. Gal's not answering? No date for you. You'll have to spend Saturday night fiddling with rabbit ears and drinking beer that cost 2 bucks for a twelve pack. If there was a knock at the door and someone was delivering a telegram, somebody was dead.

If that was too boring you could always cruise around downtown in a car, any car, cuz hell, in the fifities, even your grandpa's car was cool.

Plenty of fish was something you had after a weekend of sitting in boat with your pals and drinking your face off. People hooked up the old fashioned way : drunk and in a bar.

Craigslist was something that you may come across on the sidewalk after some dude called Craig dropped it. 5lbs of potatoes, whisky, cigarettes, a can of motor oil, etc etc.

Ebay was some shithole beach somewhere.The concept of selling used crap that nobody wanted hadn't been invented yet. If you needed parts you went to an auto parts store. If you needed a hat, you went to a haberdasher's. Shit was already cool and nobody wanted vintage stuff. That was called garbage, and it wasn't displayed on people's lawns on Sunday mornings; it was promptly disposed of in a metal garbage can. ( Even garbage men had cool uniforms).

Now let's say you played a bit of guitar. If you got pretty good, you might get a gig at a local honky tonk and play for quarters and beers. If you sucked, you didn't become a "busker" and annoy people on the streets with your lack of talent, chord structures and off-key caterwauling. If you did, you would definitely get beat up or more than likely spend the night in the slammer.

Speaking of music, you bought records. You went a place called a record store and bought these little black discs called 45's or large ones called LP's. They would spin round and round on a device called a turntable and made good music. Downloading occurred when the disc sucked or got scratched and you put it in that same metal garbage can ( or gave it to your little brother). Downloading also occurred if you drank to much cheap booze and had to talk to Ralph on the big white phone). I think an I pod was one of those plastic cups that fit over your eyeball. This was used to soothe your eyes in the morning after you spent all night downloading.

In the fifties, there were urban legends of reclusive mountain men that had been living in the bush for twenty years. These feral humans were sometimes spotted coming out of a forest. Having not bathed or gotten a haircut in twenty years, they were a frightening sight and this is the only time that you would see dreadlocks.

The only person allowed to have bongos was Desi Arnaz and his orchestra.

If you felt sick, you didn't go to some crazy store displaying all sorts of arcane products. In the fifties those were usually found on the wrong side of tracks and run by strange people who actively practiced voodoo. You went to a doctor. The doctor always wore a white lab coat and smoked cigarettes in his office. Hell, he would even offer you one during your check-up. Remember; 3 out 5 doctors recommend Camels.

Men carried briefcases dammit! A backpack, which might have surprisingly difficult to find, was reserved for that strange breed of men who wanted to climb Mount Everest. Army bags were for toting ammo and carried by Army guys.

Men most definitely did not carry purses, unless it was at the mall as they waited for their wives to finish shopping and shared cigarettes and shots of whisky from a silver-plated flask with the other waiting dudes.

Hemp bags could only be found in remote jungle villages. They were used to carry wild boar dung to be used as fertilizer. The left over hemp was used as a rudimentary form of toilet paper.

People that felt the need to "express themselves, man" could sometimes be found standing on an actual soap box made out of wood. They were usually religious zealots and were quietly ignored. Others might have screamed about politics and were also ignored or maybe had the odd egg thrown at them. The rest were promptly arrested and sent for a little vacation down at the nervous hospital.

Some might have felt the need to rap in public. In those days that convoluted muttering was diagnosed as Tourette's Syndrome and heavy medication was prescribed. Wearing a ball cap sideways was diagnosed as advanced mental retardation and they were sent to join their insane brethren at the lunatic asylum.

The only computer in the world was called Univac. It was housed in a huge warehouse and used 64,00 vacuum tubes. It didn't really serve any purpose, but the army of scientists required to run were able to make it count to ten on occasion. If any one of the 64,000 vaccum tubes blew, it could only count to two.

It didn't really matter, however, because nobody really needed a computer. Folks still knew how to do long division by hand and clerks in stores actually knew how to calculate your proper change. Cars did not require one for diagnosis. Diagnosis was comprised of opening the hood, staring at the engine for a short while and then fixing the problem.

While there certainly were the occasional riot probably related to labor unrest, on average people did not riot for incomprehensible events such as G-20 summits or really stupid events such as a prima donna rock singer walking off stage mid-concert. If someone or something was pissing you off, you would set a time and place and a rumble would take place. Problem solved.

Some random observations; Now I gotta go; I have to text somebody while I download some MP-3's and look at some crazy shit on Youtube.

Greasy Hair Stories.

2011-06-18T13:04:00.000-07:00

It's all about the hair. Elvis set the tone over 50 years ago and greasers from around the world have eagerly followed suit. Women have hit the nail on the head however, when they observe that most men cannot be entrusted with the simple task of getting dressed or getting a decent haircut. They are right. During my daily travels downtown, I am often taken aback, shocked or downright angered at the absolutely ridiculous haircuts that I see dudes sporting. You payed money for that?

I am amazed that some of these dudes, sometimes sporting very expensive suits, would walk around with these hirsute abominations. Others will proudly display their mullets ( a perfect compliment to their dirty track pants) oblivious to the fact that it screams low IQ to the casual observer. Others still have some sort of statement to make and will attempt to shock the general public. What statement dreadlocks are intended to convey, remains beyond comprehension. I suspect that it is a middle class attempt to make some sort of left winged statement, yeah we get it man, your a rebel, you smoke pot to bring your consciousness to higher plain, you own a lot of bongos ......so on and so forth. You can rest assured that this self-delusional moron will be driving a Lexus in a couple of years.

We greasers have it easy by comparison. The rules are laid out for us and are simple to follow. It knows no bounds and transcends socio-economic factors, cultural differences and even language barriers. It is like an international symbol of belonging to a certain brotherhood. It is the venerable greasy pomp. Greasers have individual preferences such as short back and sides or big sideburns and experiment with different types of grease. Squares will both marvel at the pomp and fear it. Some chicks dig it. Others even find it amusing and many a greaser has endured taunts of " Hey Elvis" from random passers by.

The one thing that if is often overlooked or simply not understood is the absolute fucking ordeal of getting a decent haircut in the first place. We weren't born with the damn thing ( although a few claim to have been, refusing to own up to their pre-greaser teen years) it took years of meticulous research, anger producing butchery and futile explanations to inept hairdressers to get the damn thing right. Here's a few hair-raising ( excuse the pun) experiences during my quest for the ultimate pomp.

1. Old School.

Many of us have fond memories from our childhood of going to the local barber shop for haircut. They would sit you on a little riser, and it made you feel like a grown up when the barber put hot shaving cream on your neck and trimmed it with a straight razor. As you got a little older and you were allowed to go on your own, you eagerly went for your haircut because you could peruse all the dirty magazines. As you got a little older, you started to realize that this guy didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. You gazed in disbelief at the disheveled mess that he had created and wondered why it looked nothing like all the slick pictures on the wall.

Some of these really old school guys are still around. So old school in fact, that they were actually cutting hair in the fifties and continue to do so in the present day. These cats have an inherent understanding of the pomp. They are unfortunately getting on in years and are a rapidly vanishing breed. If you are lucky enough to find one it will a truly anachronistic experience. If are unlucky enough to have some dude that he trained cut your hair, be prepared to look like a goof for a couple of weeks.

2. The Squirrely Ladies.

So you're sick of all the bullshit, the endless searches and over priced haircuts. You see a sign advertising 6 dollar haircuts and you naturally cannot resist. You justify to yourself buy thinking " Hey man, you can't beat six bucks, right?" Sorry, most definitely wrong. You start off by having to suffer the squirm-inducing factor of having to wait in a ladies' beauty parlor hoping to hell that your friends don't see you. There are only chick magazines to read and all those strange chemicals are starting to make you puke. Better hold of off on the puking because there probably isn't a men's room in there.

Your discomfort will be short lived because the squirrely yammering ladies are fast. they will squeeze you in while some other crazy lady's perm is setting. After a few futile attempts at explaining what it is that you want, you will have to resort to sign language. Out comes the No. 1 electric razor and you will be subject to few passes executed at velocities approaching the speed of light, way to fast to say " Holy shit, stop !" The only benefit to this strange encounter is that you might get a bit of crotch to shoulder contact or a quick look at some cleavage.

The squirrely lady is done and she wants her six bucks and you outta the chair. I hope you brought a hat, unless you want to walk around looking like an Iraqi prisoner of war.

" Next!"

3. There, I fixed it.

After all the time consuming frustration starts to set in, some of us , at one time or another, have contemplated fixin' shit ourselves. You rationalize it by thinking " How hard could this be?" You think of all the inept retards that you have encountered over the years and go out and purchase your own electric trimmer convinced that you can do a better job.

Forgetting for a moment that everything is backwards in a mirror, you have to realize how difficlut it is to see the back of your head. As you do the sides, you are immediately reminded of that TV show where they speed shear sheep in New Zealand.

Ok, so now the sides are fucked. You will attempt to equalize the rear, still convinced that this is salvageable. 30 seconds later you look like you've just been prepped for a lobotomy. After the prerequisite cursing, you will attempt to "fix" it even further by slopping huge dollops of grease in your hair and fussing with a comb as you try to convince yourself that it ain't that bad. You will eventually accept the fact that is is indeed bad.

Get more hats. You will need them for the next 3 or 4 weeks. Or you could just hang around at the local lunatic asylum.

4. That'll Buff Right Out.

There's nothing wrong with cheaping out once in a while, after all the very concept of hot rodding was built on the practice of cheaping out, cuz these cats didn't have any money. There are however, a few things in life that one shouldn't be trying to shave a few bucks off. Things such as airplane wings, condoms, dentists or renting space in a highrise built by the lowest bidder. Haircuts also fall into this category.

I once decided to get a haircut at a hairdressing school. The price was right; it was free. " Can't go wrong with free." Wrong again. My desire to get a good haircut, and my cheap ass desire to get shit for free made me oblivious to the fact that I was about to be used as guinea pig. It was much worse, however. I was on the same level as one of those dummy heads with the fake hair. In retrospect, I often ask myself " What the fuck was I thinking?" What indeed.

I arrived at the school and was ushered onto a chair surrounded by at least a hundred students all yammering and squealing at the same time. It was complete mayhem and nobody seemed to be cutting any hair. As the apprentice began cutting, I could sense her mounting discomfort. She seemed to be frantically trying to correct something. A few of the other students began to take interest. Their expressions were ones that are usually reserved for funerals, and I was beginning to think that this was not a good sign. Then the apprentice muttered something that no one wants to hear while getting a haircut: " Uh-oh".

The head instructor was called in and tried to salvage this travesty as best she could. Lucky for me I had arrived with a hat and was able to walk out with at least some of my dignity intact.

I found a bar nearby and went for a couple of stiff drinks as I pondered my misfortune. I kept drinking until I forgot about my haircut. I must have gotten really hammered and went shopping because when I woke up the next day, I saw that I was the proud owner of two Stetsons.

5. The Hipster Place.

There is a new generation of barbers and some are quite good. Unfortunately they attract a lot of hipsters. I've often wondered where this insidious sub-culture had its beginnings. No one seems to know sure sure, but now we are confronted with teeming masses of hipsters everywhere we go. The people who sell them those ridiculous cartoon glasses and circulation-impeding skinny jeans need a good punch in the head, but nobody ever went broke pandering to people's stupidity and slavish addiction to fashion.

It's the haircuts that perplex me the most. Stupid as they are, they require a skilled barber to cut them. It takes a lot of work to look like 14 year old boy from the fifties, a pugilist from the twenties, a lumberjack or a 19th century British safari hunter chasing elephants with a blunderbuss.

For obvious reasons, I don't usually interact with hipsters ( not wanting to end up in jail with multiple assault charges relating to attempted ironic mustache removal) but they all seem to go to the same barber as me. Due to the complexity of their haircuts I am often forced to wait my turn for an hour or two. I wisely have the foresight to bring beers along with me to alleviate the pain.

The pain I am speaking of is the endless stream of horseshit that I am forced to listen to as I wait my turn. Most of it done at earsplitting levels as the manginas all speak at once. It all sounds like gibbersih to me , because I have no idea what they are talking about , seeing as everything is ironic to them. They all seem to have man purses with them that contain all types of ironic objects which they enjoy compering with one another, They all have i-phones that contain ironic videos from youtube.

All these effeminate voices take their toll on me after a few hours, and these fuckers are too self absorbed to know that they came dangerously close to a furious tirade that could potentially lead to a punch in the head.

As my turn finally comes, these douchebags seem unaware of the guy code thing that states that when you are the barber chair, you own that chair and all conversations emanating from it. They just keep yakking away in their hipster jargon as I sit in silence counting the minutes until I am finally liberated from this Stygian nightmare.

The haircut always turns out well, even though it is priced at hipster levels, and I quickly leave in desperate need of another drink. I need a few to recover from this somewhat traumatic experience and end up getting fairly hammered. Another perfectly good Friday shot to hell, but hell, I look sharp.

It ain't easy being greasy, as I've said many times in the past. I always remain vigilant as I search for the ultimate haircut, but I always have a good supply of various hats on hand; just in case.

So You Think You can Drink.

2011-06-11T11:14:00.000-07:00

Most among us enjoy a tasty libation once in a while, some more than others. People have been wanting to get intentionally fucked up since the dawn of civilization. Seeing a good band and having a few drinks go hand in hand. Booze is the social lubricant that eases the sometimes uncomfortable interaction of disparate groups of humans. Governments rake in staggering amounts of profits from the sale of the demon alcohol. It's all fun and games, but not one of us can deny having done some really ridiculous and embarrassing things under the influence. There are some that can't handle the ole likker, and are what usually falls under the catch-all sobriquet of " Bad drunk". While most of admittedly do well under the influence of a few, some do not. Here are a few types of what one would call "bad drunks"

1.Sloppy Joe.

I think that everyone knows at least one of these harmless drunks. They are usually light weights who get hammered after a few drinks. They start doing the twenty beer tango after a couple of beers. Gravity seems to affect these individuals in a different way, as if the laws of physics no longer applied. You can see these usually jovial souls staggering about in the bar, flitting from table to table and producing a litany of gibberish to anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact.

The warp in the space/time continuum experienced by Sloppy Joe seems to affect his clothing as well, because it is always disheveled ( like his hair). The dumb smile and constant stream of drool emanating from his mouth are direct evidence that the laws of gravity are askew.

He won't be there long, because he just can't handle anymore. His inebriation will devolve into maudlin behavior and he will soon be gone after he announces, " I love you guys".

2. The Yakker.

Oh lawdy lawdy, we have all been subjected to the energy sucking vortex of the constant stream of unintelligible yammering produced by the yakker. Not content to blather incessantly, the yakker insists that it must be done at ear splitting levels. While there are a few varieties of them, the most common is the middle aged cougar. They will never run out of shit to say, which is apropos because all the sounds produced by that robust larynx are nothing but shit. The will usually brag about their prowess at ridiculous endeavors such as karaoke, basket weaving or driving at uncontrollable speeds.

The yakkers seem to have a fondness for the blues and can usually be found at blues bars, gyrating and jumping around randomly to the music. They are quick to anger however, so care must be taken when someone yells," Shut the fuck up already!" because they will want to fight. Nobody wants the social stigma associated with punching a cougar in the face, so like an angry chihuahua who is too stupid to know that you could drop kick him half a mile, it is best to avoid these moronic banshees.

3. The Rockabilly Drunk .

Greasers are known for their affinity for beer and disdain of pot and associated retarded behavior of pot smokers. The Rockabilly buzz, is a different buzz however. It is fueled by grease, testosterone , gasoline and the desire to put the greasiest shit possible in their hair.

One might assume that with all the loud pipes and testosterone present that shit is bound to happen. That may be so, but greasers rarely fight one another, generally out of mutual respect for each others hair. It borders on the criminal to mess with a greaser's pomp, and they all seem to tacitly acknowledge that. (That isn't too say that I haven't met a few greaser douchebags). If a rumble does indeed happen, rest assured that it was instigated by louts who most assuredly deserved a good punch in the throat.

The greasers are usually too busy having a good time and are rarely distracted from that. As the Pabst- fueled evening goes on and the inhibitions are loosened , they go outside and all rev their engines at the same time. The evening usually winds down with all the cats trying to "out-rockabilly" each other. Some will wake up with some inexplicably new tattoos.

4. The Philosopher.

This type of drunk yakker fondly thinks of him or herself as being cerebral. Most times they are just slightly deranged, or just plain full of shit. They are seem to have a philosophical analysis on every subject including some of the most mundane.

Too self absorbed to even listen to any one else, they will blather on incessantly, and being hammered, quite incoherently. If you let the philosopher go on it will devolve into complete gibberish or the misguided belief that he speaks a foreign language. Do not attempt to talk sense or engage the philosopher in an intelligent debate, you will be wasting your time. Just abruptly turn your back and walk away. They won't even notice that you're gone and will just keep on yammering to inanimate objects in pseudo-Spanish.

5.The Daredevil.

It's been said that most accidental deaths were brought on by the phrase, "Hey, watch this!". Yep. Some of the most moronic activities in the known universe are performed by daredevil drunks. I'm not sure what compels these idiots to do what they do. Maybe they can't handle their booze, maybe they are just a little dumb to begin with, or maybe a little of both. One thing is for certain, they 100 per cent convinced of their abilities.

Regular booze hounds would never even think to come up with these stunts even if they are shithouse plastered. They usually just want to go home and sleep. The daredevil on the other hand, can be found on a rooftop somewhere trying to jump into a pool (and usually missing the mark). Maybe you can spot him doing 60 miles an hour on a BMX bike while grabbing onto the back of a truck. You might attend a closed coffin funeral after he taunted a bunch of rabid pit bulls. Maybe there was a mishap at a knife throwing contest, it doesn't really matter , because as the Darwin awards so succinctly put it , " Those improving the gene pool by removing themselves from it."

6. The Heckler.

This particular brand of retard can be found at any live music venue. If you can't see him, you sure as hell will be able to hear him. Repetitive shouts of "Woo-Hoo!" fill the air, and the band hasn't even started yet. When the band starts, he ramps up the decibel levels on the woo-hoos and shouts out lame requests to the band ( these are the same goofs who yell out "Skynyrd" at Rockabilly shows).

They often turn into a one man mosh pit as they step on toes and spill people's drink. His evening will be short however, cuz he's gonna get his ass whupped at one point.( I witnessed this first hand at the Rodeo Bar in New York, the heckler too stupid to be aware that it was a bad idea to act like a buffoon in a room full of greasers).

Often the ass whuppin' will be performed by the band when the heckler gets on stage and starts wailing into one of the microphones. He can be found on the street later on doing impromptu raps or trying to break dance, thus encouraging even more beatings.

8.The Mean Drunk.

These angry drunks can be found most anywhere. They have been known to start brawls at weddings and funerals. I don't have a psychological analysis, but more than likely, these animals are sociopaths to begin with. Throw some hard liquor into the mix and you have a volatile combination.

The Mean Drunk usually just unpredictably snaps. This is manifested by glazed eyes and the taunts usually favored by these mullet clad baboons: "Whut'r yew lookin' at, slick?" and " You think yer better than me?!". At this point it doesn't really matter who is standing there, this dude wants to fight.

There is no way to calm down this angry lunatic, it is a waste of time and hazardous to try talk sense to him. There are a few solutions, however. If he's not as tough as you, beat him senseless immediately and the problem will be solved. If he is equally tough, buy him a few drinks (spike one for good measure).
If he is way tougher than you, get some gal to show him her boobs. This always appeases this barbarian on a primeval level. As he is drooling you can sneak up behind him smack him in the head with two by four and then get the hell outta there.

9. The Hobo.

This boozer's insatiable requirements for alcohol are astounding. He can be drunk all night and all day and still be standing. After downing a forty pounder of vodka he will make his way to the liquor store to get beers. You can see him wavering at the cash register as he counts his change over and over. Some hobos have an ATM card, and it can take them upwards of twenty minutes to enter the PIN number.

If you should be unfortunate enough to make eye contact, he will engage you in some pointless bum conversation laced with cliches and addled rhetoric. If he gets close enough, you will be assaulted by bad breath that could drop a cow at forty paces. He will eventually make his way to the park where his hobo buddies await him, mooching cigarettes on the way there.

A lot of these uber-alkies can be found in their natural habitat, the local skid bar. Worn carpets, the smell of stale urine, the absolute lack of music and chicks even drunker than them seem to be oddly alluring to the hobos. They will sit there for hours on end, shouting gibberish at each other over the din of background noise while drinking cheap-ass paralysis inducing draft beer. They will have some beer for breakfast the next day and do it all over again.

