tv party

Who remembers the old days of SoCal hardcore punk?
Here's Black Flag's TV Party, made famous in the flic Repo Man. I first heard it when Gary Hanson was a DJ at SDSM&T.
Be sure to notice the early incarnation of Henry Rollins before he went straightedge.

bobby bare, jr

let's rock and roll

i'm hungry now

bobby bare senior performing jambalaya in some foreign outpost - actually detroit but this is pulled from a norwegian broadcast

critters

I was appointed head critter boss this evening. It was only a temporary battlefield promotion. Three young men needed watching, chickens needed the lock up and I had nothing else to do. So I managed the evening setback process for Lars, Brock and Swen and watched a bit of the Cartoon Network. Like a good Uncle, I added a half hour to their appointed bed times, regaled them with stories of my days as a pirate during the Spanish Civil War and made them a huge chocolate chip cookie.
It was all good.

these guys are good

nashville's be your own pet

bastards of young

see below

the replacements
paul westerberg - vocal, rythym guitar
bob stinson - lead guitar
tommy stinson - bass
chris mars - drums

free ice water

The owner and principal partner of The Hustead Law Firm is a big fan of reggae, Elvis and Led Zeppelin. Much like the firm's creative capacity to handle just about any legal claim imaginable and profit from it, THLF convinced an un-named senior associate (aka Tortelvis) to produce this interesting take on Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog"
Enjoy and call The Hustead Law Firm if you're in Colorado and need to know how to avoid the toll roads and other legal liabilities or if you've just got the bucks and want to "stick it to the man". On or off reservation. Just remember, this video does not constitute an offer of services but you may send a donation anyway and we'll put it towards guitar lessons for the principal partner. He tries, but he's just never gonna be Bob Stinson good.
Video courtesy of The Hustead Law Firm
Denver, Colorado

tgif

and to get things off on a high note a little late seventies tune from athens, ga's the b-52s
as done by the family guy

mesa dmv

Maybe I should have just kept my old driver's license.
The Arizona State Department of Motor Vehicles in Mesa was a scary, desolate, flood damaged building planted firmly in the way of all progress. I got there early and the place was deserted except for the stray tweakers watching the trash and contemplating identity theft. Of course, it wasn't long before one of these English-mouthed, black-toothed freaks made a move on me. All frantic and herky-jerky like.
Luckily, I brought an epi-stick with me and if you've ever seen a tweaker on a full shot of epinephrine and residual methamphetamine, you'll fully understand the saying "chicken with his head cut off." Squawking. Fluttering. Deranged. It was a laugh riot. For about five minutes.
I'd pulled a number from the red number machine and though the LED on the wall was off by a power of ten, apparently I was up.
Her name was Wanda. She was of the golden accented beehive clan. I would bet she couldn't enter a parking ramp with that hairdo. She had surprisingly well developed jaw muscles which I attributed to the wad of gum she was masticating. Shamelessly. Loudly. Pop. Pop. She clutched a pen like a weapon and used it to point out my deficiencies, both administrative and real.
I left emotionally scarred and without the coveted 35 year AZ driver's license, but like General Douglas MacArthur said regarding the Phillipines in WW2, I too remarked, "I shall return".
And I will.

i'll take two

tea tortoise

In the back yard at Richardson's in Scottsdale, they keep a tea tortoise as a working pet. I'd heard about it since hitting town but didn't really believe it would add up to the bugger it was in reality. Originally crafted by the British in Colonial India, these wack beasts generate sufficient body heat to brew tea in a bio-engineered shell and tea caddy carried, as per the photo, on their back. If one could or even should complain about any aspect of this contraption it would be related to the slowness with which this tortoise actually brews and serves. And, why didn't they think of adding a crumpet broiler or even just a simple tray to carry scones, jam and butter?

Anyhow, my first two weeks in the Desert have been interesting to say the least. Cruel heat and vicious critters abound. The heat of the day keeps the critters from view for a few hours but they emerge each evening to feed and frolic. Large, hairy bats with four foot wingspans and nasty, pointy teeth. Roving herds of rabid garbage skunks. Recently, the discovery of thick clusters of Sonoran pit vipers in the trash receptacles at Fyre's Food Market. Ruby-red-dino-birds with jet black eyes and flaky scales instead of feathers. Large, bulbous, festering canal toads oozing malathion absorbed from the cotton field pesticide treatments. A complete absence of small pets and squirrels.

It's no wonder that Valley residents live in fear. Snipers hunt joggers in the early evening for sport. Mel Gibson's Road Warriors rule the freeways and charge exorbitant prices for 12 ounces of gasoline - the largest amount you can acquire in a single purchase (so you make several over the course of the day).
There is no food here except what you can procure from the Mormons who smuggle beef and sugar cane in across the northern border. Some Mexican food filters north out of Old Mexico, but even still, a microwaveable burrito costs me eight dollars and a pair of flip-flops at the Navaho burrito stand on 32nd over by the university of Phoenix on Tuesday. Phoenicians survive largely on a diet of rock badger livers and cactus pulp. At this point, I'd trade my neighbor's first born for a potato or a turnip.

All in all though, it's alright. I'm sure some folks have it worse. At least we've escaped the rodeo-clown press gangs and that range down out of Las Vegas, home of the PCRA National Finals. What kind of a life is that, the life of the rodeo-clown? Running ass and elbows in order to survive. With face paint.

