Tales of Debauchery: the origin of "salt side down"

When I was living out in Moab, I would traditionally leave Bandito's Grill a little buzzed already, having drunk margarita run-off, a celebratory free beer at the end of shift and, if business was extra good that day, a shot of Hornito's with Darren the owner. One night, I was there late, since it had been a day of tremendous tourism boom, hordes of Norwegians and Japanese clamoring for tex-mex after sunny photo-filled excursions in Arches and Canyonlands. Foolhardy Americans limped their way in from getting maimed on the practice loop at Slickrock Trail, hoping enchiladas and a Pacifico would remedy the pain and bleeding ankles. An added bonus in those days was that we were allowed to add gratuity to any non-English speaking tables, and since the place was turn-n-burn, often we'd get double-tipped on top of the gratuity, the diners long since left before we'd had the opportunity to return their mistake.

With lots of cash, and a bit of a buzz fostered, I tiredly tucked myself into the Rio for a last drink before closing. Zeke, whom some of the locals nicknamed Pirate Spice because of his eyepatch, was drunken and slobbering, greeting me like we were the best of pals. Strong drink creates this kind of camarederie, Everests of laughter climbed, stories constructed of mostly bullshit with a few mushrooms of truth butting out here and there. I obliged him out of exhaustion, to accompany him to the bar and do a couple of shots.

His vodka-addled brain was stuck on the idea that he wanted to do a shot of something flammable, and what he meant by a "couple of shots" was two for him, two for me. The barkeep poured, at Zeke's command, four shots of Wild Turkey, assuming it had sufficient high alcohol content to set ablaze. Zeke proceeded to put match after match out into these helpless shotglasses. I couldn't help but wonder if they were going to taste like a grilled steak if we actually did them. Zeke grew agitated. "This isn't working! We need something....else!"

The baretender suggested Sambuca. So the four shots of Wild Turkey were placed in the barwell, the four shots of Sambuca replacing them. They lit beautifully, a blue unearthly flame wavering in the fanspeed. We were both transfixed and let them burn a little too long before cupping the tops and shooting them. First one, then the other. The hot glass burned my lips and the licorice torrent filled my chest until it was a warm oven, cascading up and down my throat and leaking heat through my nostrils.

Immediately the bartender bellowed "Last call!" and brought up the house lights, which is disorienting and sad, the magic of the bar chased out with a broom and shriek. Zeke, the stupid bastard pointed at the four shots of Wild Turkey and asked what's to be done with them. The barguy stared at them for a second then shrugged and passed them to us, "Here you go gentlemen."

We clinked and shot, one then the other. I looked up at the clock. Oh shit. I had just pounded four shots of liquor in under three minutes. Nothing good could come of this. I clapped Zeke on the back, thanked him for the libation and walked the two blocks home. The first block was fine, then the second block things turned weird. I blinked away streetlamps that seemed to zigzag and slice big capital U's in the sky. I'd step off the curb, overcorrect into a bush, shake my head out, which sloshed my brain around like a vinegar sponge. I collided with the wall out front of my apartment and ascended the staircase up to the door.

I crashed through the living room, Brandy was in the kitchen cooking Pizza Rolls or something. The rest of the story she related to me the next morning. Apparently I tried telling her a story in the kitchen but couldn't quite finish it, nor start it, and got frustrated at myself, laughed it off. I started taking off my clothes, but as I was leaning against the wall, when I lifted a foot to remove a shoe, I would slide down and evntually ended up sitting on the floor. I called for Brandy to feed me crackers and then yelled at her for not putting them "salt side down" in my mouth.

Zeke left Moab shortly after this night and has not been heard from since. If you see this burly bastard in a bar, avoid his offer of flammable shots. They stab.

one martini to the wind,

yours the honorable Chutney McDeviltoast
king of giraffes and porridge

P.S. This phrase would work its way into my song "Sober Me Up":

"can't someone take me home and put me to bed/ feed me crackers salt side down and recall what is said."

i-see-sound piece: Grand Buffet

my first piece for I See Sound went up on saturday. it's a show review of the Grand Buffet / Coke Dares show i saw at the southgatehouse recently.

click on Jack (above) to read it.

i took the photos, too. i think they turned out nicely.

it's days like these...