I'll see you at the local bar. Cheers.

A Walk In The Park

2011-05-28T11:33:00.000-07:00

I live in a cold, wet place where it seems to rain for the better part of the year. We are on the cusp of June and the uncooperative weather still forces me to wear a jacket. Whenever a random sunny day makes an appearance, I like to go the one of the many parks that dot the landscape of this overly green eldritch.

Like many Vancouverites, I get on my bike and take a little ride. The only difference with me and those jogging fools in yoga pants and those spandex-clad Tour de France wannabes, is that I'm packin' 12 beers. I'm riding with very specific destinations in mind: nice parks where I can have a beer without the cops spotting me.

This town has many petty and stupid bylaws, the stupidest among them is the illegality of having a beer in a park or a bottle of wine at a picnic. Stupider still is the latest bylaw that has resulted in the banning of smoking in any city park or on any beach. These would result in stiff fines and in the case of booze, the added indignity of being forced to pour out the remainder of your booze. Too add insult to injury, dirty longhairs and their ilk fire up fat doobies with impunity in any public space only to have the cops turn a blind eye. Who's says Canada ain't run by a bunch o' fucking commies?

The weekend was almost upon us and the weather was too nice to resist the temptation of going on a little booze cruise. One problem was that I was sick of being laden like a pack mule as I rolled around town with a backpack containing 12 beers, 20 lb. bike lock, various metal working tools and the ever present rain gear. I went to a local sports shop to peruse various forms of bicycle saddle bags ( known as panniers in the industry jargon, but you can't fool me: pannier is French for a freakin' basket).
The only prerequisite I had ( other than not looking retarded) was that they had to have a high BPS factor. BPS means Beers Per Side.

My ever vigilant hillbilly sense of economics prevented me from paying an obscene amount of money, so I located some used ones for 10 bucks. Being very pleased with myself, I immediately headed out to the nearest beer store to determine the BPS factor (turns out it was 10 per side). I headed to the nearest park, weighed down by the copious quantities of beer and the low center of gravity and that's when the freak show began.

Beer 1.

This a great spot for boozin' because there is a bench strategically place behind a hump thereby providing the perfect cover from the watchful eye of the cops. This park is unfortunately also a notorious hang out for dirty hobos, angry alcoholics, and psychotic people who mutter to themselves.

As I cracked my first beer and began calculating the beer to weight ratio of the saddle bags, I became vaguely aware of two dudes that sat on the next bench. There was much talk of bitches, hos and probation officers. I couldn't make out most of it due to the crustacean level of intelligence possessed by these baggy pants-wearing barbarians. The conversation changed gears as there was admonitions about fat cousins with guns. The head lout then asked his follower " did I show you my bullet holes?"

That's when my ears perked up. They continued with random musings about petty crimes, guns, hos and fat hos. Boss Hog then noticed me and said " Hey brother, sorry about all that I hope you haven't been listening". I told him that it was no big deal and he proceeded to ask me how my day was going and gave me one of those ubiquitous gangsta fist-bumps. When I replied that I had just gotten off work, he replied " Work?!" It seemed an alien concept to him, which is strange because it takes a lot of work to be a petty criminal or a dangerous retard.

I didn't want to seem chickenshit so I kept drinking my beer at a leisurely pace. It was akin to making rapid movements in front of a pack of dobermans, it will only make them angrier. Move slowly like nothing is happening and it will be cool. I marveled at the utter lack of articulation as I took the last guzzle from my beer can. I told my benchmates see ya and got the hell out of there real fast, to the fading sound of "bitches" and "hos".

Beer 2.

I kept heading east towards another small park that has a pretty good view. As I cracked the beer and prepared to relax, some old guys plops his ass down at the picnic table I was sitting at. I thought for a moment that I knew him, but soon realized that I was mistaken. He then proceeded to whip out the biggest, fattest joint I had ever seen. It was huge, man. Like the size of a salami. He fired it up and gave me a surprised look when I refused to partake. " Yeah, drinkers, they never seem to smoke". He then proceed to tell me about his father's drinking prowess and pretty much the rest of his life story , all within about five minutes. There must have been crack in his weed, because I thought potheads were supposed to all mellow and fucked up. As he started a tirade about "hindus, man!" I power-gulped my beer and took off.

Beer 3.

After a heavy-pedal sprint and running a gauntlet of dazed commuters looking for buses, I arrived at another of my favored destinations. This particular park has bathrooms, and I was reluctant to risk yet another fine by pissing in the bushes. As I made a beeline towards spartan building that would have been at home in the Gulag, I almost had a major wipe out. As I cried out "what the fuck was that " I noticed some squares scowling at me. The self-entitled breeders had thoughtlessly left their kids' plastic toys strewn all over the bike path. I wondered if the scowls were caused by my cursing, me squashing a a tonka toy, or both. As I exited the foul smelling public facilities, I found a bench and as I cracked a beer, the popping sound attracted yet more scowls from the squares. I quickly fixed the situation with a well placed " whut'r yew lookin' at ?" . They left in a huff and I was able to quietly finish my beer right around the time the cops arrived. I gave my empty to a bum and pedaled away quickly as the cops questioned him about where the rest of his beers were.

Beer 4.

As I was getting closer to home, the crowds were thinning out and I thought that I could finally have a beer in peace. As I opened yet another beer, a bunch of dog-people approached. They had never met but began talking about each others dogs. These were some really dumb dogs. The kind of dogs that didn't have enough sense to bring the ball back, the kinds of dogs that take about 8 hours to figure out that you ain't home, the kinds of dogs that will pee right there on the spot if you yell, "Hey!". Those kinds of dogs.

I wasn't annoyed at the dogs, their running into fences or each other and the daze that that put them in was amusing me. It was the owners. They oohed and aahed at every move their oblivious dogs would make. The dogs didn't care, they were too busy trying to find the ball and shitting all over the park.

The squares idiotic and pointless conversations were beginning to annoy me, so I downed the beer and left and thought I heard someone mutter something about " Elvis".

Beer 5.

I headed to another park, I call it Barracho park. It is a park that has these long strips of pavement for playing bocce ball. The old Italian men in the hood used to play, but they are gone now. The park is now a favorite meeting place for some local Honduran residents. It always seems to be the same twenty people and man are they drunk. I understand a bit of of Spanish, but these guys are so drunk that they ain't speaking it.

I've hung out with these guys a few times, but they were so drunk that I didn't know what they were talking about. The only time I saw people people drunker than this was at the Legion hall on Remembrance day. Now those were the drunkest people in the universe.

I waved at a couple of the guys who knew me and drank my beer as I tried ignore the cacophony. I was noticing an increase in the decibel levels, and noticed that there was fight going on. It wasn't like a TV fight, it was a hammered fight with lotsa slapping and tussling. I then realized that it was a chick who as actually whoopin' some dudes ass. She was whoopin' him good and everyone was amused( some were laughing). That is until the cops showed up. I'm not sure what happened next, I took off quick, not wanting to end up at the precinct with the hapless Barrrachos.

Maybe I'll do my next booze cruise in the forest where all I will have to contend with are bears and skunks, because that day proved to me in no uncertain terms that a man can't have a beer in park in peace and quiet. I gotta go, I think I hear sirens.

The Bad Canadian.

2011-05-21T11:03:00.000-07:00

I live in Canada and I like it. I was born and raised here and have often asked myself what exactly defines a Canadian. That in itself can be a difficult question.While Canadians are rarely endowed with that glowing sense of patriotism that our brethren to the south posses, most are proud to live here and love their country. Some say that we are polite, which is complete nonsense because some of the rudest idiots and stupidest louts that I have met were Canadian. There seems to be many other traits that define what it means to be a Canadian; I unfortunately do not have any of them, I am a bad Canadian. Confused, eh? Don't take off and read on.

1. Bad Sports.

It is said that the one truly unifying factor in Canadian culture, the one that really defines us as a people, is hockey. As for myself, I couldn't give a rat's ass about hockey. As I write this our local team is still in the playoffs as June approaches. June is summer last time I checked and I can't imagine being cooped up in some windowless bar watching a hockey game.

The passive nature of organized sports in general is a monumental waste of time, but Canadian hockey fans are a breed unto themselves. Some will actually start fist fights over it, too brainwashed/drunk to understand the concept that the team won and all they did was watch.

Getting all worked up about a bunch of prima donnas on skates is ridiculous, especially when you consider the obscene amount of money these guys make. If I wanna see mullets, missing teeth and fights, I just head down to Country bar in the burbs: just as entertaining and doesn't cost anything.

To add to the delusion, hockey fans are obsessed with their team when they are winning, yet will denounce them as worthless bums should they happen to lose. Some even get depressed about it, and others will call in sick at work.

"See the game last nite?" I find it irritating that even complete strangers assume that I like hockey. If you have the audacity to answer no, you will be deemed to be a mental case.

I don't much care for Nascar, but consider the comparison for a moment. When was the last time you saw a Nascar fight? Or someone going to the office wearing their favorite Nascar driver's jersey? Or seen a couple of idiots duking it out over who's car is faster? Didn't think so.

Hockey is marketing pure and simple. It is a product and they are subliminally creating brand loyalty. They make a fortune on merchandising and most people are too oblivious to be outraged at paying $150 a ticket and then have to suffer the further indignity of a 9 dollar beer in a plastic cup. Take off. eh!

2. Bad Hair.

You're not even supposed to say mullet and rockabilly in the same phrase. While the mullet is certainly not the exclusive domain of Canadians, I seem to notice a higher percentage of them up here. It's almost as if it is perceived as a prerequisite to being Canadian. Keep in mind that in certain parts of the country a mullet is referred to as a hockey haircut. I don't have to venture far from the city core to see mullets first hand. I'm not sure of the provenance of mullets, but rest assured that a mullet is like a wearing a badge that says, "I'm dumb." A power mullet seems to imply, " I'm dumb and I have a gun in my truck." I wonder how barbers are coerced into making this abomination, but maybe they have mullets too.

In a strange twist of irony, it is often the greasers who are the recipients of weird looks and quizzical smiles due their haircuts. As I have observed in the past, on my daily rounds, a lot of people look up as they encounter me and my pomp. " Hey, my face is down here!" Get a haircut, eh!

3. Bad Music.

While bad music and dogmatic adherence to the tenets of Classic Rock are just as prevalent in the US, we have our own special brand of bad music in Canada. Most likely the progeny of Cancon ( Where it is the law that 30% of radio broadcast must be Canadian Content, no foolin' , this is an actual law) these purveyors of hoser-rock rock on with reckless abandon.

Wankage-masters Rush seem to be at the top of the heap. These aging prog-rockers just won't seem to go away and keep cranking out album after album containing 20 minute drum solos and at least 5 million notes. Neal Peart, the drummer for this band, seems to have garnered his own cult-like following. Battle cries of " Peart is god!" can be heard from Saskatoon to Smith's Falls on any given Saturday night as the fighting and puking begin.

It's hard to avoid classic rock on any given day, some fool somewhere is always playing it. In Canada, however we are added the extra indignity of hearing the likes of BTO and April Wine ad nauseam. When I hear April Wine I get an urge to find an icepick and jam it in my ears. When I hear The Safety Dance, I wanna punch a dog or something. When I hear Burton Cummings I want to drive a ski-doo into a brick barn.

Thanks to the Casino circuit which seems to have revived the careers of many a has-been and one hit wonder, these chronologically impaired rockers will keep spewing out the same old rock cliches well into their 80's. Stomp that Guess Who CD, eh!

Some Canadians are obsessed with bagpipes and highland dancing. While I don't mind hearing bagpipes at the Canada Day parade, I wouldn't want to spend an entire day watching earnest young lasses jumping around doing something that looks suspiciously like the Macarena. These robust girls in their kilts will dance all day at the local highland games and there ain't enough Cutty Sark whiskey on hand to make this remotely interesting.

There is strange part of Canada that people rarely think about called the Maritimes. Nestled in the Eastern most part of Canada, the Maritimers revel in fish stories, booze and Celtic music. Tons of Celtic music. After a few days days there, you will be so freakin' sick of Celtic music that you may develop post traumatic stress syndrome and snap when you hear fiddles. If you ever hear "What do you do with a drunken sailor"one more time, you may snap and end up in a church steeple throwing codfish and potatoes at passersby. What do you do with a drunken fiddler, eh?

4. Bad Weather.

Yes, you heard right and it's all true. It is fucking cold up here. Ball-numbing, brain activity stopping, absolute zero deep space cold. So what do Canadians do about it? They go outdoors of course. They will brave 30 below cold to ride around snowmobiles in the woods. Spewing blue smoke from the two stroke engines and scaring small animals for miles around, a good time is had by all.

There will be many beers brought along to stave off the cold. This is why many snowmobilers return from their forays with toes and fingers missing. It often takes them a while to realize that one their buddies is missing. This usually the guy who ventured out onto a partially frozen lake.

Skiing seems just as ridiculous to me and this activity also seems to incur booze-induced missing digits. Yes, it is also an excuse to to get hammered. The only difference is you have to get to the top of a mountain to do it. You slide down said mountain with sticks strapped to your feet and hit 60 mph on the hard packed snow. You go back up the mountain and get even more hammered and do it all again. All at the balmy temperature of 45 below with the wind chill factor. A close encounter with a tree sometimes ensues.

Although an indoor sport, Curling still requires ice. I cannot think of a more quintessentially Canadian activity nor of a dumber way to spend your time. Boring and incomprehensible as it may seem , there are devotees of the "sport" who watch it on TV. To make it even creepier, these guys are all teetotalers and all head to the Tim Horton's after the game. ( For my American readers Tim Horton's is like Dunkin' Donuts run by evangelists). As an aside, I will probably burn in hoser hell for saying this, but I fucking hate Tim Horton's. The incompetent staff and tepid crappy coffee always make it an infuriating experience.

Other Canucks will go moose hunting. Very few city people will eat a moose, but this is a really good excuse to get away from the wife and get really shithouse plastered in the bush. At least once a year some drunken hunter will mistake a bright orange hunting vest for a moose and blast away.

Some even drunker Canadians think that's is a great idea and a shitload of fun to sit in a little shack in the middle of a frozen lake and attempt to extract fish from a hole. It is so fucking cold, that even the fish are frozen into solid blocks of ice. That is usually the cue to get back to the truck or ski-doo to fetch more booze. Most ice fishers end up passing out in that little shack only to awake to the dying embers of a tiny stove stinking of stale booze, burning wood, beer farts but not fish. The usually end wondering why their toes have all turned black. As they come to the realization that they are out of booze, most will go home and buy some frozen fish at the market on the way. I ain't shovellin' no snow. eh!

5. Bad Beer.

No discussions about Canadians would be complete without mentioning beer. It is a bit of a myth that we drink more beer than anybody. I have partied from Missouri to Virginia and back, and I can assure you that our American counterparts like beer as much as we do. Per Capita I think Germans must drink more beer. The only difference is that most Canadians like bad beer.

Big breweries are big business and venerable institutions like Molson keep cranking out hoser-slop by the tanker truck. Most hosers buy into the marketing ploys such as big boobs and maudlin jingoistic tirades and cram this swill down their gullets until the cows come home. Not unlike hockey, there are occasional bar brawls that started over brand loyalty. With all the great microbrews available, I cannot fathom why any one would want to drink this flatulence inducing barbaric grog. Their palates eroded by bad beer and the resulting burned out brain cells, the hosers usually hate microbrews. Some get angry and indignant as if it was an affront to their manhood. The will angrily declare " I ain't drinkin' this shit!" as they puff out their chest and down a warm Molson Canadian all at once. Damn change, eh?

The really fancy hosers will drink Corona not knowing that reason you put lime on it is to keep the flies away. Your average hoser thinks that the ultimate vacation is Puerto Vallarta and the Corona reminds him of this. They love the all inclusive drink-til-you-have-an-aneurysm price of these vacations, and are always more than willing to propagate the stereotype of the Ugly Canadian. Whattaya you mean, I'm cut off,eh?

There you have it folks, a few random observations. I am a Bad Canadian, but my American friends are always amused when I inadvertently drop an " eh " into the conversation. Thanks for reading and have a good day, eh?

The Price Of Rockabilly

2011-05-14T11:42:00.000-07:00

Maintaining a certain lifestyle costs dough, that's just the way it is. Even hippies, hypocritical and self-delusional as they may be, need money to keep up their filthy lifestyle. Their sporadic lack of employment limits their budget, but all they really need is a few bucks for patchouli, replacement skins for bongos and very large bags of pot. The rest they just scrounge in dumpsters, alleys or the Salvation Army. There is a also a readily available source of crap at any hippie house where there always seems to be big piles of crap, twenty or thirty broken down bicycles and candle stumps. When the hippies get stoned, they can't remember what belongs to who, and usually wake up with a new found tattered sweater and some piece of shit Sears bicycle.

Not so simple for Rockabillies, not by a long shot. You wanna be greasy, it's gonna cost you. I've never tallied up the total cost, but I suspect that a fair chunk of my hard earned dough is transformed into greasy accouterments and the resulting hole in my bank account always leaves me puzzled.

I will try to figure out what the associated costs are, but I won't even venture into the money burning domain of hot rods. The tales of horror that I have heard from hot rodding buddies would frighten the bravest among us. I will muse upon the day to day activities of your average greaser. As for greaserettes, well, all I know is that they own many, many pairs of of shoes, and I suspect that they spend way more cash than greasy dudes.

1. Hairy Stories.

Oh, that damned hair. All the fussin' and a fightin' with the pomp and the grease. Squares and non believers are always perplexed at the complexity of the rituals associated with a Rockabilly pomp. It's a waste of time to try to explain it, it just is.

It usually costs a bundle to get a decent haircut form a barber who innately understands 50's high and tight haircuts. I'd rather have a good 40 dollar cut than a shitty 10 dollar one. This was proven to me in no uncertain terms a few years ago when a buddy and myself thought it was a good idea to get a 6 dollar haircut. The resulting butchery forced us to wear a hat for the following three weeks. It was akin to the kind of haircut that one would get just before getting a lobotomy. We probably would have gotten a better haircut at the local prison, and it would have been free. There is no amount of grease that can fix a haircut that shitty.

Now that I have located that rare master among barbers, I no longer have to worry. I endure a two plus hour wait and idiotic banter from his not-so-cool customers. I always bring lots of beer to alleviate the pain, and then enjoy the fact that there nothing quite as amusing as getting a haircut while half in the bag.

2. It's a Greasy Thing.

One of the absolutes of Rockabilly is that you will need grease and lots of it. All your shit will be greasy and arguments with your significant other will ensue because all her stuff will get greasy as well. Might as well budget for lots of new towels and pillow cases. Having a dedicated grease towel helps to alleviate a lot of tension.

Hundreds of dollars will be spent trying to find the right type of grease. The right hold, sheen and pure expression of hooligan like greasiness are elusive and one must experiment.

Living in Canada can make this even more challenging: it's just hard to find cool shit up here. Years ago on a road trip, I entered a drug store in Alexandria, Virginia. As I looked around I stumbled upon an entire section dedicated to hair grease. You know those movie cliches when someone has an epiphany and they mix in angelic voices and bright white light? It was one of those moments. I was scaring old ladies as I was crouched down, opening all the jars and poking the contents and muttering to myself. Upon my return, the border guards looked suspiciously at the twenty jars of various hair grease. They grilled me for a while, but luckily did not confiscate them. They never did find the bottles of whiskey that I had stashed in each boot.

3. Shorts and Beers

No self respecting Rockabilly ever runs out of beer, but this can be complicated in Canada. They just love to tax everything up here and make it difficult to have fun. You will pay 20 to 25 bucks for 12 beers, and in true Soviet-era style of government run retailing, the beer will be warm. You can go to a private store and experience capitalism at it's most finely honed form. You will pay 16 bucks for a six pack and they're even open on Christmas.

Another astounding revelation occurred to me a few years ago in Seattle when I got 24 cold PBR at a Chevron for $10.99. It was 2am and it was cold ! Where's that green card when you need it?

Pabst has licensed their brand here in Canada to a large brewery. This unpalatable swill looks like Pabst but tastes like ass. To add insult to injury, it is a strong beer(5.5%) . You will get hammered quickly and it will be an ugly hammered, not unlike the hammered you get from drinking really cheap whiskey. There will be staggering, beer farts, occasional threats and the odd "Whut'r yew lookin' at?"