Other than that, the place is pretty cool (figuratively speaking).

lemon frog

Home. Gilbert, AZ.
One block south of Ray Road four miles south of the I-60.
Peaches. Oranges, Grapefruit and lemons.
Lemon frogs. Here's one we caught crawling in our lemon basket last Tuesday.

flagstaff frank

Flagstaff Frank stands on the corner of 7th Ave and Pine Road with a cardboard sign he flashes at passing motorists. Jesus Saves! And I guess he probably does, but what he's saving Frank for I haven't the slightest idea.
I don't stop in Flagstaff. Rather, I take a left off I-40 west onto I-17 south which will take me straight into Phoenix in just about three more hours. I am dropping into the Valley of the Sun in a high speed cargo van full of what I thought was important enough to keep. In the right lane, trucks and elderly blue hairs fight the steep grade and smoke their brakes, but I let the van fall and gather speed until I hit the first sharp turn and I learn that here, unlike everywhere else I've ever been, a posted 55 mph turn IS a 55 mph turn. I get the truck under control just in time to avoid hitting a lizard as big as a healthy chihuahua, flexible looking and obviously psychotically vicious. But I've got a road that needs focusing on and the lizard can't and doesn't penetrate the truck's metal exoskeleton.
This evil road includes 6% grades that go for miles. There are runaway trucks ramps all over hell (which I suspect it would be like to actually use one). You don't hit the desert floor until just outside of Phoenix. As I do, traffic begins to build and out come the meth-smoking freeway cowboys who all have to be somewhere else RIGHT NOW. Flabbergastingly high four wheel drive monster trucks with spiked metal rims and copper plated spit cups. The dryest pork rind of a woman looked out and grinned at me as she and her pie-eyed duster sped past. Of the four teeth I could make out, two were black, one green and the last spiky like a vampire tooth. I was reminded of the chihuahua lizard.

the face that launched a thousand ships

I was standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona, etc., and such a fine sight to see, Death Cab For Cutie, slowin' down to take a look at me. Reason tells me to gun it and get out of town without further delay. I don't.
Poker Alice Tritter lives in Winslow just above the 24th Street drainage basin in a house full of cats who have obviously lost their GPS coordinates on the litter box. The fridge shut down a week earlier and Alice has yet to attend to the rot and decay. I stop because I'm told she welcomes guests who smoke cigars and that she rolls her own from a tobacco cultivated in the rocky outcrop behind her Guatemalan guest house. She claims they are Cuban stock from seeds given to her by Fidel Castro in the Sierra Madre in 1954. She was running a bordello for the Cuban revolutionaries and claims to have acted at as a field nurse during the Bay of Pigs invasion.
Who wouldn't want to meet this lady.
I pull up after dark, traverse a rickety pedestrian bridge over an ancient, dry Hopi-built canal and hike up the slope to her guest house where I've arranged a night's stay through a friend who's familiar with peyote and Poker Alice, usually at the same time or in close order.
Alice meets me at the door with a mostly toothless grin and a wet-lipped cigar which she offers and I decline. A plate of tamales, rice and beans is proffered but I'm not that hungry and I wonder if the cat hides I saw pinned to the exterior also inhabit the tamales in carcass format. I do accept the fuzzy little peyote bud she offers and nibble away at the foul tasting hallucinogen.

NEXT: Poker Alice gets prettier and I commune with Carlos Casteneda.

red pork tamales with cilantro

Las Vegas, New Mexico. Late August, elevation 6345 feet above sea level. It's cool, almost chilly and wet with puddles full bore and mud on the trucks far above the wheel well. I check another Motel 6. No ground floor, no smoking. So I leave and try the Super 8 across the street. No vacancy.
I drive a few hundred feet south and lock on to the Imperial. The lot is half low rider, half SUV. Smoking is allowed in room. Price is 50 bucks. The Motel 6 was nearly 80. And the dude behind the counter is cool. Pizza is a call away. A bathroom sink full of Bud on ice is quickly arranged. There's free coffee in the office until 10:00 AM every morning, even Sundays. I bring the iPod inside and tune up with the Sennheisers. Old Gang Of Four.
The pizza ain't bad but the name of the place is Buba's, not Bubba's. Still pronounced Bubba's though. A skinny, juvenile Latino brings the feast and explains that the cool temps and rain are not typical. I guess my luck is improving.
Anyway, like usual, the sun comes up the next day and I'm back on the road headed towards Sante Fe, Albuquerque and Flagstaff. My plan is rage full on across I-40 and down I-17 into Phoenix that day. Just north of Santa Fe I stop for gas and buy four red pork tamales from a roadside (or parking lot) vendor. I will be lucky if I make it to Holcombe. Easy come, easy go, these tamales were like wild animals - dangerous when cornered.

9/12

it's a long way to the top

As I exit Nebraska on I-76 to Denver my iPod queues REM's 'It's The End Of The World As We Know It' and as the song says, I feel fine. My night in North Platte was otherwise uneventful with the exception of the hijab brigade and the toothless hooker that lived under the bridge and cadged a buck from me on my way back from Wal-mart to my motel.
The road quality worsens noticeably as a I cross the state line and is pretty rough until I hit 473, the toll road that skirts Denver and, according to the tollbooth attendant saves a lot of time. I have no way of verifying this fact but I also have no need to see Denver close up so I pay the eight bucks total it costs to avoid it. A bargain, I conclude. Last time I was in Denver, I recall, was 1997 and there were a lot of shiny shoe wearing tassel loafer lawyers. I assume they're still there, unless they're out in the hills skiing or snorting coke or something.
Just south of Denver is the US Air Force Academy based in Colorado Springs. I didn't plan on stopping, but the most evil and devious of road construction projects required me to do so. Over and over again. For about 50 miles. Stop and go. All of the time I saved by paying to avoid Denver I lose here. I take up swearing like they do on HBO's Deadwood but it doesn't help.
Colorado is a mean spirited, worthless outcropping of rock, evergreens and rednecks. I meet Cletus and Bobbie Pam at the rest area north of Pueblo. I don't really meet them so much as that Cletus is so intrigued by me washing my hands in the restroom that he strikes up a conversation and like an idiot I answer. Cletus and Bobbie Pam hail from Trinidad, CO but work the Wyoming oilfields 'in their spare time'. I suspect they are high on methamphetamine.
Note: For future reference, in all of southeast Colorado, gas stations won't take credit cards at the pump! Have I traveled back in time? Before the era of science and technology? Hell, every single gas station positioned on a highway takes credit cards at the pump, don't they?
To further the indignity, in Pueblo, I had to 'pay before purchase'. I don't know how much it will cost to fill the tank. I can't see into the future as easily as others, apparently, knowing just how much I will need. Seeking some sort of retribution, I decide on $20 and pay with small bills and change which I deliberately count out as slowly as can be imagined. Oddly enough, or not, I should say, this doesn't seem to faze the eight year old bearded boy behind the counter, so short he can barely see over the petrified beef jerkey or out from under his Skoal cap.
Before I'm allowed to leave Colorado, I am forced to drive through two torrential downpours. Actually, I hydroplane at 80 mph into northeastern New Mexico. The first sign I see at the border crossing rest area reads 'New Mexico, Cleaner Than Old Mexico' and it seems to be true even though I'm not really familiar with Old Mexico and can't say it's a fact.
I'm planning on motoring boldly on until I reach Santa Fe but I begin to see signs announcing the exit for beautiful Las Vegas. The signs say Vegas is closer than Santa Fe! Even though I haven't been smoking dope, I'm confused. I know in my mind that Vegas is way over by Idaho or something but I'm also hoping I'm that close to the Emerald City.
Turns out I am. It's just that it's the New Mexico version of Las Vegas.