...that make me loathe Ohio. Grey, damp, overcast, cold; a day that gets its needles into you upon waking ("Fuck, not THIS kind of day") and via those needles, drains all joy, passion, and ambition away. Today was supposed to be a whimsical romp in the country, selecting pumpkins for carving, sipping cider, taking pictures, etc. Ohio slammed its shit-weather gavel down hard last night. "Nay! I veto your merriment! Plans, shmans. Wake to THIS, bitches!" Gross.

You have to keep moving in order to evade the personal soul-sucking tornado; issued to everyone inside the 275 loop like an unwanted subscription. But it's hard to keep moving when you're indoors trying to hide from the hideousness of the day. Every activity seems dull and desolate, done with passionless precision (wringing out a teabag with its own string, autographing your sandwich in cursive mustard). I wonder what the suicide rate is is Cincinnati. How many people have looked up and decided the blank overcast canvas above would improve with a Pollock-splash of wrist-blood?

It's especially frustrating to know that some parts of the world are still sunny. There is some asshole in a hammock right now sipping a mai-tai, reading a book in the sunshine and though he doesn't know me, is laughing at me. I know. I had those moments in China. Mid-November, I was still teaching in Hawaiian shirts, blazed on Tsingtao by evening and laughing at everyone suffering back in Ohio. It felt good to be that asshole. Now I'm the whiny asshole, elbow-to-elbow with the pasty hordes in the happiness deli, waiting for my number to be called.

When the weather turns, I get the bends. And the cold seems to get into my skeleton. My bones creak and ache like a poorly assembled carnie ride. My ribcage feels collapsed, my knees untightened, neck in need of grease. I'm getting older and I feel like a plant in need of water. I wonder if I'll feel like that from now on, if this is the feeling of aging? Progressively getting shriveled, withered, pale fronds, neglected on some window sill, cold even in the sun, shrinking away....

I got my hair cut yesterday. "Just a trim" we say, and then it always turns out shorter than we had planned. My hair is not thinning, it's migrating. What was once on my head is currently homesteading on shoulders, sharecropping on arms. I wish I could round all carpetbaggers up, place them back on the reservation of my scalp. My fear is of people thinking I don't know it's happening. I know it's going on, but I don't have the mirror capability to track its progression. Anything resembling comb-over trickery is purely coincidental. I'll buzz it again when the weather improves, which will be in about eight months.And should it get to the awful-pathetic point, I'll Bic it, although it'll mean less high-fives between me and Steve. Baldness and high-fives can be misinterpreted.

I will soon be acquiring an electric scooter from Jenn's parents. It's Hot Wheels blue with some hatin'it flame stickers on it, which I will soon bedeck with band stickers and such. Huzzah for environmentally-friendly transportation! Hopefuly it will have the gumption to tackle Clifton's hills.

My next "Soul in the Shade" show is on November 4th at Sudsy's. I have done an arrangement of Offspring's "Self Esteem" for the occasion. I've always enjoyed the words and melody of the song, but I think the loudness and whiny-scream vox killed the poignancy. I've reinterpreted it gentle and melodic, kinda like "Mad World" from Donnie Darko, and it works really well. I can't wait to play it live. That thought is a ray of Vitamin D on this dreary afternoon.

journalism reunion and Arab night at Clique

Yesterday I went to the News Record reunion, caffeinated and decked out in Hawaiian regalia, eager to see staffer faces of olde like JR Rininger or Jimmy Dinsmore. Alas, the only two I saw were Jay and Roy, whom I've seen (at Southgate House and Meck's respectively) already this month, so no crazy bar catch-up nor story-swapping. It was fun to delve a little into some old stories (like Jen's quote on the darkroom wall: "Drag your teeth on the upstroke thereby avenging yourself through oral sex" which she insisted was taken out of context).