Official beer of Rockabilly or not, the Canadian Version of PBR is not for the faint of heart. You will have to budget a few extra hundred dollars for underwear. PBR will give you a real bad case of the green apple two-step and you're gonna need lots of clean shorts.

4. Shut Up.

You should probably budget about 100 bucks a year for throat lozenges, because you will end up yelling at a lot of idiots. Whiny hippies speaking way too loudly and talkin' shit will cause involuntary reactions as you yell at them to shut the fuck up. you will have to yell even louder when they start an impromptu drum circle next door at 2 am.

As discussed in a previous post, there will always be some drunk retard somehwre who always feels it necessary to touch your hair. "Get the fuck away from me! screamed at 120 dB will irritate your throat after a while.

Now if they only made Jack Daniel's flavored throat lozenges.

5. Threads.

Your basic Rockabilly clothing needs are quite simple if one doesn't covet vintage clothing. E-bay, among other things, have made the price of anything old skyrocket. I would not pay 800 bucks for a shirt. It may be cool, but not 800 bucks worth of cool. I would probably spill beer on it, or get it snagged on a guitar string. I would feel even more idiotic if I had gotten into a scrap wearing said 800 shirt ( although I once witnessed two guys in suits having a brawl, I think my laughing made them angrier).

Several hundred bucks a year is all you need. Those cuffs on jeans may look cool, but they will rip and disintegrate right there at the cuff. The five pounds of rocks that accumulate inside the cuffs probably help to accelerate the process. You will spend a lot of money a black band t-shirts, because you will feel the need to get them all. One word of warning: There is always one guy wearing the band T-shirt of the band that is playing that night. Don't be that guy.

You will probably have to allow five or six pairs of Converse per year, because cool as they may be, these are really crappy shoes and they wear out quickly. Might want to include some money for a good physiotherapist, because these over priced slabs of rubber will destroy your back and other body parts.

6. Other Stuff.

You'll need a few hundred bucks for miscellaneous items such as replacing busted combs, replacing wallet chains that were left behind wedged into park benches, bail money for those Saturday nights that got a little too rambunctious, bribe money for the bouncer to let you back in after said Saturday night, various shit that you will lose when you're drunk and maybe the odd tiki that looked cool when you bought it. Just make sure you don't run out beer.

Douchemobiles.

2011-05-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

It's hard to deny our collective century-long love affair with the car. Almost from the start cats had the desire to modify the cars to either make them go faster or make them look cooler. As long as there has been hot rodders however, there have been douchebags. It took a special breed of douchebag to drive around in a $6000 Deusenberg during the height of the great depression. Make no mistake, these douchebags are still among us.

I tend not to notice new model cars, their homogeneous body styling makes them invisible to me. I can't imagine any of these cars being classics in 50 years time. They will sad and dated, not unlike a 1980's Ferrari today, it just looks plain stupid. I am immersed in a world of hot rods and old cars. Getting a ride home in a '53 Ford seems quite normal to me. A 1935 Plymouth with a vintage hemi or 1930 model A , cool as they are, are commonplace. We don't make the distinction, these are all cool cars and built up as they would have been in the fifties, and we just ride around like we were going to the 7-11 in grandma's Toyota. We are oblivious to all the stares and dumb questions about what year the car is. We get annoyed when people touch the cars with blatant disregard for tacitly implied social rules of behavior. This hearkens back to a simpler time, when young cats built hot rods in their back yards and the highest aspiration that some of them may have had was owning a Cadillac.

Being seemingly lost in the Rockabilly world that is our domain, we tend to ignore all other cars. Some cars however are so outrageous that they beg attention, whether one wants to or not. Their social ramifications are about as subtle as sledge hammer to the head. They scream out the status seeking aspirations of their attention-whore owners. These are the ridiculous cars, these are the douchemobiles.

1. Aston Martin DB-9

I recently saw a poster proudly advertising the retail price of this British piece of metal snobbery. $238,000 seems reasonable to a specific type of douchebag to ride around in a fairly nondescript sedan with a naturally aspirated V-12. Considering that British cars have a notorious reputation for unreliability, I find this particularly amusing. The douches who drive around in these cars probably have secret fantasies about being a British spy. They rev the engine at red lights as they pretend to have a missile launcher in one of the headlights and check the rear view mirror to see if they are being tailed by KGB spies.

All the James Bond cliches are so blatant that this car almost seems to be a parody of itself. There should be a driver's ejection seat. When the owner surpasses a certain pre-determined level of douchebaggery, it would eject him right there on the street. This would be funny, especially in poorest hood in town where he was arrogantly flaunting his wealth.

His arrogance will be short lived, however, as he will usually be found driving a loaner because the Aston will spend most of its existence in the shop. $20, 000 brake jobs might eventually erode his confidence. You don't see whole lot of of old Astons on the road, they all mysteriously disappear and probably end in a junk yard somewhere in England.

2. Lamborghini Gallardo .

Considered by some to be the poor man's Lambo at $185, 000 there seems to be an inordinate amount of these disco-colored clown mobiles on the streets of my home town. My work often takes me to an alley behind the local Lamborghini dealer, and these glorified go-carts are lined up awaiting their turn on the lift in the garage. Seems like there's always something wrong with them and I can safely surmise that even one bolt would cost about $500.

The Gallardo owners seem to be a breed of douche unto themselves. They are likely to have made a lot of money in the gaming industry. They all seem to have a preference for garish clothing a flip flops. Their whiny demeanor comes from always having their way and being surprised when they don't. Lacking any mechanical aptitude or driving skills, one can usually smoke one these fuckers with a Toyota Matrix. They will get an anxiety attack and make their way to the nearest wine bar. They will order a $40 glass of wine and yell at the bartender. They will soon tire of the Gallardo and sell it. After they lose all their money on the stock market, you might meet one these douches as he asks you if you want fries with that.

3. Bentley two door coupe convertible.

These drivers are few notches above Aston owners on the douche scale. These are the types of people who have hired help at home and occasionally beat them. They have no qualms about kicking your dog and squashing pigeons as they roll down residential streets. These folks also have aspirations of nobility and usually speak with a nasal strain commonly reserved for people who have just shit their pants. They will wantonly double park wherever it suits their needs.

I find amusing that these people are oblivious to the fact that Bentley was acquired by Volkswagen some time ago. With all the leather, wood and flying "B" logos, they are driving a really big, really expensive Volkswagen.

4. Rolls Royce.

What would possess anybody to buy one these behemoths seems to be beyond reason. These cars are huge, impractical and obscenely expensive.These are douchebags of a rare caliber. These are the ones that are flagrantly attempting to purchase nobility. They usually spend large amounts of money researching their family trees to see if they are related to the queen, ( They are not, they are usually descended from some British criminal that fled to Canada, illiterate swine herders, or survivors of scurvy epidemics).

There must be a certain insecurity involved when the decision is made to sign on the dotted line. The nervously drive around, enveloped in their cocoon of wood and leather as they look around for parking meters that still have time left in them. I sometimes see them parked on a popular street in a working class neighborhood . It's quite funny to the see the unabashed anger of the locals at this affront. Nothing says a big fuck you like a Rolls parked in your hood. Of course the Rolls owner would never resort to such foul language, hell he wouldn't even deem it worthy of his aristocratic delusions to speak directly to greasy scumbags such as you and me. He'll have his cockney butler do it for him. "Oi ! Fook off, Oi!.

5. Ferrari.

Nothing says asshole more than Ferrari. The red color just screams get the hell out of my way. Ferrari owners wear suits at all times and always, I mean always, have a bleach blond bimbo in the passenger seat. I think it's one of the prerequisites of owning this car, and if a skank is not available at the time of purchase, they will fly one in from Milan.

You have to question the lack of judgment involved in buying a vehicle that is essentially a race car to drive around in downtown traffic a 10 miles an hour, Just the sound of the car idling is enough to attract the attention of many cops and speeding tickets will abound even at one mile over the limit.This is why you eventually see Ferrari owners taking cabs, they will eventually lose their licence. This usually happens after these notoriously cantankerous, unreliable and leaky cars spend a year in the shop waiting for parts to be manufactured in Italy.

Best to usually avoid the Ferrari owner, because chances are he already hates you or there is a barrage of bullets with his name on them just around the corner. If you are a coke dealer, however, you are in luck, he needs your services immediately and there will be lots of repeat business. Ferrari douche and all his other Ferrari buddies will get all wired on expensive blow and yammer at the same time, while it slowly dawns on the them as, the coke wears off and they start to get maudlin, that they hate their cars.

A special mention goes out to the ultimate douchemobile out there: The Ferrari Enzo. I actually saw one the other day and man, did the driver look nervous. At a staggering price tag of $ 649,000, he should be. I personally think that this an ugly car, and it might be something that Darth Vader would drive around.

At a limited production run of 349, these are not common cars. That doesn't make them anymore interesting though, some of my buddies' hot rods have more horsepower. I am just at a loss to explain what kind of uber-douchebag would desire a car that costs more than a really nice house. There's no accounting for taste, lack thereof or staggering amounts of douchbaggery.

Drive safe and be careful of douchemobiles.

Are You Nutso ?

2011-04-22T12:02:00.000-07:00

There seems to be an inordinate amount of crazy people freely roaming the streets these days.Very few are even aware that they are crazy, I am not speaking about the demented hobos who wander around aimlessly, frothing at the mouth, shouting gibberish or having arguments with broken payphones.

I am speaking of high-functioning whack-jobs, the kind that have jobs and are more than likely to be seated right next to you at your job. I see them on the city streets every day; there they are, absolutely convinced of their intellectual superiority and just as blindly immersed in their own delusions. These are the dysfunctional members of our society, the kinds that will annoy you, waste your time with pointless subterfuge, frighten you or just plain piss you off; The Crazy People.

1.Scowling Skanks.

Every city has them. They stroll down the street a rapid clip usually shod with loud clacking shoes, sporting a scowl, or at the very least, a constipated expression.. They always, and I mean always, have their arms folded. I have yet to figure out why. Who the fuck rolls down the street with their arms folded. Are they pissed at something? Hiding a coffee stain? Their boobs hurt ? What ? Judging by the demeanor that they present to the world, I can only come up with one reasonable answer: they are deranged.

2. I Gots Da Blooz.

There seems to be some inexplicable correlation between Blues bands and the need for fully grown adults to make complete fools out of themselves. Lacking any sense of rhythm whatsoever, these coolness challenged denizen of the blues bar rarely miss an opportunity to spaz out as soon as the band hits the first 12 bars.

In a fit of booze and blues induced fervor, some will add air guitar moves to their repertoire and the most fervent eventually end up on their ass, dizzy from the cheap beer and lack of the beat.

In the earlier part of the 20th century, this was often diagnosed as the St. Vidas Dance and health officials would promptly lock these people up and medicate them. Today, these gyrating , oscillating , flailing and jumping maniacs are left free to roam amongst us. Other than the damage that they may induce to our brain, not unlike those seizure inducing Japanese animations shows, they are for the most part harmless. Stay at least twenty feet away in case some uncontrolled body part whacks you in the eyeball.

3.Hats Off.

I like a cool hat as much as the next guy. Most self respecting greasers have at least on poor boy in their repertoire for those days when messing with a pomp just ain't in the cards. A quick trip to the beer store getting bacon for that Sunday morning hangover just ain't worth the effort of foolin' around with grease and a comb.

Then there are the hats that are designed to annoy such as the various headpieces that hipsters seem to be fond of. Those stupid saggy wool caps seem to go well with their skinny jeans and the rest of their attire. Pork pie hats are best left to be worn by seasoned and venerable bluesmen. Even more annoying still are the hipster-douche-ironic-trucker-hat. Irony being the defining factor of the hollow life of the hipster, the trucker hat has become iconic. Double the annoyance factor when the brim is turned up or the hat is worn askew. These hipsters need to find a Peterbilt and inhale some of the diesel fumes.

What frightens me is far more insidious. Take some time to observe people walking down the street and remember the following: The crazier the hat, the crazier the person.

Also size is a factor. You might seem some crazy ladies with hats the size of SUV tires. They are nuts. The mutter incoherently about conspiracy theories, crystals and other things too weird to understand and the sentences are punctuated with" man". They tend to have 12 cats or more.

Hippies are also fond of ridiculous head ware. Floppy velvet rags, bits of trees anything goes in the putrid world of the hippie. They are not so much demented as just plain old stupid and more than likely addled from excessive cannabis use.

4. Sports Louts

Your average sports fan probably isn't nuts. The hooligans that start riots if their teams win or or lose probably are. Their shouts of "we won" are the their rallying cry, but they are usually too drunk to realize that technically they did not win, they just watched. Their testosterone induced fits of barbaric behavior cloud the irony that that they are being taken in by slick marketing, creation of brand loyalty and over priced team merchandise. Usually found in large groups on the street after a game, it is best to avoid these dangerous lunatics.

5. Records, man.

Dudes who run used vinyl stores usually seem to be a little off. They sniff with airs of superiority at anything that outside their realm and have an unhealthy disdain for CD's. They usually own all 23 versions of some song by an obscure 60's garage band, and given the opportunity, will discuss it at length and dissect every note. They sometimes forgo food and personal hygiene in their search for rare vinyl.

They will openly berate non-believers and have very few social skills. It is always funny to throw them a curve, because most of these guys know fuck all about Rockabilly.

They can often be found with their half-witted brethren; the Dungeons and Dragons folk. They can sometimes be seen in parks staging mock sword battles or dancing to medieval music.

6.Skid Bars

I'm not sure how the skid bar ever came to be, but their seems to be an alarming abundance of them in most large North American cities. There is no amount of booze that can make these places appealing, they are just as depressing drunk or sober. They all have regulars, however, and the regulars love their local skid bar. Some can be found drinking really bad draft in the dark confines of the bar on a nice sunny day, only occasionally venturing outside to search for cigarette butts on the sidewalk.

Many of these places are devoid of music, not even having the most rudimentary of juke boxes. As the din would indicate, the regulars don't even give a damn. They are content to yammer at each other in their own, incomprehensible skid bar dialect. Shouts of " Yaarg", "Frag", and " Maaah" can be heard interspersed in the din with the occasional beer belch.

This is probably what lunatic asylums would look like if they served alcohol, but the skid bar provides invaluable services should one be in need of stolen cheese or contraband cigarettes.

7. 4:20 Day

Marijuana users seem to think that they have a morally superior cause. They are too stoned to know that all they are doing is getting fucked up in the head. Their self righteous and ardent devotion to this substance culminates in 4:20 day, cleverly held on April 20th every year. They congregate downtown in large crowds and defiantly blow pot smoke at cops. Oh those dangerous rebels that they are.

They will have important pot-people give speeches that are rarely completed due to the excessive misfiring of brain cells. They will chant and cause a ruckus, smug in the knowledge that they are pissing pretty much everybody off. Always held in the middle of the day, theses so-called activists don't seem to have any visible signs of employment. They will go on ad nauseam about the mind expanding properties of the magic weed and trail off mumbling, having forgotten their point.

The revel in their defiance, yet are basically a bunch of smart asses. If you happen to be in the vicinity of this inert mass of dirt and dreadlocks, you will definitely see some truly insane people. And they are stoned to top it off. It doesn't last long however, and the firemen will hose the place down when it's done as the hippies airily meander off, trying to remember where they live.

Crazy, man, crazy.

Getting Hosed in The 21st Century.

2011-04-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

It is a fact of life that at one time or another, and definitely more than once we will all get hosed. Hucksterism is human nature and some humans seem to have that natural ability to part you from your money with effortless grace and a warm smile. These reptilian opportunists have been around since the dawn of time and have always had ample supply of rubes to take advantage of.

The modern age's exponential increase in technology and readily available information has taken the art of the scam to new heights. It seems that every mundane transaction has become an exercise in futility, double speak and flat out bullshit. It was not always this way. I will not get nostalgic or lament the passing of the so called good old days. The 1950's, alluring as that decade is to many, had it's shares of social problems. Cars polluted way more, stereos kinda sucked, there was no cable, no remotes, limited medical care, and everything must have taken to damn long.

Several experiences over the last few years have put me right in the middle of of ridiculous bureaucratic situations that are a product of this brave new world. Parting with your hard earned dough did not used to be physically painful or cause blood vessel-popping anger. I think that in that respect, folks in the fifties had it easier. Here are a few observations about thing that people from that decade never had to go through.

1. I need pants.

If you needed pants in the 50's, you went to the pants store. I have a vivid memory from when I was 4 or 5 years old of buying jeans. I got them from the very same place that my father got them in the fifties; the local denim store. My dad took me there so that we could both get Levi's jeans and and jean jacket. The aged haberdasher would adeptly find the right size for you. You would then proceed to try them on. The were dark as night and stiff as plywood, but you were assured that they would soften up. The old gentleman would cuff them for, you would pay and leave.

The only place that has the 501's that I like ( and are required by the International Rockabilly Regulations) are only available at the Levi's store. It is located downtown on Fashion Victim Boulevard squeezed in amongst all the other cookie cutter designer stores. I have to fight my way through throngs of stunned shoppers desperately looking for the next purchase that will define their identity.

As I enter the store, I am greeted by icy stares from the skanky young clerks who immediately proceed to ignore me. I make my way through the dizzying array of jeans' styles to the shelf where my particular 501's lay ( they keep changing it around, just to add to the confusion). Already knowing my size, I proceed to the cash register where I must patiently wait for the cashier to finish her vapid phone conversation as I try to block out the loud dance music. I lay my cash down as the cashier eyeballs me with disdain and blurts out an insincere, nasal than you. This frustrating experience invokes the desire for a real cold beer. I walk past the array of trendy restaurants and wine bars and I realize that it will take a while to find a regular pub.

2. Have I got a Buick For You.

The stereotypical oily used car salesman has been around since about the time of the very first car crash. Some of these guys have probably been around longer, most likely having switched form selling diseased horses to defective vehicles.

Cars were much simpler in the 50's. They had carburetors, drum brakes and a clutch. It was pretty straightforward; you would test drive car, negotiate the price and wait as the garishly dressed salesman would pretend to ask his manger for a lower price. Chances are you got a pretty good deal, but sometimes there was the odd exception where the brakes would completely fail and someone would get badly mangled.

The complex nature of today's cars has led to equally complex bullshit from used car lots. The under-educated salesman will attempt to insult your intelligence with simplistic transparent ploys. "Gimme 6 grand right now, I got another guy interested for 7 grand and he'll be here in half an hour."and other types of inarticulate fast talk and unabashed greed. Attempting to sell a car to a used car lot is very similar to picking up soap in a prison shower.

You will hear all types of objections laced with incomprehensible ( and more than likely, made up) techno-babble. "I dunno man, your deframmer is out of sync", "Your rigor mortis oscillator is broken" or a bunch of ridiculous allusions to mysterious codes spewed out by the car's computer. Whether buying or selling, it's gonna hurt. You might as well take your chances with Craigslist and all the neurotic people that you will meet.

3. Can you Hear Me Now ?

Of all the modern day scams, cel phone providers have managed to devise the most convoluted and devious ways of hosing you in ways that have never even been imagined by the most evil of despots.

Phones in the 50's were pretty simple. A technician would arrive at your home one day and do some mysterious things with wires. All the tools, wires and gizmos dangling from his belt just added to the mystique. A few hours later, a phone would magically appear on your kitchen wall. you could then call your friends to your heart's content, each call taking five minutes to execute on the rotary dial and listening to all the busy signals and calls that would ring ad infinitum when no one was home.

These days you have to suffer the indignity of standing in line for an hour and having some company indoctrinated idiot repeat the corporate sales spiel. Direct questions such as exactly what it will cost are deftly avoided and only serve to increase the amount of subterfuge. You can yell as much as you want, your $17 dollar plan will cost upward of $ 75, you will not be able to decipher the cryptic phone, so just pay it and move on.

4. Take Off.

Traveling in the fifties was an entirely different experience. For those brave souls who decided to drive across the country, it became an adventure. The train was still a gracious, albeit time consuming, way to travel. These mobile booze cans even had a smoking car. For those that could afford it, a plane was a viable option. Airline food was actually edible, every seat had it's own tiny ashtray and the stewardesses ( as they were called in those days) even handed out packs of complimentary cigarettes with five smokes in them and the airline logo on it.

Airlines are the masters of subterfuge, you will never get a straight answer for anything. Next time you are on an airplane ponder the fact that not one person has payed the same price for their tickets. The amount of bullshit that you have to hear when you are purchasing them is bad enough, but nobody is ever able to satisfactorily explain all those arcane surcharges.