NEXT: Finding a smoking room and Buba's Pizza.

grow up to be a debaser

the pixies
from boston
song: where is my mind

song: debaser

way cool

maybe the heat is getting to me

scott weiland (STP) and velvet revolver cover nirvana's negative creep
negative creep was on nirvana's first full length LP BLEACH
i bought a copy in Rome

coheed & cambria

blood red summer

just an interlude from an old new jersey band
we'll get back on topic later

motel 6 hijab

In town, Pimpleton drops me at the Motel 6 and departs into the fading day with the rental and the majority of my twice-stranded belongings promising to bring the truck back that evening. My mood lightens when I see that the Motel 6 is well positioned between a liquor store, a 24 hour Super Wal-mart and a Pizza Hut. The Motel 6 is owned and operated by Arnold Biffton if I am to believe his name tag. He a kind and efficient fellow, carefully noting the motel highlights such as ice, vending and the complimentary use of washers and dryers.
The room is typical and entered through an interior hallway. True to 'motel form', there is no iron and ironing board. That doesn't bother me because I have no need for pressed shirts on this trip. What does bother me is the size and picture quality of the TV. I think it was a 13 inch or at least it seemed like it was. It received approximately 40 channels with varying degrees of clarity and, of course, the channel carrying pre-season football got the worst reception. Clearly, my Nebraska luck was holding.
The liquor store carried my brand of beer and a bag of ice was free with purchase so I began to lighten up a bit as my fortunes improved. A secondary expedition to the Super Wal-mart rendered a rotisserie chicken, a pasta salad with grape tomatoes and three ripe peaches. Things were definitely taking shape in old North Platte.
I arrived at checkout where I was swarmed by three hijab wearing women who I recognized (clothing-wise) from the lobby of the Motel 6. They clucked and chattered, brandished a toilet brush, a small charcoal grill and several bags of plastic flatware. They abruptly cut in front, surprising me and causing me to drop the pasta salad which exploded on impact. Spiral pasta and grape tomatoes flew. Amazingly, a tomato bounced up into the air ricocheting off the debit card swipe nailing one of the ladies squarely between the eyes.
What are the odds? Nearly entirely covered in cloth, this errant fruit hits the jackpot. For a second, nothing but silence and then uproarious laughter breaks out from under the hijabs. I nearly peed my pants.

NEXT: You must pay to avoid Denver.

north platte

I am towed into North Platte, Nebraska around 6:00 PM Central Daylight Time by James "Skip" Templeton the Rat Boy. He introduced himself to me by blurting out, "Most folks just call me Temple Rat 'cuz I look like that rat on the Muppets". I try, but I can't make the connection and of course I initially thought he said Pimpleton. That would in fact have been appropriate considering his oily complexion and volcanic sebaceous glands.

On close observation, Pimpleton resembled a young Dustin Hoffman with exaggerated features. Nose, mainly, but including pursed lips and the twitchy eyebrow syndrome of an Indian milk rat. Worse, like Rain Man, he didn't stop talking all the way into North Platte.

As you can imagine, this only heightens existing stress levels and eventually I snap, remarking, too the milk rat, very cruelly, "I am from the City and I have absolutely no use for your conversation." Pimpleton is momentarily confused/stunned and I use the opportunity to turn the radio volume up so far only an idiot would try to speak over it. As it turns out, Pimpleton is an actual living idiot and he goes on to scream over the music to tell a story about his "run-in with Van Halen" at a Happy Cheff Restaurant in Rapid City, South Dakota. Amazingly, he has actually met Eddie Van Halen.

Desperate at this point I pretend to fall asleep, but brainless Pimpleton sees the ruse for what it is and moves on to a story of his days poisoning prairie dogs for the National Park Service in South Dakota. Uncharacteristically, I make a fatal mistake and mention I'm originally from South Dakota and the Zitface Rodent Man (you might notice I really hate him now) proceeds to deliver a 15 minute lecture on the history of South Dakota's tulmultuous statehood fight with neighboring North Dakota. Just as I'm getting ready to open the door and leap to a certain, painful death, Pimpleton announces the North Platte exit. It felt like I'd just had a tumour removed.

NEXT: North Platte residents are diverse.

nebraska

I'm going straight to a discussion of the drive through Nebraska because southern Minnesota bores the hell out of me and nothing caught my attention in Iowa. Reaching the Iowa-Nebraska border at Council Bluffs-Omaha meant I was finally making some progress towards my day one goal of Denver, Colorado. Alas, I didn't even make it out of Nebraska that day. The truck went down and Budget couldn't get me a new horse until the following day. As that situation resolved and new promises were exchanged - me to pay and they to provide a drivable vehicle - I resumed the I-80 trek across southern Nebraska, determined to make Denver and continue on to Santa Fe or at least Pueblo.

