Tomorrow things settle into a level of normalcy, so I have at least one more beer to finish to catch up to the 365-Beer challenge. The details are on today's Chicagoist post and, being that I already committed to 52 beers in 52 weeks for the "Beer of the Week" series, decided on the modest goal of 100 different beers this year. 'Course, given that I'm constantly tasting beer and spirits, I should reach that total before spring. If I do, then I'll look at the 365 goal.
It's flooding outside. More specific, the rain water, thanks to the slow flow storm drains, is coming down so fast that puiddles are spilling over the cubs on my street and flooding lawns. It's a good night for curling under the comforter with a hot toddy and some Sam Cooke.
I worked the past three New Year's Eves, and walked out with an average of $75 over that span. So, with the reduced capacity at work and yet another limited open bar package determined, I decided that if I was going to lose money, it would be on my terms.
Being as this was my first NYE free in five years, I decided to check out Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings at the always classy Park West. There were moments where I nearly regretted the decision. And it started almost from the moment I transferred to the Red Line at Roosevelt, where a groups of kids would not. Shut. UP!! It must've been their first NYE out on the town as legal drinkers, because it made me wonder if I was that stupid at their age.
Leaving the train at Fullerton, I come upon another NYE staple: the spray-tanned blond wearing a strapless cocktail dress, with no coat or wrap to cover her bare shoulders, her arms clenched together in an effort to keep warm, giving me and everyone else the stink-eye for staring at her mass of hard nipples and goose flesh. I know it was mild outside last night, but the wind picked up considerably after 8 p.m., and fifty degrees felt like thirty-five. But this happens every year, even when the temperature is in single digits. But then, high fashion has never been susceptible to common sense. Which is why, in my favorite cashmere duster, I was both toasty and fierce rocking.
The show itself was amazing. Opening act the Budos Band straddled the line between aping old school funk and soul and aping Fela. Done right, you have Antibalas. Done wrong, you get Chicago Afrobeat Project. The Budos are somewhere in between. Some of their tunes just kick you where you need to be kicked, others sound like endless chase scene music from an episode of "Starsky & Hutch." But they have an energy that is undeniable. Jones, however, is a whirlwind, reminding the crowd with her voice and her dance moves just how influential James Brown really was. Any act that can keep my eyes off the lesbian floor show two stools down from me is worth mention.
Yes, there was some drunken lesbian fondling going on at the always classy Park West last night. To be fair, it was more like one straight girl feeling a buzz and making out with a hard core lesbian who wanted to slide into home. This woman's hands were moving like quicksilver all over the straight girl's, fingers sneaking everywhere.
From what I saw.
I left the show early to catch the final bus back to Bridgeport, and was immediately confronted with the remains of Amateur Night. There were people fighting over cabs, girls in torn dresses and thin heels walking - no, STAGGERING - into traffic; drunken frat types arguing to get into Gamekeeper's; dwarfish male thug types looking for an excuse to throw down; petite girls asking why I looked so "sad." I wasn't sad. I was trying to veil my disgust at the scene.
It's my own fault for venturing out. But the force of nature that was Sharon Jones was worth it.
I only have one resolution for this year, and that's to work. Recently, I've been taking steps to re-establish some semblance of a freelance writing career. I'll be indebted to the people who've given me advice, some of it obvious, some that I forgot, all of it vital. In addition, it's no secret that things at work have been hit-or-miss lately. I still love my job, but at some point I think about my well being, as well. If that means that I have to make a change, then I have to be receptive to it.
With that in mind, I've resolved to be pro-active in pursuing more freelance work and making whatever primary gig I have the best it can be. Moreover, I plan on taking that approach to all facets of my life. So, no more waiting for folks to contact me for gigs; I'm looking for them. It's the "squeaky wheel" theory. Sometimes the grease goes to the wheels that don't need it. No one's going to know who I am if I don't tell them. It requires persistence and focus.
We should all be squeaky wheels this year. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish my champagne.