The fun really starts when you get to the airport. You will be greeted with that efficient, yet so insincere, airport demeanor. The tried and true cliche about being treated as cattle is apt. You will be led through various line ups, asked a bunch of fool questions and unceremoniously searched. You will drink outrageously over-priced drinks as you await your turn to be crammed on to that airplane. More money will be required as the attendants try to peddle over-priced crappy headphones, expensive domestic beers in a can, movies and 6 dollar sandwiches which bear a suspicious resemblance to the ones that they hand out to the bums downtown.

Upon your return, you may experience the euphemistically called "bump". They have no intention of letting you on the plane, yet will string you along as they mutter shit like," The captain's weighing the plane". It slowly dawns on you that you ain't goin' nowhere, jack. Then you realize that "bump' means "we took your money, we ain't giving you nothin', thank you and go fuck yourself. They will try to appease you with $ 200 dollar vouchers that you will never use and a night in some dingy airport hotel ( if you're lucky). You will get home two days late, tired, haggard and dirty and you will vow to never take a plane again. Trust me, there are no alternatives as a 35 hour each way Greyhound bus trip to Vegas once taught me ( see older post: Greasy Traveling).

Caveat Emptor ( buyer beware) keep rockin' and try not to get hosed.

Things That Rockabilly Has Taught Me.

2011-03-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

This blog is mainly focused on various observations from a Rockabilly perspective. It has recently dawned on me that Rockabilly has taught a few fundamentals. Having been into Rockabilly and all things fifties for so long, I have taken many things for granted. In an introspective moment, I suddenly realized that I have learned many things as observed through this lens.

I think that the most glaring example, which is somewhat appalling when you think about it, is musical taste in general. Now some would say that taste (or lack thereof) is subjective. That may be so, but I am at once saddened and perplexed by the fact that most people have lost touch with the roots of music, and by association, their own roots.

1955 is not that long ago in the larger scheme of things, but it seems to have been lost in the dark passage of ancient history. I am not alleging that is generational, quite the contrary, some of the worst offenders are people of a generation who should know better.

It is probably altruistic to expect more. The status quo rules and is reinforced by trite classic rock stations, unimaginative movie soundtracks and annoying commercials targeting baby boomers. The narrow perspective by which the majority of these people view music as a whole is ridiculous, only reinforced by the fact that these people think that they possess much musical knowledge.

The so-called rock n roll that they profess to love so much is just the tip of the iceberg. Like an iceberg, it is 90% submerged and they cannot see it. Some have heard vague references to Rockabilly, but are unsure of what is really is and the importance that it holds. The groundwork that laid the foundation of Rock n Roll is unknown to these aging rockers.

If they happen to actually hear it, they usually don't like it. It sounds way too "country" for their bland palates. Even musicians are part of this sophomoric perception of music. After having performed at a local jam, I was approached by the sax player that had been onstage with me. He lamented the fact that the guitar player's immaculate 1955 Gibson sounded too twangy, " too Duane Eddy". I tried to explain that that was the general idea, but it seemed like an alien concept to this so-called Blues musician.

A music critic ( Lester Bangs) once said that Rockabilly was the only true Rock n Roll, because it never went anywhere. This may be true and hard core Rockabilly aficionados relish the fact that it remains obscure. That means that is remains untainted, pure and true to its roots, but it still is a shame that most folks will never dig it.

That is the cold reality of the masses and their vapid mass culture and there isn't a whole lot that greasy folk can do to change that. On a lighter note, here's a few more things that Rockabilly has taught me over the years.

1. Leather jackets are cool, leather pants, not so much. I've noticed that people who wear leather pants are usually narcissistic, crazy, or extreme douchebags.

2. Canadian Pabst will get you way more hammered than American Pabst, the upside is that you can party way longer in the U.S.

3. The drunker you are, the more guitar strings you will break.

4. People will stare at a big greasy pomp the same as big cleavage.

5. Drunken freaks will always want to touch your pomp.

6. The same drunken idiots will invariably ask you, " What is that, Brylcreem?"

7. Taking a bus to Vegas is fun. Returning from Vegas on the same bus is hell.

8. The shittier the song, the more "baby baby" will be in it.

9. No matter what house party you attend, 3 or 4 fuckers will show up without beer( and subsequently try to steal yours).

10. The nicer the paint job, the more idiots will want to touch it.

11. When you move into a new apartment, there is 75% chance that your neighbor will be a crackhead who like loud dance music.

12. Cops seem to associate a greasy demeanor with criminal behavior.

13. It's hard to be a bad ass when you're riding a bicycle.

14. The drunker the greaser, the louder the headphones.

15. A lot of people seem to think that an upright bass is a large fiddle.

16. Having a pomp is like a secret handshake, you will make friends all over the world.

17. It's OK to like bagpipes.

18. Jacked up Vegas with big ass engines are extremely stupid.

19. Cheap wine makes you puke.

20. The smell of patchouli almost makes me puke.

21. Bongos is fightin' words.

22. The more self-righteous the hippie, the more full of shit he is.

23. The dirtier the hippie, the more he is from a middle class background.

24. There is no good reason to make hot pink Jackson guitars.

25. Even if you are going to something as innocuous as traffic court, you must de-grease and de-pomp. ( better hide them neck tattoos, too).

26. As you get older you will desire larger and larger belt buckles.

27. It's never too loud.

28. Some of those Psychobilly cats are gonna hurt themselves.

29. Speaking of Psychobilly, it's OK to play air bass when you are drunk.

30. When you get a new job, make sure you say "Rockabilly" no later than two weeks after your start date.

31. Don't call your boss "daddy-o".

32. Better off not saying " dude ". " Dudeski" is still kind of OK. But not to a cop.

33. Doubling up on solos is good. Thirteen minute wankage solos sucks.

34. Speaking of solos, the bass player always gets one. It's the law.

35. It's the bass player's job to smuggle in the beer at the gig.

36. If some drunk idiot gets up on stage you have the right to A) kick him in the kidney B) hit him in the throat with your guitar or C) have the bartender put all the band's beers on his tab.

37. Big greazy bowl of chili is good, big greazy chili farts, not so good.

38. No matter how much cash you bring to the bar, you will have none left the next day.

39. Good barbers are to find. It's best to own a few hats until you do find one

40. Everything sticks to hair grease.

41. Some hair grease is flammable ( trust me on this one).

42. Sit down shows suck. ( especially the dry ones).

43. Chicks don't respond well to the rhetorical question, " What're you, a retard?"

44. Dogs hate drunk people.

45. Squares assume that you ride a motorcycle.

46. Squares will assume that you are in the band ( useful if you want free drinks).

47. Bouncers will also assume that you are with the band. ( Telling him you're the band's truck driver also works).

48. Squares always seem to think that they can speak a second language when they are drunk.

49. Never agree to play a wedding.

50. Never take requests.

51. Never make requests.

52. Karaoke is for mental people.

53. If you play a skid bar, don't touch anything.

54. Beating on a computer and randomly hitting keys doesn't do anything.

55. Facebook and excessive inebriation are a bad combination.

57. Don't try to explain Rockabilly to squares ( I gave up long ago).

58. You will sometimes be invited to a party as a performing seal. The rule is one song in exchange for twelve beers.

59. Hide twelve more beers in your guitar case before you leave said party.

60. Always give a fake name at those parties.

61. Never bring your own guitar to those parties, it's way better to trash the shit out of some square's classical guitar.

62. Rockabillies don't camp, (unless really hammered).

63. You can always get a seat in the truck driver section at a truck stop if you swagger enough.

64.When you go out to see a band, do not wear that band's T-shirt.

65.If you see the band pull up in front of the bar, give them a hand with the gear.

66. If you meet a celebrity, don't act like a fucking retard.

67. If you meet a celebrity that you don't like, make sure they buy the drinks. (it's OK to act a little bit retarded).

68. Go out and see as many of the original Rockabilly musicians as you can. These cats are living history and many of them are already gone.

69. If you are lucky, you may get to speak to one of these cats,listen to what they have to say, they were there when Rockabilly was born.

70. Rockabilly will never die.

Sounds Of The Fifties

2011-03-13T18:54:00.000-07:00

It would be pointless to explain why greasers are fascinated by that crazy decade that was the 50's; it is the raison d'etre of being a rockabilly cat. We are immersed in the cars, threads, music and all things 50's.
One aspect that has long since passed into the sands of times, however, is how that decade sounded.

Rapid technological change has made our present day ambient sound very different than it did as recently as twenty years ago. The fifties and its corresponding technology definitely had its signature sound, and judging by the dialogue in old movies, people even talked kinda funny, and I'm sure even said "fuck" a lot. The mores of the times prevented actors from uttering such crude epithets in the movies, so we are left with a sanitized version from a Hollywood perspective. Here's a short list of forgotten sounds of the fifties and their modern counterparts.

1. Sirens.

You still can hear the occasional firetruck that has one of those old style sirens. The ones that whine and vary pitch. If you heard that siren, you knew somebody was in deep shit and they were probably a desperate bad-ass. Those sirens, along with the single red cherry mounted on the roof of a '55 Chevy and bias ply tires screeching around a corner meant business.

The cops were coming and there was going to be some fast talking and exchange of gun fire. The bad guys would get caught and they invariably all wore suits.

State Troopers used the same siren and you knew were gonna get a speeding ticket when you heard that sound. In those days, however, if they smelled booze on your breath they would just tell you to go straight home.

Today's manic sirens always scream a sense of urgency. You will panic at the thought that they're coming to get you. Most times, a police cruiser, ambulance and one large fire truck have caused all that commotion just because some crackhead fell off his stolen bicycle or is sitting in a pool of his own urine cursing at passers by.

2. Phones.

It's nostalgic to hear those old style phone bells in some old movie. Funnier still, is some cop movie where those bells are ringing constantly amidst the clatter of manual typewriters. At home, everybody had just one phone and it was usually bolted to the wall in the kitchen. If that phone rang, it would scare the shit out of everybody, because it was as loud as air raid siren. If the phone rang after 10 pm, somebody had just died. When you had to dial a phone number, it could take up to fifteen minutes as you dialed on the rotary dial and waited for the chatter to stop. It really sucked if the phone number had a bunch of nines in it.

In keeping with the general annoying and ubiquitous beeping of all modern gizmos, today's average cel phone has more functions than an average Apollo moon mission and way more beeps and boops. Every single operation needlessly beeps. To add to the mayhem, many people download the most annoying ring tone possible.

You could really slam the shit out of old phones and it was satisfying. If you happen to drop your cel phone, you will hear that small, but unmistakable, sound of cheap plastic breaking. The subsequent sound will be silence, as you realize your down a hundred bucks.

In the fifties, if you were to have a conversation on the bus with yourself talking into a little plastic box, they probably would have locked you up. Then again, those smoke belching diesel buses from the fifties were so loud, nobody would hear you anyway.

3.Cars

Without resorting to preaching to the choir, I think that we can all agree that nothing sounds quite so right as a big bock American V-8. Nobody has ever been able to replicate that sound, and to this day, it is sweet music to the ears of many. Even more distinct is the sound of a V-8 flathead sporting headers. Now that is the epitome of coolness. Some American cars still have cool horns, but in the fifties, all cars did. That macho two tone horn that blared at 120 dB. When somebody honked, it meant that you had better get the fuck out of the way real quick.

The most annoying sound of the last 60 years has to be those anemic Japanese horns. Even luxury models have them and it sounds like a goat dying a terrible death. It's hard to be intimidated by one of those horns but quite easy to get irritated. The second most annoying sound is when idiots decide to hop up their Subaru or Honda and throw on one of those soup can exhaust systems. This is about as far from macho as one can get. They usually elicit the same response from most people who hear that loud "bra-aap". Most people will involuntarily curse or call them idiots out loud as they fight the uncontrollable urge to throw something at the offending vehicle.

4. Bums

Every city has its fair share of crackheads and bums these days. They produce sounds that are endemic to their lifestyles and designed for maximum encroachment into the lives of regular folks. Their own particular dialect has to be shouted at all times. This when they are trying to communicate with others of their ilk. If no one else is around, they are content to shriek gibberish at the top of their lungs regardless of the time of day. This is usually accompanied by the rattle of shopping carts filled with junk. Some of the more industrious crackheads sometimes fill their carts with empty beer cans and the crunching sound that thin Aluminum produces.

Many crackhead ride bikes, but they never seem to have any brakes. This produces a sliding sound as the crazies attempt to stop their bikes like Fred Flintstone. Often their used sneakers are so worn out, that they will be unable to stop, thus producing the easily identifiable sound of a cheap mountain bike crashing into a brick wall.

Other crackheads will produce low frequency metallic sounds as they climb inside a dumpster and start rooting around, not unlike the sound of a very large rat chewing through a pile of garbage.

The fifties were simpler: all they had were winos. They were called winos because they drank really cheap wine. Their natural habitat were parks. The sounds they produced were far less numerous. If one took a walk in the park he would hear the crinkling of a brown paper bag vainly attempting to hide a wine bottle, the occasional breaking glass as the drunk bums would drop said bottle and maybe the shuffle of newspapers as they passed out on a bench and used the newspaper as a blanket. The only intrusion that they would impose on passers by was "hey buddy can you spare a dime? " or the odd belch.

5. Stereos

High end audio was in its infancy in the fifties. Most people had one of those console stereos but a select group of enthusiasts were enjoying the great sound of Macintosh tube amps, Rek-o-Kut turntables and massive Electro Voice or JBL speakers. Record stores abounded and many of them had listening booths where you could listen to hours upon hours of glorious vinyl. Air guitar, the devil's spawn that is karaoke or computer music games hadn't been invented, so people actually listened to music. This was usually accompanied by the flick of Zippos or the crackle of wooden matches because absolutely everybody smoked in the fifties.

This is the same reason why vintage guitars are such in high demand and command exorbitant sums of money. A mid-fifties Gibson ES-335 sounds better with age. The crappy guitar with all the knobs that they sell at Future Shop just can't compare and would be used by clowns in the circus had they been around in the fifties.

Somehow, listening to MP-3's on 49 dollar computer speakers over the whine of the computer's fan just doesn't have the same allure. Watching some wobbly image on Youtube captured on some drunken party goer on his cel phone makes me slightly sea sick.

I gotta go, the microwave is beeping, the cel phone is ringing, there's a car alarm blaring on the street, my hard drive is making funny noises, the neighbor's home theater is blaring and there's some crackheads in the alley trying to steal my empty beer cans. Have a nice, quiet evening.

I'm On Greasy Time.

2011-03-05T17:30:00.000-08:00

Have you ever noticed that sometimes time flies, and sometimes it just drags on. According to Einstein, this phenomenon is called time dilation. Einstein theorized that time flows and ebbs like currents in a river.

This explains why time perception differs; it just flies by when you're having a blast and just drags on when you aren't. Consequentially when somebody is sucking the life out of you with incessant yammering, time almost grinds to a standstill. Here's a few examples.

1. Hot Rod Breakdown.

You decide to drive to Vegas in your hot rod. You have a freshly rebuilt engine, tons of nachos, 48 beers, 10 black t-shirts and two cans of hair grease.You're rarin' to go and have planned for every contingency; except for the part about breaking down two hundred miles from home in a really bad part of town. That's when time really slows down. As night falls an dirtbags appear from nowhere eyeballin' your obviously broken down car, and time slows down even more.

As you manage to find a tow truck to haul your car home, you experience the longest two hundred miles of your life. Even longer still, is when you realize that the breakdown occurred because of a 5 dollar part. Because you are rollin' a vintage hemi, it will take two weeks to get the part from North Carolina. The fact that you completely missed Viva Las Vegas takes about 3 seconds.

The ensuing cursing will last for days.

2. Drunk Tank.

Let's say that you somehow managed to end up in a drunk tank. ( I'm only speaking hypothetically of course, *ahem*, *cough*, *cough*) you will find that time comes to virtual standstill. The grinding wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly indeed. As the alcohol slowly wears off, you will munch a state sponsored baloney sandwich and wonder what the fuck is taking so long.

They will eventually let you go and you will scare folks as you exit into the street sporting beady eyes and a messed up pomp. This is a prime example of why you should always have emergency beers in the fridge. When you finally arrive home, you will drink those beers to get your Circadian rhythm back on track as you ponder the fact that had you fucked off quicker, the cops never would have seen you. One microsecond in Einstein's universe.

3. The Bad Guitar Player.

Those of you out there who have ever experienced the joy of playing with some smoking musicians and rocking a room will know firsthand what I am talking about. If you haven't, let me elaborate.
A gig usually consists of two or sometimes three sets. Rockabilly songs are short, so there are usually about fifteen songs or so in each set. When you are really rockin', last call is soon upon you and you wonder where the time went, but you know that you had a total blast.

Not so if you happen to have the misfortune of playing with that time killer known as the bad guitar player. Each song will seem as long as some longhair 70's rock epic and you will despair as you look at your set list on the floor before you and realize that you have 14 more to go.

After he mangles the intro, you will soon realize that guitar man is also in the wrong key. This may have something to do with the huge joint that he smoked before the show, or maybe he just sucks. You will feel mounting anger as the solos deteriorate into a self-indulgent foray into guitar-wankage and try to pick up the pieces at the 63rd bar or thereabouts.

By the time the second set rolls around your apprehension will be visible by some audience members. Halfway through people will hear you audibly saying "fuck" into the microphone. When you finally get to the point where it's time to say "thank you, goodnight!' your eyes are rolling around uncontrollably and you are grateful that you had the self control to not thump bad guitar man in the head with your acoustic.

You can probably bet that that was a very, very long two hours, but it ain't over yet. Chances are guitar man is too stoned to lift anything, so you will end up toting that Fender twin reverb up the stairs for him. Next weekend, you get to do it all over again.

4. The Vampires.

I think that we've all been in the unfortunate position of having somebody yammer at us while sucking all the energy from our bodies. There are certain social situations where you cannot simply walk away, yell at them to shut-the-fuck-up or punch them in the mouth.

It could be a relative at a xmas party, a friend of a friend or some retard that you're trying to sell shit to on Craigslist. Sometimes you just gotta shut up and take it, but time does indeed drag on.

It never fails, however, if you are at a party, There will always be one cretin who simply can't handle his booze. Time is inversely proportional to how well you or your friends know this fool. If you've seen around but don't really know him,you may punch him after 15 minutes of obnoxious behavior, if you sorta know him have some big greasy friends eject him form the party. If he's a total stranger , feel free to kick his ass immediately. Once the offending idiot is removed, the party will seem to go by way quicker.

The same applies to unwanted sounds. It never fails. You will be trying to enjoy a beer on a patio somewhere and someone will be there to distract you and your friends. Loud talkers may be told to shut up immediately, cel phone yakkers can have their phones stomped on after about 5 minutes and anyone playing bongos in your immediate vicinity can have their bongos destroyed in 2 milliseconds.

5. Gimme My Shit.

Once in a while, a friend will need a helping hand, whether it is lending a bit of cash, tools, beers or guitars. Time lag ain't so bad, because you know that your friend is good for it. Some folks, on the other hand, ain't so good for it. Nothing will make time drag on interminably as somebody owing you dough or hanging on to your tools, beers and guitars. It may even dawn on you that that person is avoiding you and you ain't never gettin' your shit back.

After a month you are entitled to piss in his gas tank. It will be hilarious when you see how long it will take him to try starting his car.

After two months you are allowed to break in to his his house and steal all his beers, except two. Even more hilarity as he drunkenly attempts to count beers on his fingers at 4 am after a night of partying.

After three months you are legally entitled to shove a ball peen hammer up his ass and see how long it takes to extricate it.

After four months, you tell the local bartender that he is stealing tips.

After 6 months you may the local bikers that he was bad mouthing them.

That's a lot of elapsed time, but well worth the effort.

I hope that clears things up a little in the grand scheme of time management. In the meantime, I haven't had a beer in seven days. It feels like seven weeks, and by the time I've drank my seventh beer, I'm sure that I will feel like only seven minutes have elapsed and will be forced to go out and buy seven more beers. See you all next time, as it were.

Hippies Give Me a Headache

2011-02-23T17:24:00.000-08:00

My disdain for hippies and their ridiculous behavior is no small secret, a recent walk down the street has re-affirmed this in no uncertain terms. I have, in the past, gone on tirades about hippies' hypocrisy and the inexplicable habit of makin' shit up as they go along.

The contrived archetypes and hippie cliches abound for all to see in their uni-dimensional glory as they extol their misconceived sense of individuality. I would hope that, deep down , they would admit to themselves that they are full of shit, but I suspect that most firmly believe in their skewed doctrine.