I saw the remnant of the truck tire before I hit it, and being forced into the lane by traffic I had nowhere to go to avoid it. It made a hell of a thump and as I looked in the rearview mirror I saw it hurtle skyward and out of harms way.

Then, it was just a little wobble in the wheel. Seconds later, it was a full bore blow-out. Left front. Just east of North Platte, Nebraska. The folks at Budget were incredulous. Me? Again? In friggin' Nebraska?

The state "Highway Helper Patrol" rolled up on me before Budget's tow truck and quickly determined the truck wasn't carrying a spare! I'm astounded. Is there not a law or something? Jeez.

Since the situation did not at that time contain the requisite amount of drama, a Highway Patrolman pulls up with his grill and roof rollers on - apparently to secure the perimeter from someone with even more flashing lights. And, to ensure our awareness of his authority, he initially barked at us over his external radio. Then I'm thinking he's asking me to walk slowly towards him, but as I do he begins waving frantically for me to stop and abruptly speeds away. The Helper, concluding enough people knew of my predicament and that I would likely survive, decides to cut and run. "Childbirth at the primitive rest area north of Oglalla, gotta get there quick.", he says in a no-BS, take charge kind of way.

It is now about 5:00 PM Central Daylight Time and I am alone on the side of I-80 in southern Nebraska just east of North Platte. I have seen complete weirdness in the form of two Nebraska State employees and I have not been helped. I began to wonder if I stayed out there, would they continue to report my progress but never actually help? As I passed on from dehydration and starvation, would they continue to stop by, reporting back to HQ, "I don't think he'll make it much longer. Wish there was something we could do to help. Poor bastard."

So I call Budget again on the cell and confirm the tow truck has been dispatched and they say they believe it has but they have no way of knowing since they are in a call center in Muncie, Indiana. They seem concerned but hell, they're going home tonight. I'll be lucky if I make it to North Platte.

NEXT: A Night in North Platte

gilbert arizona welcoming committee greets newcomer

I arrived in Gilbert this evening, Saturday, August 19, after a boring/memorable drive through parts of Minnesota, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, New Mexico and, finally, Arizona. 99.7 gallons of gas at approximately $3.00/gallon or $300.00. I could fly Sun Country from Minneapolis to Phoenix round trip for that much.

The rental truck was another $600.00 and meals and motels around $175.00. (I slept and dined on the very cheap.) Moving is more expensive than I thought it would be. Of course, the last time I moved was shortly after leaving college and at that time I hadn't accumulated more than 600 pounds of paperwork and and nearly a ton of furniture, electronics and clothes. Then, I needed about 40 square feet to contain my entire portfolio of property - both personal and otherwise. Now I need a freight car.

Somehow, I crammed it all in and headed to my brother's house to spend my last night in Minneapolis. He wasn't around so I conned my nephew into driving home from a friend's to let me in. I grabbed a six and sat out on the back deck. Later, the neph and I watched an action flick on the plasma. The Rock's version of Walking Tall.

Brother got home and we proceeded to smoke cigars and regale each other with tall and exaggerated tales until 3:00 AM. I got up at eight and left.

NEXT: nebraska: gateway to, ummm, colorado

expect bigger and better things

BushTex, Inc. clears the back 40 for Hootenanny 2006.

Hootenanny is teaming up with a superhero satellite uplinker to create a big company that makes money by the fistfull and gives most of it back to the local business community in return for special favors, etc.

Our business plan envisions world domination with plans on the drawing board to acquire the US, Mitsubishi, China and Australia. Our 2009 projections include big money makers like Singapore, South Korea and Hong Kong.

We will also create a multi-media conglomerate initiated with our band called Not Bad Oranges. All music and all video will be free for viewing and download all of the time. Eventually, we'll broadcast from the Moon, just like MTV.

Finally, we'll host North America's most robust distance learning program. Early on, we'll focus on the Retard Right because they need help now and we need to help them before they destroy democracy and the planet. And because their mental challenges make them distant and unyielding - like wood or rocks - they're perfect candidates for distance learning.

Please join us in celebrating this merger of might, media, logistics and intellect. It will be the best decision you have ever made.

already full gilbert gone

Hoot Photo Library copy of "Western Horned Toad on my left thumb in Gilbert AZ".

Had a nice flight back to Minneapolis last Friday night. Grabbed the First Class upgrade at the gate. Only a few bumps climbing through the monsoon that dropped heavy showers on parts of the Phoenix metro area. There was some scattered turbulence on the way in to the Humphrey Terminal where I lost five bucks on a bet with a guy in a Twins cap wagering on 'whose checked bag will come down the baggage claim ramp first'. I've still got a lot of work to do on calculating those odds for future reference including check-in time, booked passengers, location on the baggage train to and from plane side and baggage handler preferences. It's a complex set of interacting factors and I will have to fly more often to have any hope of developing a crude probability algorithm.

Flying back and forth as a commute is weird. I lose my sense of direction and sometimes don't regain for the entire trip. It makes driving fun - what did people do before Mapquest and Google maps? Handwritten directions as passed on by someone who does or does not know, I think. Of course, I spend time in airports, hotels, restaurants and friends' homes and load up on hygiene products (I'm not from France). I drink in airport bars and meet and talk to people I otherwise wouldn't. I buy magazines I wouldn't read anywhere/anytime except in an airport or on an airplane. Everyone I talk to is a stranger. I tell a lot of people that I'm in latex sales for VanDelay Industries based in Secaucus, NJ. Most miss the joke and resume talking about themselves while I plot my escape. Unfortunately, there's only one bar in Terminal 3.

After several trips, I know the airport both here and there and pass through without even thinking, usually daydreaming my way from station to station, bookstore to coffee shop or bar depending on whether I'm coming or going. I joke with the Travel Security Administration officers. I take my laptop out and put it in a tray of it's own. I remove and put my shoes back on which requires I be sure my socks are matched and clean, not something I would normally give specific attention. And, since the recent threat, shoes have to be placed soles down now - another rule to be absorbed and accepted. Then, I wait to board, and later, I wait to deplane. At both instances, I'm already on the phone with work. Still on the phone while taking the shuttle to the rental and the rental to work.