I had some cabernet, thumbed through some copies of the rag during my heyday (1996). I would have felt old had there not been tearsheets from 1957 right beside it. (So many cigarette ads). We tour the new bullpen, mourn the passing of the darkroom concept (Thanks digital, you've destroyed a haven for smoking and making out for all time. There are precious few vestiges for such activities). I drank more cab, chatted with Pam and Roz, who is running for judge. I reminisce on my most vivid, though certainly not favorite, News Record moment: When Nate Livingston on a bullhorn came filing in with all his cronies chanting "No justice, no peace." and howling for the blood of Aaron Willis and Kevin Knapp. I sat at my computer neither confessing my identity nor taking in too much oxygen. Roz instructed Pam to dial 911 and Pam asked how to dial it. A valid question, since all lines on campus had some odd prefix, and Roz announced in "I'm talking to a foreigner" tone "Nine ONE ONE."

Ah, what sweet danger to run an opinion column. I think it was then I decided to go back to entertainment. I drank more cab, probably polished off a whole bottle by myself and since my pals had taken off, I set upon the appetizer table like a stoned 15 year old, took a bottle of water and headed out. The event was not as enjoyable as I was expecting, but satisfying nonetheless.

Amy, Haven and Rex had plans to attend the opening of "Clique" formerly the "Bar Humbug" (is this place doomed to have a stupid name forever?) Rex showed up at my place first, we had some High Lifes, and for unexplainable reasons I dug out the Fudgie bag. (For those not in the know, I have in my possession a red Norelco duffel in which I kept all Fudgie costumes, hats, whatnot.) I rooted through and decided I would wear my burnt sienna 70's jumpsuit with Arab head-dress. Rex was opting for the trucker cap stating: "Rock Out With Your Cock Out."

Amy, Haven and their pal Alison showed and we headed down to Covington, though both Rex and I had bladders in immediate need of draining. We pull off at a White Castle and I, looking like Disco Abdul, scurry off by the overpass and relieve myself on some deserted hobo camp. We get to Clique and it's been renovated so that you enter on the right side instead of left by the bar. The stage is gone, the comedy club tables have been replaced by couches. A great Vegas light show shone on the ceiling, controlled by a little blue space-age knob on the couch by the exit.

We get a mohito and I see three beefy rednecks in ballcaps glaring at me. I even overhear them say "goddamned Ay-rab." Uh oh. Kentucky. When Fudgie, I can get away with dressing like a homoerotic idiot or Saudi and throw cupcakes at people who paid money to see me, but this; this was danger. One misplaced step on their yellow workboot and same boot would be kicking teeth down my throat like hard white Milk Duds. I was too much in my cups to cope so I sat at the couch closest to the exit, played with the ceiling show. Rex and I had a fun time role playing that he was my interpreter and I vamped up an accent for effect. Alison kept laughing and blowing my cover, outright telling people I was American.

Ionna had to drive her friend's car home, so I made a rash decision to catch a ride back across the river, lest the trio of meatheads decide to take vengeance on a proxy bin Laden for shits, giggles and NASCARmerica.

Today my head feels like a braided pretzel. I'm in desperate need of coffee, since sleep is out of the question (some neighbor started blasting "Master of Puppets" by the dawn's early light) so now I'm off to obtain some.

-hon. Dr. Chutney McDeviltoast
-King of Giraffes and Porridge

the curse of JCM

Sometime back in the late 90's I had a curse put on me that I would be subjected to hear at least one John Cougar Mellencamp song a day for the rest of my life. I escaped it for nine months in China, but now that I'm back it has reasserted itself, perhaps with a vengeance. Am I to be upgraded to two songs a day as punishment for my treachery?

I loathe John Cougar Mellencamp and everything that he does. Back when "Hurts So Good" and "Jack and Diane" came out, I didn't bat an eye. These were from the "American Fool" LP, no argument here. Surely he was too pathetic to endure. He'd be a blip on the 80's "oh yeah remember THAT guy?" radar. He was a buffoon, not attractive even by family cousin standards, and had a voice like a ride-on lawn mower doing donuts in some plastic wrap. I had my laughs, closed the curtain on his sad little chapter and waited for the next source of amusement.