There is a strip in town here called "The Drive". It attracts people from all walks of life, but has had a reputation for many years for being a notorious hippie hangout. Scores of twenty-something hippies still populate this area, most are from middle-classed backgrounds who go eat roast beef at their folks' house after a long day of bongo-beatin', scoring pot, mooching change, playing bicycle polo and being all around nuisances.

A few days ago, something was in the air. An all out assault on the senses. Maybe the tofu went bad at the one of many local organic shops or maybe somebody spiked the local supply of pot, but like cockroaches scattering when the lights are turned on, there were frenzied hippies everywhere.

The were out in full force and ready (as is their way) to annoy. Their mere presence if enough to annoy me, but that day, they made sure that they would create an onslaught of sights and sounds meant for maximum mayhem.

As I tried to relax at my favorite Italian coffee shop and attempted to make out what the old Italian men were arguing about, I heard some faint tinkling in the distance. As the high frequency noise approached, I began to here caterwauling and, soon after, drums.

The source of this auditory assault soon became apparent. Hare Krishnas! Some had little tiny cymbals, other had various percussion instruments that seem to go "boing" when they are hit, and others had various contraptions that made noise as well. These happy Hares were totally into it, jumping and skipping, others twirling like dervishes.

One can only help but laugh at the sheer inanity of this spectacle, but the sad part is that these deluded fools take it all so seriously. I also wonder what they hope to accomplish with this public display. I don't wanna buy a book, I don't want a free meal down at the temple, I don't want no flowers, so fuck off, you pie-eyed altruists. More middle classed suburbanites who have lost their way. I'm not endorsing the suburban lifestyle by any means, but why couldn't they just turn to vandalism, graffiti and brawling like other normal suburban kids?

Krishnas never stay in one place for long, so their wailing and a dancing was soon gone, leaving only the stray dogs that were following them in sight.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked at the old men's looks of incomprehension. I took another sip of my excellent espresso, only to have my senses assaulted yet again. The fucking bubble lady was upon us ! Yes, the crazy bubble lady. She ain't that old and probably ain't that crazy, she probably just needs to set herself apart. She must show the world what a crazy rebel she is. Wearing long dresses, crazy pants, stoopid shoes and every other hippie-rag-clich, she parades up and down The Drive, ragged hippie comapnion in tow, and constantly shoots out soap bubbles.

Now, if you dropped acid or ate three pounds of Mescaline this would probably amuse you. This contrived lowbrow circus is offensive enough, but every time on of those soap bubbles hits me, it's like a small punch in the face. Hundreds of tiny, sticky, fucking dirty hippie punches. It makes my blood pressure rise and I feel like punching those stupid bubbles back. They would probably lock me up. Like the Krishnas, however, bubble lady is soon gone, and vengeful scenarios such as peeing in her bubble soap. are soon gone as well.

As the last bubble popped, I breathed a sigh of relief erroneously thinking that all the hippie nonsense was over, but my optimism was short-lived. The Drive, you see, is also home to bad buskers. The worst buskers always seem to set up shop right by my favorite coffee shop.

Lacking any kind of drive or even a modicum of talent, most hippies find it far too daunting a task to master an instrument. Why they insist on playing them anyways perplexes me, but I wish they wouldn't do it in public.

This youngish, purposely scruffy hippie plopped his ass on the sidewalk and produced a classical guitar out of some filthy sack. Hippies love to sit on the ground for some reason, and what they fail to see, is that so do crackheads and insane people. They will all get a massive case of hemorrhoids soon enough.

Earnest hippie guitar man then proceeded to attempt to tune said guitar. After about twenty minutes of attempting, that damn thing still wasn't tuned and he decided to play it anyway. Other than cats fighting and fucking wind chimes, there is no sound quite as annoying as someone playing a bunch of chords on an out of tune guitar. The guitar-mangler soon grew tired, most likely because he was beginning to pass out from hunger from all the seeds that he ate earlier that day. He packed the guitar back into the dirty sack, stood slowly and ambled away.

My theory about the world's most annoying sound was soon to be disproved, however, by some Miles Davis wannabe. Some trumpet playing fool set up shop at the bad busker spot. He wasn't even attempting play jazz, but decided to mangle some popular tunes instead. It's bad enough hearing tunes that you hate being blared in close proximity, it's a whole different level of hell when they are played by an incompetent trumpet player at 120 decibels.

To add to the circus-like atmosphere, trumpet man was accompanied by his accordion playing sidekick who happened to be just as inept. Clown-like as this deluded duo may have seemed, they were oblivious to it, which made it that much more annoying. They were attempting to serenade customers exiting the nearby liquor store in a misguided attempt to relieve said customers of their spare change. There ain't enough booze in that entire store to make me want to give them money or somehow make that stilted, off-key shit sound like music. After about ten minutes of this barrage of bullshit, I had had enough and decided to leave the cafe to go for a walk down the Drive and put as much distance as possible between myself and the mental patient band rehearsal.

As I walked, adrenaline still surging due to the assault on my senses, I passed yet another bad busker who was severely massacring a banjo. Thousands of hillbillies were probably rotating in their graves at that precise moment. I picked up the pace and continued my search for some respite.

That's when I saw it. The grand daddy of all hippie cliches. The event horizon from which all hippie culture emanates. It was like staring into the sun, terrible and wonderful at the same time. I was finally justified in all my rantings. Here was irrefutable proof that I wasn't over reacting. It was the biggest fucking hippie bus I had ever seen!

It was a 1970' Western Star big rig that had been converted into a bus. It was inscribed with all kinds of ridiculous hippie-slogans and one prerequisite rainbow. There musta been thirty hippies in and around that bus. There was a lot of tie-dye, long skirts, braided beards, unwashed hippie children sporting hippie clothes and various nondescript rags.

They had a table set up right there on the sidewalk and were peddling some sort of noxious hippie-juice . This juice seemed to posses some sort of questionable health benefit and I cringed as I imagined what it might be made from or what disgusting ingredients it may contain. Goat-piss? Squashed cockroaches? Leftover lice from the hippies' tangled beards? It would probably turn your shit blue. A couple of the hippies were next to the table with guitars. They smugly sang songs vaguely reminiscent of the late sixties as their matted hair and filthy beards swayed in the breeze.

This was like proverbial car crash that one cannot look away from no matter how gruesome it was. I laughed to myself as I pondered the irony of a bunch of freako-s peddling hippie juice in a vehicle equipped with 70's era Cummins diesel that belches black diesel smoke from its twin stacks and is probably in dire need of a tune up. They must kill two trees, one whale and five dolphins every time they fire that baby up.

I was shocked, but in a way, far more amused at this shameless display of hippie self-righteousness, lack of hygiene, questionable parenting skills and the ignorance of what the juxtaposition of that big-assed diesel and those bottles of hippie juice meant.

It was time for me to leave. I made my way westward towards the bad part of town. The banshee-like wailing of tweaking crackheads would be a refreshing change from all this hippie mayhem.

A Greaseball in City Hall.

2011-02-14T15:54:00.000-08:00

I rarely get involved in politics or political discussions because of the sheer futility of it all. The endless streams of bullshit emanating from politicians' mouths is too mind-numbing and rhetorical for me to come close to giving a damn. I have noticed a particular brand of stupidity, however, that is inherent to municipal politics.

It seems that mayors are usually borderline megalomaniacs and are constantly hatching some of the most inane plots, some of which actually come to fruition (ie: Vancouver Olympics). A lot of these people are from privileged backgrounds and have absolutely no connection to the man in street, unless he happens to own a car, in which case, they will try to extort as much money from him as humanely possible.

During Municipal elections, an endless parades of crackpots materialize out of nowhere and announce their candidacy. Their platform invariably has to do with marijuana in one way or another. What is sadly lacking, is a voice of reason, someone to tell all those overpaid bureaucrats to shut up once in while; someone greasy.

The time has come to have some rockabilly at city hall. Some greasy common sense. Things would get accomplished a lot quicker that's for damn sure. A greaseball for mayor !

Here's a hypothetical scenario of what would happen if a greaser were elected to office.

Day one: After a booze fueled victory party, the newly elected and hungover greasy mayor would show up for work at city hall with all the city councilors. All his greasy friends would also tag along just to hang out. This would also add to the intimidation factor as the mayor tells everyone to shut the fuck up while alluding to the fact that all his greasy pals would mess them up if they didn't.

Councilors that would oppose this motion or show any form of dissension would get the message later that day when all the air was let out of their tires.

Later on, the mayor would force everyone to remove their neckties and create a small bonfire to burn them on the city hall lawn.

The mayor is too hung over and adjourns for the day.

Day 2.

The mayor arranges to have an entire truck load of Jack Daniel's delivered to city hall and forces the councilors to pay for it from their own salaries. He decrees that, while he encourages them to drink some bourbon on the job, even the ones that won't still have to pay.

He then proceeds to repeal all smoking bylaws and passes big cigars all around. While enjoying his cigar thanks to the new bylaws, he enacts a new bylaw. All pot smokers are henceforth obliged to be disinfected, wear shoes and bring all unregistered patchouli to the local police station for immediate destruction. They will also be required to fetch beer, guitar strings, hair grease and car parts for the mayor and his entourage.

Day 3.

Suits are banned from city hall and everyone must wear cuffed jeans. the mayor gives himself veto power thus enacting a law that gives him the right to shout "Shut up, square !" every time some councilor opens his trap with yet another hare-brained idea.

The city hall cafeteria is now required to serve nothing but southern BBQ, tacos and burritos and Pabst Blue Ribbon. The mayor figures that if all the squares drink enough PBR, they may eventually com up with an intelligent idea.

The mayor commissions a 20 foot tall statue of Elvis for the front lawn that says " thank yuh vury much" everytime somebody walks by it. All city hall employees are also required to say " thank yuh vury much" at the end of each sentence.

All council meetings are too begin with the phrase, "let's go, daddyo! " and votes are either answered," hell yeah !" or "fuck, no!"

Day 4.

The mayor loosens the liquor laws and anyone can open a bar as long as ; a) It is not lame, b) It has a juke box that plays Country, Rockabilly or Blues. c) actually pays bands a decent wage

The liquor laws are also amended to include the immediate closure of bars that play Techno, bars that have over 50% skanks inside, bars that allow Ed hardy and Affliction on the premises and Wine bars.

Another section of this law allows for the immediate arrest and possible beating for people acting like assholes on the street, shouting like animals or just being plain obnoxious.

Day 5.

The mayor has closed a deal with a foreign government and has sold all the city buses. Public transportation is replaced with a fleet of thousands of vintage cars and the ride is free. Above mentioned assholes can walk.

Some ferries will be replaced by large row boats and the oars will be manned by unemployed, and now pot-free, hippies. It will give them something to do and build up their muscle tone, lost through years of pot-induced inactivity.

Day 6.

The Jack Daniel's truck finally arrives. The mayor cancels all official business and throws a massive party. A couple of bands have flown in and there are hot rods and low riders all over the city hall lawn.

The mayor starts to get hammered and starts calling all the councilors punk-ass bitches and pointdexters. Later that night, a massive brawl erupts between the mayor's greasy, drunken buddies and the bureaucrats, leaving city hall in shambles.

Day 7.

The mayor shows up at city hall around two pm. In his hungover haze he suddenly remembers all the cool cats, hot chicks, burnouts on the lawn, motorcycles in the hallways, and the fact that he fired everybody the previous evening. A few hours later, a contractor gives him an estimate for repairs. It seems that previous night's festivities have caused around $300,000 in damage to city hall.

Day 8.

The mayor hears on the news that the Army is on the way. He heads down to city hall and grabs all the money out of petty cash, a bunch of liquor licenses, the receptionist and whatever is left of the Jack Daniel's. He wast last seen in his '51 Merc somewhere in Texas.

The Bums

2011-02-04T21:07:00.000-08:00

This town seems to have an inordinate amount of bums. I see them everyday, as well as smell them. They are pervasive and unavoidable and they all want to incessantly yammer at anyone within earshot. Lighting a smoke in any public space attracts them like moths to the flame. Some will get angry for refusing to give them a smoke or some specific amount of change " You got 73 cents?"

Others are really crazy and will get angry for no reason and at no one in particular. Some are drug addicts, and the rest ; who knows. The bum life seems to have created a culture of its own. I have observed speech patterns, mannerisms and ways of thinking that are specific to the bum.

I'm not sure how a lot of these people ended up as bums, but let's say that you just spent 5 grand on a motor for your hot rod, you could easily wind up being a bum. Or you could consciously decide to become a bum, or maybe you just like the outdoors.

Here is a guide to bum behavior, including all the necessary skills required to become a bum. It could be useful for the average city dweller for how to spot bums and easily avoid them.

1. Bumwear.

The essentials for the modern bum are pretty much the same for all bums; A scruffy baseball cap worn way low, pale jeans, some crappy sneakers usually found in the trash, a windbreaker with a corporate logo or expensive rain gear stolen from a construction site. Clothing must be kept as filthy as possible and bonus points for outwardly visible skidmarks.

2. Bum Transportation.

The transportation of choice for the bum is the bicycle. Usually these are broken down mountain bikes from the 80's that have been stolen at least 6 times. The rear brake ( and the front as well for the more brazen bums) must be disconnected and the seat must be as low as possible.

Many stores now have shopping carts with magnetic locks that jam the wheels if the cart crosses the threshold of the parking lot. This has left many bums without a means of scavenging, so they have taken to stealing bike trailers, the kinds that are used to carry kids. Some really resourceful bums sometimes have 2 or 3 in a row; a sort of bum convoy if you will.

These trailers are used mainly to carry beer cans, pop cans or shit that they have stolen from your place. Some bums are aware of the value of aluminum, stainless and copper and will go great lengths to obtain it. Some lack the basic knowledge of electricity and a few of them get fried every year as they try to steal copper from a live 10,000 volt transformer.

Many just mooch rides on public transportation and leave a lingering odor upon their exit, not after having annoyed half the passengers with pointless conversations.

3. Bum fights.

Bum fights are not regular fights. There is much screaming and flailing but little punching. Bum fights can erupt over something as innocuous as access to a dumpster. I enjoy bum screaming, I once smacked a bum in the back of the head as I passed him on my bike. His bike was too shitty to catch up and howls and screams ensued, much to my amusement, and to passing motorists as well. Every bum needs a good smack once in a while.

4. Bum Accommodations.

Anywhere will do, but some of them must be good at hiding, because you rarely see them. Some sleep on old couches abandoned in alleys. Some sleep in dumpsters and end up at the local dump. Some seem like zombies and never, ever sleep. I had a friend who once told me a bout a bum who had taken up residence in the hatchback of his car. Like a 90 pound cockroach he kept coming back, and was hard to get rid of.

Back east, some bums have taken to burrowing into snow banks, unaware of the impending arrival of enormous snow blowers cleaning city streets. It happens almost every winter, some unsuspecting snow blower operator will occasionally stream some red snow.

5. The Snot Rocket.

Bums must master the art of the snot rocket. It is like dogs marking their territory. If the bum screams something like " Yaaa-aargh!!" as he shoots the snot rocket, this will scare other bums, possibly making him the alpha-bum.

6. The Brown Paper Bag.

These are getting easier to find, due to new green rules. This simple item is useful for drinking in the park to conceal booze. It may also be used to take a shit in. Bums prefer plastic bags to carry the flotsam and jetsam that they tote around with them everywhere they go.

7. Booze.

If they have sold enough cans, they can usually purchase one those enormous beers with a screw top. If the picking wasn't so good maybe a bottle of Aqua Velva. Some shoplift booze, but many of them do it when they are hammered, so they get caught every time and end up in jail for one night.

8. Bum Art.

Some try to sell bum art. Most of it is bad and some of it is downright frightening, because it was drawn by someone who obviously psychotic. Others try to engage people's attention with lame attempts at magic tricks or really bad jokes.

9. Bum Time.

Why do bums always ask people what time it is ? They are always desperate to know what time it is and hurriedly continue on their way once someone gives them the time. What's the rush? Is there some sort of secret bum meeting that he will be late for ? I just don't know.

10. The Bum Sob Story.

Some bums are a little more creative in their mooching and come with various, and obviously false, scenarios. One particular bum that I see, has a different story everyday. He needs to get his dog to another town, he can't find his keys, he needs to take a Greyhound bus. Others have long convoluted tales used as subterfuge to extract some spare change from you. A while back a bum told me, "it's for alcohol, I swear." That was pretty funny , so I gave him some cash.

11. Bum Fires

Bums occasionally start fires to cook rats, squirrels and crows. Most that are smart enough to start that fire, ain't smart enough to put it out. They will often start the fires under wooden structures. Two major fires happened here recently as one bum burned an entire pier and another bum burned a wooden section of a bridge that is a major thoroughfare.

12.Bum Food.

The 10 second rule usually applies if some hapless individual drops a slice of pizza on the sidewalk. The bum will scoop it up. Even if it's face down. Bums also love 7-11. They can shoplift with impunity are are not intimidated at the underpaid clerks that yell at them. They also like to grab a bunch of those sugar packets that they have for coffee, huge globs of that liquid cheese for hot dogs and pickle slices.

11. Bum Dialect.

Bums have their own street jargon. It's inarticulate and grammatically deficient patter always rings the same, whether north or south of the border, it all sounds alike. I'm not sure if it is due to lack of teeth, burnt out brain cells or just plain old psychosis, but bums from Memphis to Montreal all sound the same, and all end phrases with "Eh?". And should you have the misfortune of making eye contact with the bum, he will immediately attempt to engage you in an energy sucking bum-conversation.

I often wonder, however, why every single bum has been able to master the fine art of the loud whistle, while I still can't. They have also mastered the none-too-subtle art of the really-fucking-loud across the street conversation. All that gasoline huffing must have increased the size of their vocal chords ten-fold.

The real crazy bums have mastered the incomprehensible subtleties of self-conversation. Their invisible alter-ego either seems to agree with them or antagonize them, the latter resulting in crazed fits of extremely loud gibberish. I once saw a bum angrily yelling into a pay phone, his red face denoting approaching apoplexy. I thought maybe some beer can deal had gone bad, only realize that the phone cord wasn't connected and just dangling.

There is a particularly insane bum in my 'hood who has a sock puppet that speaks in a guttural pseudo-language, only slightly more demented than his master.

12. Bum Tunes.

Bums always seem to have an abundant supply of crappy portable radios. They rarely have access to batteries to power said radios, and if they do , it is usually some almost dead Duracells that they have found in the trash. They will insert these batteries into these devices and proceed to play them in public. The 99 % percent distortion that these produce and the subsequent annoyance factor that they are sure to invoke on an unwilling person within earshot is only superseded by the musical content; bums all seem to have a preponderance for classic rock.

They all seem to instinctively find the local classic rock station on the dial. To add to the already unbearable cacophony, some of the bums enjoy croaking along off-key to the endless barrage of Led Zep tunes.

Some bum observations.

The Rebels.

2011-01-23T14:54:00.000-08:00

Rebelliousness is an elusive character trait that is difficult to define. Many people fondly think of themselves as rebels, perhaps as a result of taking in too many Hollywood stereotypes. The true rebel is by nature a complete non-conformist with heteroclitic tendencies. There is, however, there is a fine line between being a rebel and being a sociopath. The rebel just wants to avoid ending up in jail.

Being an eternal rebel is a continuous struggle against the restrictive views of what is commonly called acceptable behavior. That oppressive societal force that urges the masses to conform, with the accompanying sartorial standards and dogmatic ideals that it presents. This results, for the most part, in being misunderstood by the general populace and sometimes, chronic unemployment.

The very nature of being told what to do is odious to the rebel, and therein lies the problem; this the absolute definition of being employed. To add insult to injury, in many cases, the person doing the telling is of inferior intellect.

Many rebels naturally gravitate to rockabilly. It is often an atavistic attraction, the rebel does not deliberately enter into into this world. The music is usually the catalyst. Rockabilly was the first rock 'n' roll. The purest form of rock 'n' roll, as it never went anywhere. The Neo-revivalvist movement of the last two decades has breathed new life into it, and the references of an era that was seen as a simple time and a time where the epitome of 20 th century rebelliousness was still in its embryonic phase.

Along with the music, the rockabillies embrace all the truly iconic imagery of that seminal era. The arch-significance of the Perfecto jacket, cuffed jeans, engineer boots, and the greasy pomp are immediately recognizable by a vast majority of people, and evoke those images that correlate to rebelliousness in no uncertain terms.