This week I go back. I've rented a small set of rooms from a friend in the countryside with a peach tree grove, chickens and horses. It is an acre of green in the middle of the desert. I'm driving an SUV full of technologies, PCs, peripherals and clothes on Wednesday this week. I'll drop into Iowa, hit I-80 through Nebraska to Denver to drop in on a friend then head straight south skirting the Rockies until I cross at Santa Fe and shoot west to Arizona. All reports indicate the road is paved for the entire distance and I won't have to open/close any cattle gates (which should save time).

I'll periodically update Hootenanny readers on the location change and it's consequences. I am looking forward to the move and the new job that is taking me there. Keep reading Hootenanny!

tapes n tapes

big new band from minneapolis
tapes n tapes
insistor
this video is a live performance of 'insistor' at an independent music store in the pacific north west

be your own pet

from nashville, be your own pet

adventure

Gilbert, AZ

I'll try to get a good post up soon. Heading over to Gilbert tonight to grill steaks with an old South Dakota cowboy. This resort style living is gonna be tough!

ali farke toure

if you've got time give it a listen

toronto

broken social scene

castro

Fidel Castro, the Cuban Dictator. He was, Goddamn-hands-down the toughest Communist ever. Never gave up. When old Fidel jumps to the far-far left for the long sleep, I believe I'll travel down to Cuba and sit by the wall in Havanna with a Montecristo and a chilled Mojito and toast his memory. And I'll wonder where Che is.

evil litigator identified

"Elizabeth", the Wall Celebration Committee member who recently sued Hootenanny for our candid assessment of the 99th Celebration earlier this year, has been identified as an evil Star Wars impersonator known as "Darth Vera".

Hello Kitty.

What a way to get out of this world.
Wrapped in a big plastic bag secured with duct tape.
A few flowers in the heat of the day in Lebanon.

how does killing anyone anytime ever make any sense

I bet we would have liked them.
I bet we would have opened our homes and backyards to them.
I bet they smiled a lot.
I bet they loved their children like we do.
I bet they buy milk and bread on their way home from work just like we do.
I bet they watch TV and laugh at us - we have so much and complain so often.
I bet they like us anyway.

how does killing anyone anytime ever make any sense

Hezbollah, Bush and Israel fight over who knows what while we pay the price for history?

I don't get it anymore. I'm too stupid to figure it out, I guess.

I frequent a Lebanese owned market and each day they treat me like a long lost friend. They lament the situation in the ME and fear for their relatives and friends. They don't challenge my citizenship or my government. Instead, they grab the freshest pita and the best olive oil and indulge my hankering for ripe tomatoes, cucumbers and sweet onions with tatziki. I buy some stuff and get the gyro sandwich for free. If it's brewed fresh, they ask me to stay for Turkish coffee with sweetened condensed milk. Last time, we watched World Cup Soccer on the 13 inch security monitor and fucked with each other like a bunch of South Dakota cowboys.

When I'm away: they keep the freshest vegetables, bananas and watermelons in the back for me. They rotate it out and when I come in we go back and find the best while they bring me up to date on their children and grandchildren. I'm going to miss these guys - my friends.

how does killing anyone anytime ever make any sense

"Democracy means that you cannot blame someone else for troubles caused by your own government. That is a comparatively new lesson ... , and whether it is learned or not will determine the prospects for democracy itself ... But dodging missiles and running from tanks is not the ideal circumstance for rational reflection on the nature of self-rule. As in Iraq, what is especially risky and worrisome about democratization through destabilization is that it comes accompanied not by peace but by the sword. In this dangerous environment, the costs of democracy ? the weakness of government, the uncertainty, the violence ? can be felt everywhere. The benefits of democracy, though, are barely palpable."

from 'Ballots and Bullets'
By NOAH FELDMAN
New York Times Sunday Magazine - Published: July 21, 2006

stuart mettler's ballroom blitz

Remember this song! I heard it first down by Stan Mettler's new grocery store and mini-golf course that little Stuart managed from his Jeep. I got the first edition cassette at Shelton's V Store as a free gift with my LaCrosse sneakers and PE gear.
Check it out. Stuart Mettler vocalizes some deep land-based angst and manages to maintain a girlish flair with a pre-pubescent squirrel-like voice (not too gay, unless he shaved his head), some forgotten dude on lead guitar (either a Lurz or a Kjerstad) - "Fat" Mike Doyle and Brett (Pay You Today for a Cheeseburger on Tuesday) Estes keep the English beat rock-steady.
Oh Yeah!

brookers

'elizabeth' of the wall celebration committee is suing hootenanny!

HootVille, July 30. Someone going by the name of Elizabeth (which we believe is simply a not-so-clever pseudonym) has taken exception with Hootenanny's Wall Celebration Coverage and brought suit in the 7th Judicial Circuit Court in Rapid City, SD charging slander, libel and intentional infliction of emotional distress while requesting damages in excess of 50K. I'll post the Certified Complaint and Supporting Documents later for your easy reading.

Our initial public response is to let it be known Hootenanny will stand on the truth and will present evidence and witnesses that will support our editorial integrity and our sincere assessment of a dismal social gathering in a hot, small town just east of The Middle of Fucking Nowhere. We believe that but for the good companionship of a few former residents who traveled far (Kansas and California) and those beings both internal and regionally extrapolated (Jim, Randys 1 & 2, Grant, Jem, etc.) the Celebration was a complete, fucking failure. A waste of time. An anti-celebration. A lower-table-eating, working/moron dork-fest. About as much ancillary fun as cleaning a rest area toilet with your last t-shirt.

Why don't we tick off some specific failures:
- no weed
- no pot
- no acid
- no shrooms
- no cocaine
- you call that a single malt?
- pizza, my ass
- how about a third bar?
- beer tent (what the fuck is that?)
- how about some music?
- a carnival? did this ever cross the celebration committee's agenda?