Remember when, in order to teach Bart a lesson, Homer decided to jump the canyon with a skateboard to show how stupid it was to pursue a career as a daredevil? Then it looked he was gonna actually clear the canyon for a moment, and what followed was the nascent beginnings of the Homer Simpson we've come to know and love over the past seventeen years?
Well, take a look at this, everyone, and thank yourself for not following your basest impulse:
This week is gonna go by so fast. As usual, I just wished for pine needles under the tree. I'm a simple person.
As I type this, the Godfather of Soul is probably causing a ruckus inside the Pearly Gates. You could spin any of the usual tunes in his honor, but I recommend this underappreciated gem. "Soul on Top" was recorded in 1969. It was an unlikely pairing: James Brown and the Louis Bellson Orchestra. But Brown's style incorporated a lot of jazz swing. You can't have bands as tight as the Famous Flames and the J.B.'s without that swing. At the time, few orchestras were as renowned as Louis Bellson's. Turned out it was an inspired pairing. You can download "Soul on Top" at iTunes, which was where I found it. Brown's covers of Hank Williams' "Your Cheatin' Heart" and "Every Day I Have the Blues" are powerhouse numbers.
Been a while since I visited these parts, but I've been busy getting a head start on one of my 2K7 resolutions. It's a combination of necessity and will-to that I've been approaching this resolution with. Let's just say that sometimes you need a kick in the ass to figure out what you want out of life.
Before I go any further, I need to give a plug the neighborhood pub quiz hosted by the B News guys tomorrow. Smussy, this would be your opportunity to learn about the neighborhood from men who actually grew up - and stayed - in Bridgeport.
Someone handed me a copy of Arthur magazine last week, and I'm glad he did. One of the featured articles is an amazingly detailed essay on the history of pornography and its contributions to progressive civilizations, written by none other than the great Alan Moore (V for Vendetta, Watchmen). The argument of the piece: pornography gave us every great advance of civilization, while organized religion gave us the Middle Ages and Holocaust, and instilled us with prudishness. Moore also breathes new life to the legacy of Aubrey Beardsley, he of the perverse imagery and confidant of Oscar Wilde. I love his line work on Lysistrata.
Meanwhile, the new Oxford American is out, and its theme is crime noir. Also in the pages is an essay on Lucinda Williams' "Car Wheels on a Gravel Road" by Sven Birkerts. I've gone through at least four copies of "Car Wheels". One was lost when a public storage facility auctioned off my possessions, the other three were mishandled beyond repair with a scratch kit. Anyway, Birkerts lifts the veil on the meaning of the lyrics to "Right in Time".
"I take off my watch and my earrings my bracelets and everything lie on my back and moan at the ceiling oh, baby. I think about you and that long ride I bite my nails, I get weak inside reach over and turn off the light oh, baby"
It took eight years and Sven Birkerts to make me realize that Lucinda was singing about doing the two-fingered tango in that verse. But then, knowing that she inherited a gift for wordplay from her father, I shouldn't be surprised she cast a subject as masturbation in such subtle imagery. Not to cast a negative spin on her subsequent work, but "Car Wheels" was definitely her high water mark. Sonically, it still sounds relevant today; it jumps out of the speakers and attacks you, while still maintaining a sense of dynamics (that's the influence of the "Twangtrust": Steve Earle and Ray Kennedy. Give a spin to every Earle recording from "El Corazon" to "The Revolution Starts Now" and you'll hear the same sonic blueprint). I can't say the same about "Essence" or "World Without Tears." They sound more spartan and prettier, respectively.
Tomorrow things settle into a level of normalcy, so I have at least one more beer to finish to catch up to the 365-Beer challenge. The details are on today's Chicagoist post and, being that I already committed to 52 beers in 52 weeks for the "Beer of the Week" series, decided on the modest goal of 100 different beers this year. 'Course, given that I'm constantly tasting beer and spirits, I should reach that total before spring. If I do, then I'll look at the 365 goal.