The cars have the same powerful allegorical imagery. The mid-twentieth century was a time when automobile design was at its apex. Even though the designers did not know it at the time, they were creating classics, masterpieces for the ages that will endure and transcend all other designs.

This by no means an affectation, rockabillies are usually in it for the long haul. It not meant as an intentional way of standing apart, or a statement of any kind. It is the love of the music and being with like minded people that has created this extended family.

Now that you know why we are all greasy, let me tell you about some people who absolutely think of themselves as rebels. Like the greasers, they all seem to have a particular way of dressing. This is unavoidable, as society judges all its members by the way they are dressed. Think of the pervasive suit and tie and the connotations that they have. Just reading it here evokes a certain image of what mindset that suit wearing dude has and the conservative way of thinking that he may possess. Here's few groups of misguided people who think they are rebels but are, what is commonly referred to, as assholes.

1. Sparkly Louts.

Odious as these UFC loving buttheads may be, they scare me. Their propensity for violence is only bolstered by their dangerously low IQ. The growing popularity of UFC has made them congregate in bars. Sporting Tap-Out, Affliction, Ed Hardy or a combination of all three, these sometimes very large barbarians sparkle like an Indian delivery truck. This is what makes it even more amusing; Sparkly glittery shit and acting tough seem to be diametrically opposed, yet the irony is lost on them.

Their asocial behavior borders on the sociopathic, and even more so when they have just watched a so-called fight on the big screen fueled by crappy beer. It's also very amusing that the obvious homo-erotic imagery of UFC is completely lost on them.

2.Hipster/Scenster Douchebags.

I am not sure what ever gave rise to this now ubiquitous phenomenon. This group is slightly perplexing. Lacking any particular musical genre to call their own, the gravitate from scene to scene, trying very hard to look disinterested. They seemed to have haphazardly commandeered style cues from many different places. They themselves cannot tell whether they are lumberjacks, turn of the century pugilists, grunge rockers, British archeology professors, or bikers.

Their entire culture seems to be intentionally geared towards lack of content and vapid imagery. Some have taken to riding custom motorcycles that are an amalgam of many styles with the end result being a franken-bike that serves no purpose.

Sporting their mac jackets, huge beards, ironic mustaches and skinny jeans they are known to take over entire neighborhoods. The emerged out of nowhere like mushrooms ( mushrooms do need shit to grow, though) and hopefully will disappear one day in the same manner. Some of the more brazen ones take the annoyance factor to a new level as they sport glasses without lenses and whistle loudly on the street as they cast side long glances at you to see if they have gotten a rise. Through interaction with friends and personal observation, I have concluded that hipsters are rapidly becoming one of the most universally despised groups. Some dudes I know get furious at the mere mention of this societal equivalent of ass-cancer, and there are stories of beatings.

3. Bike Couriers.

These deluded souls see themselves as some sort of urban warriors, when in fact they are just shit disturbers of the tallest order. Fueled by their resentment at not being able to pass driver's test due to their complete inability to drive a car, they will take it out on people who drive cars.

All large urban centers have them. Like large, disheveled cockroaches, they weave in and out of traffic, reveling in the mayhem that they have just caused. They have just stuck it to the man, and are self righteous about the fact that they did it on a bicycle. The ironic part, is that very few of them know the first thing about bikes or how fix them. Their lack of any rudimentary skills, even something as simple as fixing a flat tire on a bike, guarantees that will be biking for a very long time, as will their lack of even the most basic social skills.

They fondly think that they have their own culture. Many have taken to living in so-called courier houses and some are even in courier bands. Their questionable hygiene and very specific courier "uniform" makes them think that they are oh so rebellious. To most people though, they are just the stinky psycho that delivers packages to their office.

4. Hippies ( Yeah, them again).

I have ranted about hippies many times, but no list about faux-rebels would be complete without them. No one group tries so hard to contrive outfits to look like they haven't been contrived. Like other sub-genres, they have no specific musical style to call their own, but will listen to anything that is really bad. They will seek out this bad music and earnestly sit there as some hippie singer fumbles through a few chords and sometimes drops his guitar.

Their adherence to left wing values that are usually manipulated and interpreted to suit their narrow mindedness is their stock in trade. Mixed with a little eastern mysticism, song lyrics from the sixties, communism, new-age pseudo science and any other bullshit that may come along, their credo is hollow. Most of those beliefs are embraced simply as a way of setting themselves apart, and to detach themselves from mainstream society. These pot-addled fools will gladly spend their entire paycheck on organic food and hemp clothing, too baked to realize that have been completely duped by some of the best capitalist marketing.

Hippies love protests, but rarely know what they are protesting for. I think that they simply join protests to piss off people that aren't in them. Case in point is that rolling hippie-fest called critical mass. This is the epitome of self-entitlement ( yeah, yeah, I know I've mentioned this before). The part that most people don't know about, is when that ride ends, the real hippie-shenanigans begin. They all end up in some bar that features all manners of bad entertainment. The shittier, most out of tune and absurd it is, the more they like it. Bad music, prerequisite hand drum playing, the odd didgeridoo, choreographed bike operas, and usually one or two topless hippie chicks dancing to a lone viola player. It's all there. If I were to sum up hippies in one word, it would be 'cliche'.

There you have it, a cross section of rebel wannabes. I will leave you with a few useful tips whether you are a rebel or not. Don't ever get a tattoo where a judge can see it, don't make eye contact with cops, it only makes them mad, mind your own business and always be true to yourself.

Adios.

A Greasy Guide To Beer Drinking.

2011-01-16T18:53:00.000-08:00

It goes without saying that beer and rockabilly have a symbiotic relationship. No self respecting greaser has an aversion to beer. While it is true that beer is that universal social lubricant enjoyed by many people like bikers, sports fanatics, metal bands, punk rockers and even , astoundingly enough, filthy hippies who use it to get the nasty taste of pot out their rotten teeth laden mouths, it holds a special place in rockabilly culture.

There was a time when Jack Daniels was the de rigeur rot-gut of choice for greasers. I can speak from personal experience when I say that you can only drink that brain cell corroding swill for only so long. In my youth, when I was getting my first rockabilly band started, we thought that having a bottle of Jack on stage would be cool, greasy and slightly Straycats-esque. The image was greasy enough, but the ensuing inebriation on stage became a liability. The resulting inability to make proper chord changes, forgotten lyrics, threats to audience members and the on-mike admonitions that you were gonna pound the guitar player became hard to keep in check. Rock n roll as the Bourbon induced antics might have been, it stopped being amusing; particularly at 3 am when all the gear had to be hauled up several flights of stairs.

That was the cue to switch back to beer. The Jack Daniels bottle was still used as prop, but it was filled with tea. The on stage beer was cleverly hidden behind the amp, and bar owners were far more willing to part with some free beers rather than hard liquor, most likely due to the bigger profit margins on beer.

Many people look down their noses at beer, dismissing it as a common man's swill. These BMW driving idiots are seemingly unaware of the rich European history of beer, which makes it that much more ironic, considering the German beer purity laws of the 1500's. There are squares out there who have somehow made a lot of money and decided to declare themselves to be oenophiles. My disdain for wine and all the pretentious rituals that it entails would be a lot of raving destined for another day. Same goes for Whiskey snobs who indulge in 25 dollar shots . Booze is booze, and those condescending snobs will be just as hammered as the blue collar guys slamming Molson Canadian down at the pub after work; they just will have spent way more money

As fundamental as beer swilling may be, there are a few basics that need to be followed. I offer some advice to veteran and novice beer drinkers alike.

1. Never Run Out.

While my friends in New York City have access to beer 24 hours a day, we in Canada, with all our thinly veiled socialist values, have to go through many hardships to acquire beer, along with excessive taxes that are imposed upon it. Going to the USA on a beer pilgrimage is of no use as those Neanderthal quasi-cops at Canada border Services will only let you bring 24 beers across the border. (note to American friends: 24 beers are known as a two- four or a flat) .

One is forced to go to the government booze store, where you stand in line to sell your empties, but are limited to 24 empties. You are then forced to stand in another line as they gleefully take your hard earned cash where you are subsequently forced to endure the indignation of drinking warm beer.

Be that as is may, your only other alternative is to go to a private beer store where the cold beers are exorbitantly priced and you may be arbitrarily cut off. I almost pounded some white trash sum' bitch beer store employee, but that is a long story.

Should you have a room mate, the tacit beer rule should apply; never drink your room mate's last beer. After a night of drinking and rockin' and a rollin', there is no feeling quite as evil as getting home anticipating a night cap, only to find out that the fridge is completely devoid of beers. Attempting to do beer math when you are hammered is futile, but drunk as you are, you are convinced that there was beer in there. This is the catalyst of legendary fist fights.

2.Parties.

Everyone enjoys a good house party. What a perfect excuse to trash somebody else's house and not have to worry about industrial strength clean up the next day. I have, in the past had monster house parties, replete with bands, crazed greasers, bagpipe players and a cash bar. The small profit from beer sales hardly seemed worth it and the Herculean task of selling the empties was a hollow victory.

Now is the time to attend other folks' parties. The rules are pretty simple; bring what you're gonna drink, and maybe a little extra. The extra will be useful, if you happen to be so inclined to have a few extra beers as you somehow stagger home and stop on a bus stop bench muttering to yourself under your breath.

At the actual party, you may be surprised, and even appalled, to find out that some folks came woefully unprepared. The non-greasy folk in attendance seemed to have shown up sans beer. As much as an affront to greasy sensibilities as this may seem, it is an all too common reality.

There are a few defenses to this direct onslaught on your beer cache. I remember a party where a greasy buddy of mine and I had to physically defend our beer cooler as we fought off an assault of mooching hippies who had neglected to bring their own booze. We literally had to put our boot-clad feet on the cooler and threaten them with violence should they even attempt to purloin our beer. Why a couple of greasers were attending a party teeming with hippies is another story.

To combat beer invaders there are a few steps that can be taken. You can leave your beers in a back pack in some discrete location. You can stash a few in the toilet tank. Very few people would think to look there, and the fact that the toilet won't flush properly will be lost on most people. Back in the bad old days, when you could drink 15 beers and drive a piece of shit Chrysler Newport 80 miles an hour on your way home, you could store all your beers in the trunk of your car.

Nowadays, we have to rely on a cab or a bus, so there is no safe beer storage. One thing you can do to protect your precious beer allotment, is to take a sharpie and write your initials on the bottom of each can. The offending beer thief would unsuspectingly steal your beer out of the fridge. As he would hoist the beer, your initials would be revealed and you would be entitled to yell. " Hey , you sum bitch, that's my beer!" Hopefully that person would be embarrassed and leave, give you money, or endure a punch in the face.

3. The Can.

Graphic as this may seem, if you are a beer drinker, an inevitable case of the green apple two-step will eventually strike. Always make sure that you are within close proximity of a toilet bowl or a gas station. Beer will also guarantee emanation of toxic methane fumes, and should you let one rip at a bar, always blame it on someone drunker than you who happens to be in close proximity. Be prepared and always search out well ventilated areas and avoid open flames. An ample supply of clean shorts should always be on hand.

4.The Walk.

If you indulge in prodigious quantities of beer, you will eventually end up walking funny. You should practice drunk-walks as you will at one time or another, be doing the heel-to-toe walk, the twenty beer tango or the sideways shrub encounter. Wear slip-resistant footwear, leather for for sliding on pavement and acquaint yourself with the name of the doctor at your local emergency room.

5.Guitars, Cadillacs and Twenty Beers.

If you happen to be a musician, it is probably wise to avoid getting too hammered before your gig. Your fingers will mysteriously begin to play non-existent chords and you will forget lyrics. The nice thing about rockabilly, is that, even if you forget the second verse, you can repeat he first and no one will notice. If you are shithouse plastered, no amount of repetition can mask a bunch of incoherent mumbling. The best thing to do in the case of excessive beer intake, is to rehearse a couple of drunk songs. Songs that you can nail completely shitfaced. You can go to a local jam, sing Folsom Prison Blues flawlessly, and receive a few free beers in the process, with nobody being the wiser.

There you have it, friends , a few observations on beer. As my old friend Ray Condo was fond of saying; If you drink don't drink, and if you drive don't drive.

Greasonium: A New Element

2011-01-06T16:04:00.000-08:00

Science has always held a particular fascination for me. The Newtonian principles of gravity and laws of attraction have always seemed to be a good way to understand the universe. The eventual development of Quantum Mechanics explained the universe even further. After much study, I am convinced that there exists a yet to be discovered element in the Periodic Table; Greasonium.

This would probably explain, on a quantum level, why me and many of my greasy brethren around the world can only be around other greasy people, and are repelled by non-greasy people. The unintentional combination of greasy and non-greasy particles causes a cascade reaction of the magnitude that has the possibility of destroying the universe, or without engaging in hyperbole, simply causing a really shitty time, bad party and possibly a bar fight.

The presence of Greasonium at square gatherings always seems to wreak havoc. Square gals' electrons seem to have an attraction, and the square dudes' element, Chickenshitonium, always seems to repel in the opposite direction. Either way, it always seems to elicit scowls and cause a lot of chaos.

There are many Greasonium particles present in leather, cuffed denim, hair grease, inside the wheel wells of '49 Mercs and guitars. This is what leads to many bad chemical reactions. Lack of Greasonium in one's metabolism has many medical complications. Some of the symptoms include, bad hearing resulting in the pursuit of shitty music, bad eyesight resulting in poor clothing choices and altered brain chemistry resulting in retarded behavior. It also causes Keratin depletion resulting in bad haircuts.

The absence of Greasonium has other complications that pertain to hearing and brain chemistry in musicians. It causes some to perceive vintage guitars, tube amps and twanginess as irritating. It has serious medical side effects that result in excessive guitar wankage, cheesy tenor sax riffs, demented harmonica blowing and 25 minute drum solos. There is no cure for this as these musicians have terminal cases of Rockmusicitis and are immune to injections of Greasonium. Their brain chemistry prevents the effective application of a Greasectomy. It also cause the growth of extremely un-cool facial hair.

The psychological repercussions are solidly based in the domain of Obsessive Compulsive behavior. The resulting dementia results in an un-natural obsession with Classic Rock and British Blues.

Another element called Freakonium also has very serious reactions with Greasonium. The Greasonium molecules are naturally to programed to seek and destroy Freakonium molecules. They are rarely found in the same compounds, so the interaction is a rare occurrence. The malodiferous odor that Freakonium atoms emit, called Patchoulium, have been known to attract Greasonium molecules, and if they happen to collide, electrons will be shed causing an explosion on the atomic level that will leave traces of dreadlocks, filth and bongo fragments in their wake. The half-life of Freakonium atoms is very short however, usually deteriorating in a giggling episode, a search for food and an excessive use of the term,"hey, man".

Greasonium often can cause a mutated chain reaction from squares lacking this critical enzyme, called Judgmentalium. The lack of Greasonium in their DNA causes this and symptoms usually include scowls, condescending remarks, feelings of superiority and insecurity. This chemical reaction is easily dispelled with some by-products of Greasonium such as Fuckyouinium and Kissmyassinium. When mixed with alcohol, their potency can be increased ten-fold. With the right chemical reagents, these compounds can be easily changed to Illpunchyouinthefuckinheadolia.

Greasonium is a very volatile compound and should be handled with care. Without the proper handling or equipment, it can cause serious harm. The molecules can decay and be transformed into Geekonium. Once someone has been exposed to Geekonium, some of the results may include trying to act cool but failing miserably, an irrepressible desire to attend Star Trek conventions, the urge to wear really skinny jeans and fake glasses without lenses or the desire to restore obscure French automobiles.

Greasonium is a naturally occurring compound and many unsuccessful attempts have been made to re-create it in the laboratory. There are trace amounts present in beer, so drinking copious quantities is necessary in order to obtain small amounts of Greasonium. I suggest that you go down to the liquor store right now and get 24 beers. I know I will, I need my daily recommended dose of Greasonium.

Where's My Flying Cadillac ?

2011-01-01T17:53:00.000-08:00

As the year 2010 drew to a close, it made me think about all bad science fiction movies that had portrayed this number as having a sort of mystical significance. Over the years, many prognosticators have pictured what the year 2010 would be like. They could not have been more wrong.

According to these self-appointed seers, charlatans and mavens of science and technology, the world would be an entirely different place. Artists' conceptions pictured such things as self-driving cars on automated highways, intelligent talking dogs, thought activated computers, universal currency and possibly the elimination of the need to work.

Little seems to have changed. Cars still run on gas, but are much uglier. I tried talking to the neighbor's dog, but that son of a bitch wouldn't talk back.My compuer is still dumb as a rock and there is still is no shortage of mind-numbing, low paying jobs out there.

As for computers, this very minute millions of people around the planet are engaged in heated, one-sided debates with a frozen screen, others are reaching levels of anger nearing apoplexy vainly banging on keyboards and others are possibly throwing their computers out the window. This seemingly irrational behavior is the direct result of using Windows 7 with all its idiosyncrasies and complete lack of user friendly interface. Bill Gates gets richer while millions of hapless PC users collectively waste thousands of hours.

One unintended consequence of the prevalence of computers, was the creation of an entirely new under-class :the computer nerds. These people, who would be social misfits under any other circumstance, are seen as gurus, because they are the only ones who actually know how these neurotic devices actually work. They are still social misfits, but the Luddites among us still need their skills.

Others are into gaming. They sit for hours upon hours battling animated demons and bestowing titles upon themselves like " Grand exalted warlock" or " Master of beasts" or "Slayer of accountants." Ironically, these pale basement dwellers of the flaccid bottom would lose an average barfight, that is, if they ever left their subterranean suburban enclaves to go to an actual bar.

The biggest contribution, however, is the lowest common denominator. Porn, porn and more porn dominate the cyber-landscape. It has also given a voice those who should have remained unheard. Every conspiracy theorist, whack-job survivalist, holy-roller whacko, tin foil hat wearing UFO believers and any other strange sub-group can spout off nonsense to their heart's content in all its illiterate glory.

What I find the most disconcerting is how conservative this society has remained. The dogmatic adherence to tenets that should have disappeared long ago shows no signs of waning. The pressure to conform is overwhelming at times. Dress code rules still abound, and while even in the Rockabilly world it is still cool to dress up sometimes, I find myself at a loss to explain the necessity of neckties in this day and age.

If you happen to find yourself in Court ( as greasers often are, even for the slightest of transgressions) you are keenly advised to wear a tie. This arbitrary piece of cloth around your neck is supposed to signify "respect for the court". I ain't no anarchist, but if I somehow got embroiled in the system and am forced to pay a large fine for some petty indiscretion ( say, installing a 49cc engine on a bicycle), well, hell no, I ain't got no respect, and a ridiculous piece of cloth tied in convoluted knots around my neck ain't gonna change that. If you happen to be greasy, you are best advised to forgo the grease and the pomp, as it is perceived to be too rebellious in the eyes of the judge.

I think that that is the nexus of the problem right there. Nature may abhor a vacuum, but society abhors a rebel. Society does tolerate the white-bread, middle class view of rebelliousness and non-conformity. Earnest hippies chaining themselves to trees, rhetoric spouting celebrities attaching themselves to some trendy cause, animal rights activists parading around some half-blind retarded dog or pot endorsing folk heroes are acceptable. These are safe, palatable forms of rebellion.

Greasy, leather-clad Rockabillies are a whole other thing. These anachronistic iconoclasts make the conservative world uneasy. The overt rejection of conformity is obvious and menacing. Their very demeanor tacitly states that they refuse to accept the constraining views of what is and is not acceptable.

I think that is what is part of the allure of Rockabilly. It hearkens to a simpler time, where societal delineations were more obvious. The cars and music were cooler, of course, but it was a way of saying that they didn't accept the post-war values that were prevalent at the time. So, you may ask, what has changed? Seemingly, not much. The true rebels are still eyed with suspicion, causing greasy tremors in the manufactured stability of the common world.

As we make our way into a new decade, I will remain satisfied with the knowledge that the status quo will always prevail and that myself and my ilk will always be there to throw a monkey wrench ( figuratively and literally) into that conservative leviathan that is our day-to-day society. Hopefully, though, by 2020 I should have that flying Cadillac.

Happy New Year to all and don't let the squares get you.

The Greaseless Express

2010-12-27T19:59:00.000-08:00

Greasers love to be greasy. Some spend untold thousands on some of the world's coolest and baddest hot rods. Grease and booze are an unparalleled match, and we all enjoy a good booze up and a good band. The cold hard reality, however, is not as much fun.