We could go on and on and sooner or later we will. So, Ms. Elizabeth (why don't you tell us your real name so we can correspond more efficiently), quit your lawsuit against the Hoot or prepare for a long, drawn-out administrative nightmare. We have the means and the ability and look forward to the fight. Check your credit record and get your tax docs in order. We'll be seeking those first with our FRE Rule 5 Discovery Request (you can look it up on Westlaw or pay your attorney/prostitute to do it for you). Don't make us get a Court Order. If that's necessary, we will inflict serious pain. Simply file the fidelity bond to the tune of 300K with my friends at Western Surety in Sioux Falls and you better get a bigger mailbox.

We mean well but in the immortal words of Dave Simms, "We do what we want."

If that displeases you, then "Frank Olic". Or FO if you know what I mean.

Oh yeah. I almost forgot. Suggestions for next year's celebration. Here's one. Let's have it somewhere else!

i'm coming over

Damn! She's so cute with knitted hat.

golden smog releases another fine day

A photo of some of the Dudes in Golden Smog from 199something.

The new Golden Smog album 'Another Fine Day' is available now. Our advice is to drop everything you're doing right now and go get it, it's incredible. Painfully good.
Listen to it straight through.
First hearing, I channeled The Beatles' 'Revolver'. Go get that too and listen to it first. You will be amazed.

here's a link to some Smog info

Washte Kola

all is well now that soul asylum has released a fine new album

soul asylum is dan murphy and dave pirner
with michael bland and tommy stinson

Minneapolis, July 25. Soul Asylum releases new album "The Silver Lining".

HootMusic just downloaded it's complementary copy of the new Soul Asylum album released last Tuesday 7/25 and we're very pleasantly surprised. This is very possibly their best record since the early 1990's "And The Horse They Rode In On" and 1988's "Hang Time" (the latter is hands down the best Soul Asylum LP ever and an all time top ten in my paltry catalogue after The Replacements' "Let It Be" and The Meatpuppets' "II").
Production value is top notch high - like amps that go to 11. The guitars scream - Murphy is clearly running the Zipper. Michael Bland and Tommy Stinson smack and plunk and Pirner crys and bawls with his voice on every song, just like old times. Heroes will never let you down.
Thanks, heroes.

Here's a "making of" video.


Here's the original boys in '88 performing "Sometime To Return" from the LP Hang Time.


This is from First Avenue in Minneapolis in 1986 from the Minnesota Music Awards. "Made To Be Broken". Twenty years ago; the best show in rock and roll!


About Karl:
RIP

Karl Mueller, the bassist and founding member of the rock band Soul Asylum died Friday morning, June 20, 2005 in his Minneapolis home of esophageal cancer, at age 41. Muller was diagnosed in May 2004 and spent his last years of his life in hospitals.

"Even then, in the face of all that had happened, and was to come, Karl was still Karl - upbeat, welcoming, humble," said Mould, who briefly reunited with his long-estranged musical partner Grant Hart during the benefit concert.

"Karl was one of the nicest people I have ever encountered. He always let you know where he stood, and rarely had anything but kind words for those around him."

Bush Losing Support in Core Group

WASHINGTON, July 29 - President Bush appears to be losing support among a key group of voters who had hitherto stood firmly with the president even as his poll numbers among other groups fell dramatically. A new Gallup poll shows that, for the first time, Bush's approval rating has fallen below 50% among total fucking morons, and now stands at 44%.

This represents a dramatic drop compared to a poll taken just last December, when 62% of total fucking morons expressed support for the president and his policies.

The current poll, conducted by phone with 1,409 total fucking morons between July 5 and July 9, reveals that only 44% of those polled believe the president is doing a good job, while 27% believe he is doing a poor job and 29% don't understand the question.

The earlier December poll, conducted by phone with 1,530 total fucking morons, showed 62% approved of the president, 7% disapproved and 31% didn't understand the question.

Faltering approval ratings for the president among a group once thought to be a reliable source of loyal support gives Republicans one more reason to be nervous about the upcoming mid-term elections. "If we can't depend on the support of total fucking morons," says Sen. Rick Santorum (R-PA), "then we've got a big problem. They're a key factor in our electoral strategy, and an important part of today's Republican coalition."

"We've taken the total fucking moron vote for granted," says Rep. Tom Feeney (R-FL), "and now we're paying for it. We've let the Democrats control the debate lately, and they've dragged discourse back into the realm of complex, nuanced issues. So your average total fucking moron turns on his TV and sees his Republican Congressman arguing about Constitutional law or the complexities of state formation in the Middle East, and he tunes out. He wants to hear comforting, pandering, flattering bromides and he doesn't want to hear a logical argument more complex than what you'd find on a bumper sticker."

For Feeney, the poll is a dire warning that Republicans can ignore only at their peril. "This should send a signal that we have to regain control of the debate if we want the support of our key constituencies in the coming election and beyond. We need to bring public discourse back into the realm of stupidity and vacuity. We should be talking about homosexual illegal immigrants burning flags. We should be talking about the power of pride. We should be talking about freedom fries. These are the issues that resonate with total fucking morons."

But some total fucking morons say it's too late. Bill Snarpel of Enid, Oklahoma is a total fucking moron who voted for Bush in both 2000 and 2004. But he says he won't be voting for Bush in 2008. "I don't like it that he was going to sell our ports to the Arabs. If the Arabs own the ports then that means they'll let all the Arabs in and then we'll all be riding camels and wearing towels on our heads. I don't want my children singing the Star Spangled Banner in Muslim."

Total fucking moron Kurt Meyer of Turlock, California also says his once solid support for Bush has collapsed. "He invaded Iraq and all those soldiers died, and for what? We destroyed all their WMDs, but now their new president is making fun of us and saying he's going to build nuclear bombs and that we can't stop him. Well, nuclear bombs are even worse than WMDs, so what did we accomplish?"