But he stayed. He was like a party guest that won't take the hint that everyone just wants to pass out. He was still at the guitar putting out more songs of hillbilly yokelry to a yawning but placating audience. Perhaps he's used this "on-the-fumes-of-a-flagging-career" to springboard a string of several "OK one last one" albums while promising no more.

Ugh. I will claw like mad through anyone standing in the way of the exit should "Cherry Bomb" or "When the Walls Come Tumblin' Down" pop up in a restaurant's rotation. (Even typing these song titles is like dipping my fingertips in dogshit) I've had my face thrust in his abysmal mediocrity for years, why? What crime did I commit besides having good taste? What sin (apart from musical elitism) wrought this acidic penance? How long must I abide cringing at the opening chords of "ROCK in the USA"?

I used to pray for his death. (In fact, my profile used to read: who i want to meet; the man who puts a bullet in JCM) Not a prolonged torturous one (even I have pity for my enemies) just a quick painless halt to his songwriting infection. But then, if and when he shuffles off this mortal coil, I imagine for a week I'd hear entire blocks, if not outright marathons of his material pumped over the airwaves. My ultimate personal hell sick joke: You can get what you want and still not be happy.

I used to have only one hated song, Foreigner's "Waiting For a Girl Like You." It gave me the "waiting for a ride in a Pizza Hut alone while wintry drafts kept blasting me in the face as people exited and the jukebox was on but somehow was simultaneously playing with Legos on the carpet in my living room late at night" blues. I have since conquered my fear of it, lopped off its domineering head with a snicker-snack. How was I to know it would grow into the many-headed JCM hydra?

John Cougar you have a couple choices. The first: retire. This would be the noblest and everyone would win. You could relax on your podunk ranch, ekeing out an existence on royalties although goddamn you if you sell your songs to car commercial jingles (Led Zep, you have made me allergic to "Rock n Roll," it's now synonymous with Dodge) and I'm forced to stomach snippet-sized portions of your crap in between shows without warning.

Two: scandale. Go the way of Michael Jackson and then leave the country. Say, you both have ranches, right? Or just come out of the closet. Admit to Rolling Stone that "Hurts So Good" was about an old biker buddy for whom you've carried a torch all these years. O, to taint that song wouldn't be that hard. In the video you did a kickline with just as many guys as girls...

The "ding dang doo" masses that comprise your fanbase would be dumbfounded and disgusted, although I would have a shred more respect for you. But then if the gay community embraced you as their new hero, gay bars would start putting you on the jukebox. As gay bars are places I frequent (where else can I be certain not to run into any dominant male jock frat violent pituitards?) that will not do. So back to one. Stop. Retire. Just STOP.

the debut gig...

I performed the first official show under the moniker "Soul in the Shade" last night at the Southgate House. I played "FDOFU," "novelty rush(bail out)," "fLAshpaper," "sober me up," "quicksand," "ultraviolet for the mole," "favorite witness," "steady," "good morning, goodbye," and at the urging of an encore "bluestar." I was able to nail the big drawn-out notes and high parts and falsetto bits, all the practice in China paying off.

There was a modest crowd, a good parlour-size clutch of people around 20, and their cheers fueled me. It was like, at last: validation. I've been basically working in a vacuum with these songs and to hear strangers applaud them, neither knowing me nor my catalogue beforehand, is such a sweet honor. Now I've gotten my name out, rubbed elbows with others who could share a bill sometime, arrived, making good on my claim that I returned stateside to work on music.

The parlour became a kind of "no guitars" venue as I, Beau and Sharon, and then Venus Mission, all brought our keys-based songs out in triplicate, and we all rocked. I had my oil projector shining up on the back wall, framed by an ancient painting, dusty and haggard from the mansion days, and nag champa burning in the corner. I like to recreate my room wherever I'm playing to set myself at ease, and also bring the audience a little deeper into my head.

I'm very eager to perform again, but I am going to need a new keyboard. One that has weighted keys, and the full range so I won't have to transpose between songs, and one that is actually mine. It will require some saving up, but it must happen.