Many states and provinces are enacting increasingly Draconian drinking and driving laws with ensuing harsh penalties. In my own hometown, it is illegal to smoke in parks or to drink beer in public. While the Federales turn a blind eye to longhairs smoking pot in the park, big trouble can be found in a flash for the lone greaser quietly enjoying a beer and a smoke on a nice sunny day in the park. After receiving two separate tickets for each offense, he will be be forced to endure the indignity of having all his other beers poured out by an all-too-willing self-righteous cop.

Hell, even riding a bike after a few pints seems fraught with danger. Not so much the possibility of falling off the bike, but the fact that some hillbilly state trooper may interpret that as drunk driving. How ridiculous it would be to have to go through the extremely laborious process of losing your driver's license because you rode a godammed bicycle after a few beers. You'll be singing the Walk-a-billy blues for a long time to come.

What's a greasy sum bitch such as myself and yourself to do ? Drinking and driving is out of the question these days. Sometimes you can't get a cab, and are sometimes relegated to that most disdainful form of transportation known as public transit. I often wonder what Machiavellian deviant ever conceived of such a conveyance. I deem it to be even beneath walking, but walking is so damned slow when you are hammered and staggering.

I have written about flying and Greyhound buses in the past. The former is bad enough and the latter can be downright frightening. I have even taken a train on a few occasions with pretty much the same results, I even had to hitchhike once when I ran out of gas somewhere near Bumfuck, Kentucky. There is just something about sharing transportation with total strangers, some whom you wish to fucking poke in the eyes, that is unequivocally unbearable. There is just something unnatural about being forced to be inside a moving box with people ( and I use the term loosely) that you would otherwise never associate with. Drunk or sober, you will eventually find yourself on a bus.

Here's a compendium of the various types that you will encounter on an average trek aboard your local loser-cruiser:

1. The Commuting Idiot.

Usually armed with large Starbucks, whatever you may call, Vega-Hemi-Leakage, this snotty self-righteous son of a bitch will surely spill some of that boiling hot shit on you. This uppity fuck will ignore that and keep texting with his other hand. As much as you desire to punch him in the face, the crowded conditions make it impossible, and you instinctively know that you don't want to end up in the drunk tank for punching a douchebag.

Conversely, if it is morning and your car is in the shop, you don't need to get into a fight before work. I have on several occasions, yelled at these idiots, because they were wearing enormous backpacks which they blithely failed to remove before entering the bus. Even an angry greaser admonishing them is not enough to deter their stupidity. Yet another punch in the head that would need to be administered, but cannot, in the interests of civility.

2. The Charismatic Bum.

These aimless vagrants can be found on almost any bus. These free-ride mooching hobos are overly concerned with schedules and destinations, yet have nowhere in particular to go and nothing special to do. One thing is for certain though; they will attempt to engage you in conversation.

Their toothless grins, limited vocabulary and maudlin opinions will overwhelm your attempted reveries of silence as you try to ignore them. Their easily detected subterfuge are meant to extract a free smoke or a dollar. They will try to regale you with pointless anecdotes and details of their inane life, oblivious to the fact that you don't care and that their smell of stale urine, Old Spice and moldy clothing could drop a horse at fifty paces. Some are not so charismatic, just insane and incoherent. They get angry at your attempts to ignore them, but quickly lose interest. Thankfully they are transient, and are soon off the bus, leaving only a lingering bad smell, and possibly a puddle of urine on the seat.

3. The Not So Charismatic Drunk.

If one takes a night bus, there will be an understandable amount of drunk people riding it. It will be loud and obnoxious, but usually harmless, What is more disconcerting, however, is the daytime drunk.

Usually a product of the lower echelons of society, this walking piece of shit is not quite a bum, but not far removed from it. He will assume that everybody wants to listen to his retarded ramblings and get offended when people ignore him.

Greasy hair, leather jackets, and rockabilly demeanor seem to incense this product of hip hop culture. He will not harass regular looking folk or old ladies; he will use all the bravado that he gleaned from rap videos to pick a fight with greasy looking dudes. Cooler heads will prevail, and he will drunkenly saunter off, too stupid to realize that he narrowly avoided a severe ( and well-deserved) beating.

4. The Gaggle of Skanks.

These can usually be found on weekends. These scantily clad young women, hell bent on going downtown to go clubbing, not fully aware of what that entails, are on the bus. They most likely have had some pre-drinks, judging by the barrage of "woo-hoos" that are flying about the close confines of the bus and its bad acoustics.

20 skanks are no match for one old greaser, so any attempt to scowl or tell them to shut the fuck up would be be futile. I can only be satisfied in the knowledge that much later that evening, without exception, that they will be hurling their guts out beside a dumpster in some filth-strewn alley as cab drivers refuse to give them a ride. Might take them another ten years to finally get it.

5. Cel Phone Idiots.

Pervasive as they may be, cel phones are here to stay. Some people have yet to master the basic etiquette of cel phone use. Without going on a tangent about this subject, I still question some people's intelligence when using a cel on public transit.

A one hour conversation comprising of one hundred percent horseshit, while appealing to the participants, is of absolutely no interest to other passengers. Usually held at unnaturally high decibel levels, we are unwillingly made aware that some chick is a bitch, a disease is not contagious or constant inquiries as to the other party's location. The up-talking and endless punctuations of " oh-my-god!" only add to the ever increasing levels of stress. I have been known, on certain really drunken rides, to gutturally slur "why don't you shut the fuck up." Only to be reviled as an idiot myself.

A very old friend of mine drove city buses for about thirty years. Due to attrition and expansion, they were looking to hire drivers. My buddy suggested that I should apply for a job, as they were desperately looking for new new drivers. I asked my friend what exactly about my disposition made him think that I was suitable for such employment. Had I been hired in that capacity ( psychological profiles notwithstanding) I can pretty much guarantee that I would have punched somebody in the face within two weeks.

Keeping that in mind, I feel that I must salute the brave men and women who perform this thankless job everyday and late into the night. They are tolerant souls who deserve our respect.

As for me, I'll be tuning up my booze bike and making sure I pack a drunk helmet next time I go to a party.

The House Of Booze

2010-12-18T13:01:00.000-08:00

After a random ride through a very upscale part of of town, I began to ask myself a fundamental question; " Why would anyone want, or even need, a house that big?"

Through work over the years, I have had access to some of these gargantuan abodes, and I realized that the bigger the house, the desire to fill it with more and more stuff arises. Items are displayed museum-like in the labyrinthine array of rooms. Their careful placement tacitly implies that one shouldn't even think about touching them.

Many of these overly-rich people seem to spend a lot of time just managing their homes and keeping track of their myriad possessions. Just the thought of that stresses me out, I couldn't imagine having to think about all my shit all the time.

One particular house has been under construction for the last 4 years and is far from done. This all concrete house prominently features its own tower crane. I had a quick glance at the blueprints and saw that it is being built in five tiers on a hillside that had to be excavated. There is an interior squash court, swimming pool and other things that I could not identify. The one strange feature that stuck in my mind was a car turntable just like the one Batman had in the Batcave. I guess rich people don't like driving cars in the reverse.

The obscene amount of money being spent on the construction of this house brings to mind the fact that, once completed, it will have to be filled with stuff. Lots of stuff. Shitloads upon shitloads of over-priced stuff. Small armies of delivery personnel will be laboring as they haul all that, undoubtedly very heavy, stuff up the stairs to the multiple levels of this architectural monstrosity. Other people will be employed to move the stuff around and more people still will be employed to keep all that stuff clean.

I needed a drink that day, just to erase the visions of all that ugly post modern shit that will occupy those premises. Tons and tons of ugly, ostentatious furniture, garish statues, fake heraldry, oversized vases, tacky chandeliers and really big ass TV's swimming around my mind clouding my vision.

As I sat a some local skid bar and partook in a few cheap beers, the utter simplicity of the life of a greasy boozehound was indeed liberating. It just doesn't take much to make for a good life. Here are the essentials.

1.Booze.

Yer gonna need booze. Not that expensive Chateau Migraine that rich people are always so willing to prattle on about, just plain ole booze. I am not fond of wine on a good day, and the imbibing of a 200 dollar bottle of wine makes no sense to me. They may be richer, but they will be just as hammered as you in the long run.

My American friends should consider themselves fortunate, the can go to the local Chevron and get 24 PBR's for $10.99. Here in Canada, we ain't so lucky, and we have to be creative.

Once you have secured the locations of all the nearby cheap booze sources, you're ready to roll and never further than a short stumble away should you happen to run out in mid-drinking session.

You will require a refrigerator that is in good working order and a friend with a pick-up truck to return the empties once in a while.

2. A Decent Stereo and An Old Guitar.

Nothing can turn an introspective piss-up into a raging party quicker than having some good tunes on hand. This applies whether you are alone or with friends. Having lots of good tunes on hand goes without saying, but blaring a bunch of mp-3's through some crappy Wal-Mart computer just ain't gonna cut it and just raises people's blood pressure. Do yourself a favor and buy a real stereo, the best you can afford.

If some of your friends play, they can bring along some guitars and a jam is sure to ensue. Stick to Rockabilly friends though, because some of these jams can be a recipe for disaster and usually end with at least one person getting a guitar smashed on their head.

If your neighbors complain, invite them over and appease them with beer ( see #1: never run out of beer).

If the cops show up, the party is pretty much over. Everybody is probably fairly liquored at this point so an air-upright bass contest will seem real funny at this time.

3. A Computer.

As un-Rockabilly as this seems, in this day and age, it is a necessity. It's a good way to stay in touch, discover new music and read all kinds of nonsense when you have nothing better to do. Hell, I couldn't be spouting all this if I didn't have a computer.

A word of advice; get a Mac. A PC ensures that you will be cursing, have drunken fits of rage and quite possibly end up hurling said PC out of a window. I know some cats that can rebuild a carb while blindfolded, but like myself, the finer intricacies of the computer eludes them.

Computers are so ubiquitous, that not owning one arouses suspicious looks and makes people think that you may own a tin-foil hat. Then again, some of the craziest people are on-line.

4. Greasy Shit.

As a greasy boozehound you will require a few greasy items. Various types of hair grease for different types of weather conditions are a basic requirement.

Some nice vintage threads are good to have.These are usually reserved for going out so that you can dazzle your greasy friends by how little ( or how much) you paid for them. You will spend Saturday night trying to out-rockabilly each other with the tales of varying difficulties encountered obtaining said clothes.

Weekdays are not so competitive as all you need are a whole bunch of cool t-shirts. Even older greasers such as myself still enjoy rude t-shirts. They always seem hilarious to us and have a bonus effect of scaring squares. A small dose of immaturity is good for the soul and it keeps you young.

5. Furniture.

Even the staunchest minimalist requires some basic furniture. The greasy folk usually find theirs in thrift shops or specialty stores. There is still a competitive edge as we all try to find cool fifties shit at a reduced price.

You will need a couple of couches for all your greasy friends to sit on. You can almost guarantee that there will be one of your friends crashing on that couch at any given time. Get ones that are grease and beer resistant. Bonus on Monday morning when you find about ten bucks of spare change in the cracks.

You will also need a big ass coffee table. One that holds roughly 100 beer cans at the very least. Best not to have that fancy 50's teak table out when your friends arrive. The famous wire spool table is perfect for these occasions and a bunch of milk crates with a slab of plywood will do in a pinch.

Futons are OK for students and crackheads living in the alley, but a boozehound needs a good bed to sleep off that boozy debauchery in a comfortable manner.

6.Boozy Transportation.

While I have many friends that have cool hot rods, the draconian drinking and driving laws force them to leave them at home, or worse yet, go out to see a show and drink water. Some of those rods are beasts to handle on a good day, so it's probably for the best.

Late night public transit is an adventure in itself. As I have stated in the past, no matter how drunk you are, everyone else is drunker than you. Getting into a fight is a definite possibility as the booze fueled testosterone and over-crowded situation are shaken together in a volatile mix only made worse by the bus driver's indifferent lurching of the bus.

I recommend a booze cruiser. Riding a bike drunk takes a little practice, but is all a matter of very simple physics. When you ride a mountain bike, you are hunched over and your weight is concentrated directly above the axle of the front wheel.

This makes for a very wobbly ride and you will end up ass-over- head. You will crash and lose some teeth. Think of the physics; your ass is up, your head is down, you can't see forward, your front wheel is wobbling and your hammered.

On a cruiser bike you are riding upright. The long, gentle curve of the handle bars swoop back to embrace you. I put a laid back seat post on all my cruisers. It is a curved piece of metal that throws your seat back about three inches, thereby lowering your center of gravity by three inches.

You will feel like you are riding a lowrider as you cruise home low and slow. You might want to carry around a 12-beer helmet until you gain more brazen booze confidence.

The simple pleasures, life is good when you are boozy and greazy.

The Leather Jacket Blues

2010-12-12T18:21:00.000-08:00

Very few items in the 20 th century have achieved iconic status. Some have achieved this status only to eventually fade from the collective societal memory. The two that have withstood the test of time are the venerable Levi's 501 and the black leather jacket.

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What sets the leather jacket apart is the connotations, real or imagined, that it invokes. Almost immediately after it's inception motorcycle enthusiasts adopted it and made it their own.

The Schott Bros. company of New York City began making leather jackets in 1911. In 1928 the were the first company to install zippers on these jackets. They began selling them at a Long Island Harley Davidson dealership for roughly 7 dollars. Motorcyclists took an immediate shine to them, and the birth of the motorcycle jacket and its ethos was thrust upon America.

In the 20's, only staunch individualists would ride motorcycles, and the wearing of leather jackets cemented their reputation as rebels, a perception that has endured to this day.

The seminal 1953 movie, The Wild One, defined an era that had yet to come. Marlon Brando sported a classic Schott Bros. Perfecto and a whole generation of teens readily attempted to emulate it. A few years later, the black leather jacket was de riguer for any rebel, teenage delinquent or garden variety dirtbag.

So much so, that Schott Bros.' sales actually dropped in the late fifties, as pretty much all schools across North America imposed an all out ban of this apparel.

The now venerable even survived the onslaught of sixties hippie culture because cats like Gene Vincent continued to wear them on stage.

Bands like the Ramones adopted the Perfecto ( as well the also iconic Chuck Taylors) and the unofficial uniform of New York's Lower East Side and Punk Rock was created.

Musicians of all genres have also adopted the Perfecto as their own and the ever growing Rockabilly purist movement is its champion.

Historical documentation seems to be out the grasp of the general public and weird opinions and inaccurate perceptions continue on. People see what they want to see it seems. Here are some random perceptions that occur if you happen to be wearing a black leather jacket.

1. The Hoser

As some of my American friends may or may not know, a hoser is a somewhat derogatory term reserved for a particular type of Canadian that is usually found in the suburbs or rural areas. They are fond of the black leather jacket, but completely ruin its cool by pairing it with very large sneakers and mullets.

These brainless louts seem to have an attraction to bad classic rock ( is there any other kind?) and are prone to outbursts of air guitar whenever they hear Van Halen are are sent into fits of apoplexy should they hear some Rush, as they chant the mantra' "Peart rules!"

They punctuate their sentences with copious quantities of " hey man" and actually do employ that quintessential Canadian expression: "Take off, eh!"

If you happen to be spotted by these directionless hosers in a bar while sporting your leather jacket, they will automatically assume that you are one of them and drunkenly invite you into the fold.They will be perplexed at your disdain classic rock and eventually wander away. They will go home and watch endless reruns of the Blues Brothers and get coffee the next morning at the 7-11 wearing pajama bottoms and that leather jacket.

2. The Vintage Cats.

These people actually get it. As you may happen to stop into your local Value Village, the amateur pickers will eye you up and down. This is not a challenge, it is an appreciative glance at your well-worn leather jacket.

Knowing nothing of rockabilly and its legacy, they just dig the jacket and will smile and tell you so. They might be secretly envious, because their endeavors at Value Village usually culminate in bad 80's clothes, broken umbrellas and really ugly sofas.

Just never you mind what I was doing at a Value Village.

3. The Bad-Ass

Squares usually take things for face value, and the leather jacket is no exception. They might feel uncomfortable as you stand in line behind them at the liquor store. The fact that they are clutching a Cabarnet Sauvigon and you are clutching twelve Pabst is not lost on them.

They might feel a little fearful, hoping that the very greasy dirtbag in the leather jacket doesn't jump them on the way to their Volvo and steal their expensive wine. If I were a dirtbag, I would have no interest in stealing his wine or his Volvo.

The fact that I was clutching a guitar in my other hand seems to have been lost on the square however. Pabst+ Guitar+ Leather Jacket= Band Rehearsal.

Cops also seem to take a dim view on leather jackets. They also fail to make the connection between jacket and musician. While hard core criminals wear either suits or shiny Ed hardy Shit, the street level dirtbags that break into people's homes wear whatever they may have found in the dumpster. Hell, even bikers don't wear Perfectos .

4.The Unspoken Threat.

This one happened to me personally not so long ago. On a damp winter night, I had to make my way to band rehearsal. Rockabilly rehearsals and beer are an inseparable pair, so I decided to take public transit.

No matter where you may live, one of the truisms of riding the loser cruiser, is that every single bus has its resident drunk. Every single one, no matter what time of day.

This particular drunk entered the bus and demanded a free ride. A young, hip-hop wannabe, this idiot wanted to be heard. My attempts at ignoring his stupid ramblings and desire for conversation were met with rising anger. He attempted to pick a fight as he hurled insults at me directed to my "greasy hair" and " leather jacket".

Drunk as he was, I am convinced that he was just as dumb sober, as my guitar case seemed to elude his perception. He seemed to be incensed purely by the presence of the leather jacket.

What he probably deserved was a good, stiff punch right in the face, but I reined in my desire to do just that. Maybe I had finally acquired wisdom, or maybe I just didn't want to deal with punching some retard in the face: any way that you can perceive it, had the cops shown up, one perfunctory glance at the leather jacket would have convinced them that I was the lowlife that evening.

Yet another idiot who's watched too many bad movies.

5. What Are You Riding?

Whenever I go for coffee somewhere, I am always accosted by some dude riding a BMW motorcycle with a whole shitload of fairings and bags asking me what I am riding. When I point at the vintage bicycle that is locked up to a nearby pole, they always seem disconcerted. How can you be wearing a leather jacket and not be riding a motorcycle they always seem to think. They fail to understand that, while a black leather jacket is fine for toting a guitar around, you would probably freeze your ass off wearing it while riding a motorcycle.

In closing, me, and my black leather jacket brethren (and sisters too)are not dirtbags, criminals, bikers. Ramones wannabes, pickin' a fight, lookin' for Van Halen on vinyl, steal your last beer kinda dude, anti-social lowlife or not even close to being a bad ass. I think that some gals dig it and we just wanna play some Rockabilly .

Hit That Greasy Thing.

2010-12-04T17:10:00.000-08:00

A good friend of mine, who happens to be a little on the conservative side, once made an observation about the Rockabilly lifestyle in general; " When you are a nail sticking out of a board, people want to hammer you down." Truer words have rarely been spoken. While my greasy demeanor seems to amuse my friend, the truth of the matter has far more sinister undertones.

That big, scary world out there, to this day, remains a bastion of conservatism. Most people won't even blink at the hordes of filthy hippies that aimlessly roam the streets clutching bongos and openly smoking weed. A couple of greasers strolling down the street is another matter altogether. Many scowls will ensue from the squares who are firmly convinced that a black leather jacket is an extension of the middle finger and a pomp is big greasy vertical fuck you.

Should the greasers be cursing, as they are wont to do, a full blown scandal occurs right there on the street. The squares, who just so blatantly ignored hippies a few minutes ago, are shocked. They will admonish the greasers and are surprised when even more cursing happens in response to their self-entitled behavior.

What most people fail to understand, is that the reason we are what we are, is due to a complete devotion to the lifestyle. Whether it be music, cars or vintage threads, it's what we dig, and they are missing out.

Let's take a little ride through Squaresville.

1. The Workplace.

Unless you actually build hot rods or play music for a living, you will be surrounded by squares. If you happen to work in a really straight place, you will have some sort of dress code imposed on you .

If it's middle of the road you will be given more leeway, but you will have to endure bemused looks , endless dumb questions about Rockabilly and even dumber questions about that jar of Tres Flores on your desk.

Others will be too clueless to realize that your wallet chain is actually attached to a wallet. That's why it's called a wallet chain. Your natural instinct to call people on their stupidity with unbridled contempt will have to be held in check.

Telling people to fuck off or muttering under your breath that your gonna pound somebody is seriously frowned upon in the workplace. Telling somebody to shut their fuckin' mouth maybe acceptable under certain circumstances, depending on just how stupid that person is.