Laura McDonald, a total fucking moron from Chandler, Arizona, says she is disappointed that the president hasn't been a more forceful advocate of Christian values. "This country was founded on Christian values," she says, "but you'd never know it looking around and seeing all the Mexicans running around. I thought Bush was going to bring Jesus back into the government. Instead, Christians are being persecuted worse than ever before in history, because all these Mexicans come here and tell Christians that we have to respect their religious beliefs. So now it's illegal for children to pray in school. Soon it will be illegal for them to speak English."

Not all total fucking morons have turned their backs on the president. Jeb Larkin of Topeka, Kansas says he still fully supports Bush. "He is doing a great job. He is a great president. He is a great decider. I have a puppy. His tail sticks straight up and you can see his butthole."

And not all Republican lawmakers are concerned about the poll. Sen. Lamar Alexander (R-TN), for one, does not find it a cause for anxiety. While he agrees that his party should not take total fucking morons for granted, they "really don't have anywhere else to go. They're never going to be able to understand someone like Al Gore or John Kerry or anybody intelligent and articulate who wants to talk about substantive issues. Just try having a conversation with one of them about global warming. They'll say, 'Oh, but Rush says volcanoes consume more ozone than humans do.' I mean, they're morons! Total fucking morons!"

"They've got nowhere else to go," Alexander reaffirms with a smile, "and they always vote."

garsch

I met this singer at the Garden Hilton on Indian School Road in Gilbert, AZ and she is my new favorite Sri Lankan (formerly Ceylon or Ceylonese, I guess).
The show in Tempe was outstanding
The first song is a George Bush song. Bucky Done Gun.
The second song is older M.I.A., Galang. Tanks and bombs or if I recall correctly, "police and thieves in the street, oh yeah" - Joe Strummer (The Clash)
work it out among yourselves

Bucky Done Gun


Galang

leaving town

since i'm leaving town and won't be able to post very often over the course of the next few weeks
i'm going to post some anti-war songs
some will probably offend you or someone you know, i hope so
they aren't offered up here to offend or enlighten
just look at all of them and think


anti-flag


bob dylan's masters of war (it's a slideshow with the original album version)


the cranberries - zombie


john lennon - imagine


u2
bullet the blue sky

answer the phone

sugar ray - a plug for hootenanny's seatbelts mandatory affiliate

girl drink drunk

suit trappers

gavin

gavin and the chair painter


gavin at the butcher shop


gavin attends his mother's funeral


gavin receives a visit from some religious missionaries

listen up

posting this promo vid of the cure to promote the new hootenanny goth page
look just to you left and maybe down a little bit and follow the link
be forewarned: some of it's scary and should only be viewed during the day time or
after you've had a sedative

the cure - just like heaven

too skinny?

They must not have had beer back then.
Isn't that Ronald Reagan?

the call-up and the clamp-down

heed the call-up

workin' out in harrisburg

bluetooth basket weaving

Look closely. Looks like a man casually weaving a basket in a Polynesian Paradise. Doesn't it.

In fact, he's weaving an environmentally correct bluetooth wireless mobile headset from coconut palm leaves in Costa Rica.

The cellular conductivity of Costa Rican coco palms was first recognized by Leonard Dale Vincy of St. Peter, Florida. Vincy was in the Gulf fly-fishing big jigs for sawtoothed Patagonian toothfish when L. Dale's good friend Simon, an unemployed carpenter from Lazio, ran his chainsaw against the grain of a towering Cypress and, as the fibers flew, everyone's cell phone coverage improved.

A few days later, while attending a graphic artists conference in Panama, L. Dale had an epiphany. Costa Rican palm fiber has a crazy resinous goo that conducts satellite radio frequencies. It was palm fiber that could prove to be core component of the next generation of wireless headsets. Initial tests confirmed everyone's suspicions. D. Vincy was right.

Unfortunately, L. Dale doesn't have the necessary capital to move this project forward fast enough, i.e., before Google gets a hold of it.

So. Buck up campers and send $10 to Hootenanny Coco Headset Co. Email us and we'll give you the info you will need to send your funds via PayPal.

Mato Paha

Mato Paha.

Small colored pieces of cloth containing pinches of tobacco are wrapped around trees and bushes as prayer gifts to the Creator. Larger flags of red, white, black, or yellow, the sacred colors, also are tied to trees to carry the prayers to all the directions.

Mato Paha is a Tertiary-aged intrusive body. The result of the forcible entry (or intrusion) of magma into cooler crustal rock. In this, it shares a similar geological history to other formations in the region, including the Black Hills, Devils Tower, the Missouri Buttes, and some parts of the Rocky Mountains.

Mato Paha rises 1,253 feet above the surrounding plain and is 4,426 feet above sea level.

Geologists, on the other hand, call Mato Paha (Bear Butte) a lacolith, or a bubble of magma that did not become a complete volcano. They say this happened millions of years ago. Yet the Oglala Lakota call this place, Groaning Bear. How did the Oglalas know that this mountain groaned?

Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota, come to Bear Butte to pray. The months of May, June, and July will see families camped at the base while a relative is standing on the side of the mountain fasting in deep meditation. Prayer bundles hold the souls of elders. Once placed they cannot be disturbed.

Mato Paha is currently a "National Historic Landmark" managed by the South Dakota Game Fish and Parks Department. Although a few parcels of adjacent land have been purchased by some Native American nations, the rest of the surrounding area is ranchland, or is being sold to developers. Two drag racing strips, a biker bar, a convenience store, campgrounds, and housing developments are all located within a few miles of this sacred place.

More are being built. Shame on us all.

Hootenanny opposes any 'development' near Mato Paha. What is the value of a liquor license, a road, a motorcycle or an automobile?

Tunkasila, le miyelo. Wotehikeca, le ca mauwelo.