Slamming down phones seems to downright terrify most office squares. Some guys might actually pee in their pants a little as they become convinced that you may have done time. If you have tattoos, they will automatically assume that you used to steal cars for a living.

It is futile to invite co-workers to a gig, because they don't know what that is. Being at a Rockabilly show would scare the fuck out of them, and it's way past their bedtime anyway.

Over time, the powers that be will eventually try to erode any individuality or creative thinking. They will try to indoctrinate you with various vapid slogans and trite corporate-speak. The only paradigm shift that I care about is when I switch from beer to whiskey.

The best thing for a greaser is to just keep his (or hers) mouth shut. Once you have a bit of tenure, the smartest thing is to identify and locate the office swillers and go for drinks after work. They may not fully understand you, but the commonality that you both share in the whiskey bottle will make for some good times. Nothing creates a bond like having the same hangover the next day.

2. Cops and Canada Customs.

If there is one thing that cops hate more than guitars, it's greasers. As for Canada Customs, their scorn applies equally to greasers, musicians, rodeo cowboys and anybody who isn't some sort of pointdexter.

In an older post, I described some of the hair-raising experiences that I had with the Machiavellian Border guards. This adds insult to injury considering that I am a Canadian citizen. When confronted with multiple questions as to my whereabouts and doings in the USA, "I went to see a Rockabilly show," is not the answer they were looking for.

As for city cops, they have probably seen too many bad movies. They seem oblivious to the fact that criminals don't dress like greasy musicians. That black Mercedes with the tinted windows parked nearby probably has a whole bunch of criminals inside, yet the cop will be hell-bent on giving me a ticket for not wearing a bicycle helmet, or some other petty nonsense.

Just few days ago, I was strolling down a main drag. Sporting shades and leather jacket, my confident swagger making my wallet chain swing back and forth , I was just minding my own business. Some cop in an unmarked car mistook this for a defiant attitude and pulled over to scowl at me. I kept walking as he looked something up on his computer, positive that I was up to no good. After all, some greaseball in a leather jacket walking down the street in the middle of the day has got to be up to no good.

A recent verbal altercation that I had attracted no fewer than 8 cop cars. Some square probably called the cops on me possibly thinking there was a mean biker or an evil barbarian about to do nefarious deeds. The squares and the cops alike seemed oblivious to the fact that I was riding a bicycle and the comical connotations that that had. How much of a bad-ass can you be on a bicycle?

A recent appearance in traffic court made me realize the full scope of our extremely conservative judicial system. On the advice of a good friend who is a lawyer, I wore a tie and kept the greasy hair to a minimum. The judge liked me and I received a reduced amount. Like Brian Setzer's father once told him," Never get a tattoo where a judge can see it."

I left the courtroom and headed to the nearest coffee shop. It happened to be a Starbucks. I hate their coffee and I hate the contrived atmosphere even more, but I needed coffee. As I exited the coffee shop. I was accosted by a TV crew wanting to ask me some dumb and irrelevant questions. Sporting a suit ( vintage of course), short hair without grease and clutching a Starbucks cup, they obviously mistook me for someone who gives a damn and is eager to answer a bunch of fool questions.The snarky, yet articulate, answers that I offered were not what they were expecting, and I doubt that little exchange made it to the 6 o'clock news.

I couldn't wait to get back home and get greasy again. If I was gonna be a dirtbag, I might as well look like a dirtbag.

3.Denim.

It never ceases to amaze me that, in this day and age, denim is still frowned upon. Many workplaces forbid the wearing of denim. Some companies who must think of themselves as extremely forward thinking, have made the daring step of instituting denim Fridays. How incredibly progressive. There is nothing like the sight of a bunch of office people who are completely uncomfortable in seldom-wore denim. The illusion of freedom seems to make them happy. Wearing a tattered cut-off denim jacket over a leather jacket with rude slogans on the back is just completely over the top in these situations.

Many establishments such as restaurants and clubs still have archaic dress codes and will deny entry to anyone wearing jeans. Anyone sporting the douchebag alarm ringing Ed Hardy clothing is readily admitted. All that shiny, glittery clothing has been deemed acceptable, yet denim has not. These skewed values make no sense to me. I was once frisked at some bar while sporting jeans and a vintage denim jacket.The doorman wasn't as smart as he thought he was, because he completely missed the flask in my jacket pocket.

I fail to understand why people don't understand the significance of a design classic such as Levi's 501's. These were cool when they came out those many decades ago, are cooler still with cuffs and have remained an icon for all these years.

It's amazing that these outdated values still exist where jeans were the sartorial statement of farmers, workmen and various types of barbarians and outlaws. Looks like we are destined to be barbarians for a long time to come.

4. Cars.
I am always amused by weekend warrior types who buy brand new Harley Davidsons. They purchase the whole get up as well sporting as much leather as possible a fondly think of themselves as bad-asses. The will get the straight pipes and make them as loud as possible. I don't have anything against loud pipes per se, but they do it to increase the illusion of their bad-assness. These folks rarely get hassled by cops. Most of these weekend riders are lawyers or stock brokers and such and the cops know this as they peruse the $30,000 bikes and 5 grand worth of riding gear.

Now if you are a filthy rat-rodder you are shit-out-of-luck. They will make it almost impossible to license your vehicle and make you jump through many hoops. Some cats that I know have hot rods worth far more than any Harley, yet the lake pipes attract a lot of undue attention from cops. Others ride too low, or are too rusty or just plain look funny in the eyes of cops.

It's so ridiculous as to be cliche. Like those really low budget 50's movies where hot rodders tear up some small town, have the cops constantly chasing them and squares shaking their fist as they curse "them crazy hot rodders".

If you drive a BMW or a black Lexus you can act like an asshole with impunity. Cops won't even give you a second look. If you driving a car that predates colour TV however, you are in for a shitload of hasslin' from Smokey.

5. Booze.

Greasers love booze as much as the government enjoys collecting tax on booze. Booze is very expensive in Canada because they tax the shit out of it. It is only available in government or private stores (with the exception of Quebec). Along with the tight regulation of booze comes a series of convoluted, out-dated and Draconian laws.

While it is illegal to drink a beer in a park and is ticketable offence, the cops turn a blind eyes to the hippies sitting on the ground smoking enormous doobies. A friend of mine was hassled as he drank a beer on his own front porch because he was considered to be in view of the public. Another friend of mine was accosted in a 7-11 as he drunkenly attempted to purchase a pack of smokes. He was fined for public drunkeness and given a ticket prohibiting him from drinking for the next 24 hours.

While this may seem like a scene in a Dickens novel, these attitudes towards drinking are prevalent to this day.

Bars undergo even more scrutiny. They are held accountable for over serving, many of them must serve food with the booze, some allow live music but not dancing and not so long ago, it was illegal to stand in a bar with a drink in your hand. It is virtually impossible to get a liquor license and the City had the hare-brained idea of issuing licenses in a so-called entertainment zone. They are perplexed at the ensuing mayhem that occurs at closing time when thousands of hammered bar patrons pour out into the street in an orgy of screaming, puking and fighting.

Back in the day, say in a place like New York, people were held accountable for their own drinking. If you got too drunk they would toss you, if you got too lippy you would get a punch in the head and if you got into a brawl, you would buy each other drinks when it was over. Even now, in many cities it's not a problem. When something is over regulated, people will go apeshit. I won't get too nostalgic however, because in the Old West, when everybody carried a pistol, being a smart-ass in a bar could get you shot.

Greasers in this town have solved this problem by throwing many house parties. Those are the best, you can drink to your heart's content, act like a complete fool and hurl if you feel the need, and nobody will think any less of you.

The nail sticking out of the board analogy is an accurate one and shows no signs of changing anytime soon. I will remain a greasy denim-wearing, cussin', beer-swillin' and occasionally face-punching nail sticking out of the board until the day I die. In the meantime, I have to get to the beer store before it closes.

The Super Hippies and The Italians

2010-11-20T19:51:00.000-08:00

Over the years, my contempt for hippies has been a well documented fact. They are all around us and difficult to to avoid. My favorite coffee shop is located in the nexus of hippiedom unfortunately. It's an old school Italian place that serves up the city's best coffee. It is one of the last vestiges of once was a proud Italian neighborhood, until the freakos took over many years ago.

Coffee notwithstanding, the old world ambiance is alluring. I enjoy hearing the old Italian men argue, and I understand enough Italian to know what "petso di merda", "que cazzo" and " Stucazz" mean.

Cafe Roma had its moment in the sun a few years back, when talented musicians, artist and writers would congregate and exchange ideas. The cool cats have moved on and me and the old Italian guys, who have taken a shine to me and befriended me, are the only ones left. The one unifying factor that makes us bond, is the endless parade of goddam freaks that roll by on any given Saturday afternoon.
All the old guys smoke, and the draconian smoking laws that have been instituted in this city has by-passed this anachronistic place. The old men smoke their asses off on the well situated patio as they scowl and curse at the passing freaks.

Here's a cross-section of what can be observed from the relative detachment of that fenced in patio on any given Saturday or Sunday afternoon.

1. The weekly hare krishna parade.

They roll by every week or so around 3 or 4 o'clock. These converted hippies would find it sacriligeous to get up any earlier. I say converted, because these are hippies that have taken stinky hippie demeanor to a whole new level. You see, all those hare krishnas are white. Their half-hearted attempt at conversion has resulted in strange mixture of white robes, fleece jackets, boots and the haphazard assembly of of accordions, trumpets, bongos and one solitary pair of those finger cymbals that real krishnas use.

The old men shake their heads, while muttering "Stupido" or 'Strunz". The clamoring and shuffling robe-clad weirdos eventually make their way out of earshot, leaving us all to wonder what exactly they wanted. They weren't asking for money, so what altruistic motivation makes them walk up and down the street ?

2. VW Busses, Minga que petso di merda ( fuck what a piece of shit)

Hippies seem immune to the tired cliches that they continue to perpetuate. The one that gets to me the most, is their constant search for VW busses. Let's face it , these under-powered , air-cooled, no-catalytic converter modes of conveyances were pieces of shit when they came out decades ago. Now. they are just old pieces of shit.

Hippies actively seek out these vehicles, and some even deck them out with inept attempts of spray can paint jobs sporting asymmetrical peace signs. Any tool beyond the average 5 dollar rattle can is usually outside the hippie's purview . The copious quantities of pot smoking almost guarantee a total lack of dexterity or mechanical aptitude.

The hippie's propensity for making shit up as they go along doesn't seem to apply to mechanical devices. Their meager budget spent on pot, patchouli, various crystals and herbs claiming ersatz cures leaves them unable to afford a good VW mechanic.

They roll by spewing black smoke as their mis-firing 4 cylinder, air-cooled engines sputter, oblivious to the fact that they are causing more pollution than your average super-tanker. The irony is, course lost on them.

"Animali!" "Puzzo !"

3. Where the Fuck do you get those clothes?

Seriously now, hippies go out of their way to find some of the most outrageous rags. It all ends up looking contrived (which it is) . I have seen outfits that are difficult to put into words. Disheveled scrawny hippies mill about always speaking 10 decibels too loud to ensure that everyone hears their nonsensical and pretentious conversations. They revel in their mismatched socks, shapeless wool coverings and stupid hats. No hippie outfit is complete without the prerequisite ridiculous headgear.

Scarves, scarves and more scarves. The hotter the weather, the more scarves hippies will wrap around their necks. In the middle of summer , they will have three scarves wrapped around their necks with varying types of pretentious knots. It's almost, as it seems, that by tying said knots, that they think that it will elevate their intellect. Capes are also part of the uber-hippies accouterments. It's almost like it's straight out of Lord of The Rings. Can the hobbits be far behind?

Speaking in pretentious tones and adopting affectations are no substitute for actual knowledge. They will continue to spout their nonsense in sound levels about 10 Decibels too loud while looking around to ensure that people are hearing their ,what we call in Canada, horseshit. Their whiny voices and pointless conversations devoid of any content will only serve to anger the old Italian men even more.

"Va fan'culo!" They will shout, but all to no avail. As they finish their smokes, they will retreat into the back rooms to play some traditional Sicilian card games, argue about soccer, and brazenly shout for more espresso.

I will be there tomorrow to indulge in some excellent coffee as I hang out with my senior Italian friends and heartily agree with their observations and assessments.

Buonanotte from Caffe Roma

Scarin' The Neighbors: Part II

2010-11-14T17:19:00.000-08:00

As I struggle to integrate into my new 'hood, I am still encountering , and creating, a fair bit of culture shock. The quiet and picturesque street lined with one hundred year oak trees is fine by me, but it's a little too quiet.

My recent lapse from the internet had me going a little stir crazy, and all the Volvo driving neighbors seemed to be slightly alarmed at the shadowy figure lurking the alley, drinking a beer. They nervously give me perfunctory waves as they roll by, barely hiding their disdain and discomfort, alarmed by my leather jacket.

This, of course amuses me to no end. Little do they realize that I am barely in idle, and if I were to slam it into fourth gear, as it were, they would be absolutely terrified. I am trying to keep it low key, but the sight of a dude in full greaser regalia toting a bag with a quart of milk seems to disorient the squares. Hell, even greasers need milk for their coffee.

As I go about my daily business, the neighbors don't seem to see the humor as I tell a barking dog " Shaddap, I keel you!" Same goes for the myriad of crows that plague our street. I drink beer in the alley and curse at them as I toss small rocks at them. "I will kill you all ! " I powerlessly curse at the crows. Those fuckers just caw louder as they mock me. This is the point when most neighbors just draw their curtains and contemplate calling the cops.

As the inaugural firing up of the stereo had taught me last week, excessive decibel levels are not welcome in this house. Old wood-framed houses have a tendency to transmit both low and high frequencies with alarming accuracy, so a reduction in volume became a necessity. Although I lament the pathetically low listening levels to which I am now relegated, I know that all that twangy music is still a cause for consternation for my neighbors.

Needing to rehearse for an upcoming show, I was unable to wail at appropriate levels inside the house. I just grabbed my guitar and a few beers and went into the backyard and let it it rip. The slightly cold and damp weather was leaving my fingers numb, but it was liberating to feel unrestrained and belt a few tunes at 105 dB. The cops that eventually showed up seemed to disagree. After convincing them that I wasn't some hobo in the alley, they suggested in no uncertain terms that I should get back inside and maybe "sell that damned guitar". Plus ca change.

I am still amazed, that in this day and age, that a well placed curse word can still raise eyebrows. Unless I am at a funeral or something equally as uncomfortable, I am oblivious to cursing. When the denizen of my street ask me a question, the casual responses of , " I had a good fuckin' day" or "That was a long fuckin' drive" or " I saw some real stupid motherfuckers", are usually met with shocked reactions and bewildered expressions. That just the way I talk; I mean that's just the fuckin' way I talk, now quit bustin' my fuckin' chops.

I am unwilling to tone down my vocabulary to accommodate squares: A good fuckin' time is just that: A good fuckin' time. I did not enjoy a pleasant evening in the company of my comrades at arms, squares; I had a fuckin' blast with my buddies.

As the aforementioned blast came to an end last nite, I arrived home thanks to a gracious ride from a friend, accompanied with the rumblings of a well-tuned V-8 flathead and it's harmonious output. That caused a few lights to be turned on along with nervous gazes through parted curtains.

As I had a nightcap, the furious beer belches accompanied by triumphant shouts of "woo-hoo" seemed to have half the street launched into a state of commotion.

As I continue my thinly veiled attempt at so-called civilized behavior, the neighbors will eventually have to come to terms that there is a greaseball in the 'hood and that they will hear the strains of Rockabilly emanating from my backyard. There will be beer. hot rods and many scowls from me, with the tacitly implied universal body language that says." Whut'er yew lookin' at?"

Greasy, Sleazy and Makin the New Neighbors Queasy

2010-11-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

After a few years of living in a rock 'n' roll shithole, I finally made the move. Shitholes have their advantages. Even though I had a dumb and oblivious roomate, the trade-off worked in my favor.

Crazy Friday nights fuelled by cheap booze and even cheaper cigars while blaring Rockabilly and playing along with my guitar were a blast. The occupants of cars stopped at the red light outside my window often stared blankly at the second floor window, unable to understand the mute images of some greasy dude flailing on a guitar while indulging in large swigs of beer right out of the can.

My rooomate with his St. Bernard like demeanor, didn't seem to notice or even care. The only times that he wouldn't engage me in pointless, rambling and interminable conversations, was when I was playing guitar. He just seemed embarrrased, displaying a sheepish expression as if he had witnessed me picking my nose or something.

The fact that his part the apartment looked like a junkyard was probably a factor in his lack of concern whenever I decided to grind some metal or spray paint shit right there in the alcove. Flying sparks and toxic paint fumes didn't seem to register in his brain which seemed to be short on synaptic connections. His lack of general hygiene was indicative of a hippie mindset and decades wasted smoking pot and just being an all around lie-about.

On a few occasions, while drunkenly attemting to put together bikes or fix something, I would throw a tool and produce a blue streak of cursing. Too ridiculous to observe my seething anger and too dumb to be scared, he would blather on about some un-related, random subject, thus angering me even more.

Combination crash-pad, jam space,metal shop and bike repair room notwithstanding, I needed a change. The conveniently located 7-11 across the street was nothing but a magnet for degenerates and crackheads, and their desire to constantly cross the street to get to the only pay phone in the area caused many large trucks to engage their Jake brakes.

I found a place on a quiet street in a nice neighborhood not too far away and made the move. The antithesis of my last place, the first week was quite a culture shock. Not so much for me I think, but mainly my new neighbors.

That's the thing about quiet neighborhoods; they attract squares, various office-type folk and other non-descript people, but never greasers. Let's just say that my relocation to my new digs was not going to be quite the proverbial duck to water.

After several evenings of moving boxes in, I immediately attracted some undue attention and curious stares, but it gets dark early these days, so my transition was mainly done incognito.

My new landlords were a nice young couple with kids, but I doubt if they any had any first-hand experience with greasers.They were about to find out.

On my first weekend there, I was invited to small block party, meet the new neighbors as it were. I grabbed a shower and got my pomp nice and greasy. I thought that I had better not wear my leather jacket straight off, but opted instead for a garage jacket. I wanted the culture shock to be gradual.

What is gradual to myself and my greasy ilk, is akin to a punch in the face for squares.I tagged along with my new landlords as they introduced me all around. I received a few perfunctory greetings always ending with upwards glances to my pomp. Others justed eyed me suspiciously and some others gathered their kids about and moved away a little.

The tone was set and the predictable responses that I had envisioned came to be realised. Greaseballs always get that reaction from squares. Garnering stereotypes from movies and jumping to shallow and obvious conlusions seemed the norm. They seem to think of us as an amalgam of biker, bad-ass and criminal. The simple description of musician or gearhead seems to elude them.

In all honesty, who really gives a damn about neighbors. Given the oppurtunity, most will have their noses in your business soon enough and a small percentage of them will be insane, so it's best to keep them at arm's length.

My landlords, on the other hand, live right above me. After a week or so, I began sensing a slight underlying tension. Maybe the fact that every encounter I've had with them so far has found me clutching a beer in one hand.

The first weekend there, my main goal was to hook up the ole stereo. I got it running and quietly played some hillbilly boogie as back ground music while I unpacked. Sunday afternoon, I cracked a few beers and decided to see what acoustical properties my new surroundings had. I played a couple of tunes and everything was sounding good.

I needed to hear some pedal steel, so I fired up some Dale Watson. I cranked the volume knob a few notches. I didn't recall any loud banging as part of the pedal steel solo. I pressed the pause button, and realised the banging was coming from my door.

My distraught landlord was there. She was cool about it, but she had never heard a stereo that loud before. I wondered if she objected to the volume or the content.

As I sipped from one my seemingly ever-present beers, I laughed as I apologized, quipping that the stereo could go waaa-aay louder. She did not seem amused.

A $200 pair of Grado headphones is an expense that I had not anticipated.

As she was speaking with me she glanced at all the bikes and tools scattered everywhere. I'm not sure what she was thinking, but I suspect that I may soon be fixing a bunch of shit that I hadn't expected to fix.

A greasy fish out of water, a square greasy peg. A greaser in a square neighborhood is an abberation, and the transition is not easy. I enjoy the quiet nights' sleep in this neighborhood, but am appaled at all the weird clothes and preponderance of dumb hats. ( what is it with squares and hippies and their dumb hats?).

Fortunately the beer store isn't too far away, but I'm wondering what will happen when I decide to play some tunes on the old git-box or when all the lowriders start showing up.