My father once said that when he was only a child, he was told that his great grandfather was one of those who believed that the earth was round and turned. According to him our pipe was designed to be like the world we live on. The bowl we put the tobacco in is round, like the world. And outside this bowl is the endless universe where the stars are. That is why the pipe is so sacred, why it is used for every ceremony, and for prayer to Wakan-Tanka .
Frank Fools Crow (Oglala Lakota)

new coilspring notebooks available now

forget the laptop PC
this is a very handy approach to the old notebook problem
no more need for the embossed leather portfolio that you could only get at the high end stores
this is a simple very high tech solution. like French made ballpoint pens and Chinese calculators
available all over all the time

this ought to take your mind off the war

why me lord?

stop the war in lebanon

hootenanny finds billy batest

this is a video of the billy batest band "detour" performing in helena, montana


As most of you know, Billy Batest grew up in the house behind the post office in Quinn, SD.
No one knew his parents. They were clandestine.
Billy sat in the desk in front of me in 6th Grade. He was always irritable. He always wore stiff cowboy clothes to school - heavy starched button snap shirts, usually black; worn pointy toed boots and a Copenhagen-can-lid belt buckle. He kept his hair short in a Wilburn cut well above the ears - 'whitewalls' as they were called back then.
At the time, I was afraid of Billy Batest and his fearsome western personna. Who knew what he was capable of?
So, like most of us would in a similar situation, I began a small war of intellectual attrition.
He demanded a pencil. I gave him one. Unsharpened. He demanded a sharpened pencil and I balked. "Billy", I said, "I can get you a sharpened pencil but I'll need some time. Pencils are easy to come by in the 6th Grade but sharpeners are not. I'll have to talk to the Newtons.This won't be easy."
Without his knowledge, Billy had just met his first lawyer. He was outdone. Outfoxed. Outsmarted. It took him so long to figure what had just happened that I don't recall he ever bothered me again. After pounding Arlys Klundt in the sand over by the monkey bars, Billy and his family just disappeared.
Over the years, my friends and I wondered what happened to Billy.
It seems he's no longer a starched shirt cowboy.

the johnny cash show

i'm not sure whether i was on acid
or johnny cash was


go to hootmusi©

president bush sings topical song at G8 summit sunday

sunday, bloody sunday

rock the casbah

another tribute to another passed brother
RIP Joe Strummer

pretty fly for a white guy

the editors have regained control
this site is for fun
remember this old tune

so you think you can tell

goodbye syd barrett

lebanon

I walked over to the Third Avenue Market today to buy a watermelon. I like them in the summer when it's hot. They have a deli there but it's not like a Subway since you can't get a sub. They sell falafel, shawirma, souvlaki, kebabs tomatoes and cucumbers and saffron rice. Their hummus is the best. As a plus, they're nice guys. And they're Lebanese. When I ask for stamps they argue, then sell them at a discount. I think they like me. I always pay cash.
I carried my watermelon to the counter. As a frequent customer, they always recognize and call me by name. A few days before as I bought cereal and milk, my Lebanese friend suggested I try feta cheese, olives, cucumbers and toasted pita with olive oil for breakfast. I had to agree it sounded very tasty. Better than Cheerios I'd put on the counter.
I brought my purchase to the counter today. The big watermelon. My friend was comfortable in telling me his horror and fear for his family in Lebanon and his hatred for both the Israeli incursion and the Hezbollah. Like me, I'm sure he wishes we could just stop shooting at each other.

We talked about the situation in Lebanon. Freely, as we are entitled to do in this country. The watermelon was big so he grinned as he double-bagged it and suggested it was worth more than I was going to pay. He put my cigarettes, ice cream and a couple of cans of pico in another bag and I left.

I really, really hope his family and friends are OK.

wall celebration deemed a partial success

It was a reasonably good affair said paid spokesman Kent Obermeyer last Friday.
HootPress Exclusive - Wall, SD.

The 99th Annual Summer Celebration in Wall, South Dakota was deemed a partial success by paid independent observer and Wal-Mart Loss Prevention Specialist Kent Obermeyer of Loveland, Colorado. Obermeyer, a semi-professional town-celebrationist, noted familiar town celebration trappings including an early morning jog followed by a short, orderly parade of cars and horse drawn wagons. "It's the wagons that get to me," Obermeyer mused, "that really makes for a fantastic, horse-filled parade."

Hootenanny sat with Kent after the parade in the wood paneled dining room of the local pharmacy. While Kent picked at a "ham dinner", including a small mound of plain yellow potato salad and a minature ceramic pot of "baked" beans, he explained the existential paradigm of small town celebrations, like that presently occurring in Wall.

It's a little like a wooden clock, painstakingly carved by a Woodshop Junior but incapable of keeping reliable time. You can't use it to power a belt-sander, can you? Or say you carefully covered a piece of plywood with a walnut veneer, and then left it in the closet until Christmas while you weaned a wildcat on saltpeter and sawdust. Would you be anymore likely to treat a bushy-tailed squirrel to an ice cream cone on the following Sunday. Absolutely not!

It was impossible for the HootPress team corespondents to contradict Obermeyer's argument (or check his references, for that matter since we were arguing about whether we should download more Spoon or the recently released Arcade Fire EP on our only company iPod while he spoke).

Obermeyer went on to downgrade his estimation of the Wall celebration with an indirect jab at the powerful, but ultimately ineffective town celebration committee headed up by the Kitterman Flower and Hospitatlity Conglomerate.

Where was the carnival? The Zipper, poorly crafted stuffed animals and the liter-of-pop ring toss? The games of skill or feats of strength? This local hospitality syndicate has apparently got a death-grip on this town's inherent creativity. The bands at the beer tent lacked originality, sticking strictly to covers. No fresh lemonade. No fried cheese curds. Have you people even heard of corn dogs? It was like the Soviet Union out there. You had to stand in line for a turnip then peel it yourself.

After a brief interlude of uncomfortable silence, we left Kent Obermeyer to his Drug Store lunch and retired to the adjacent cocktail lounge for a round of Bloody Marys with pickle spear and celery stalk. There we could watch the war coverage via satellite as we inhaled our cold, vodka-spiked tomato soup. Finally, dude showed up with the BC and a dozen Canadian 80s. In short order, Wall's 99th turned into the best celebration ever.

african soda fountain