What can be said when you discover a great American rock band – and I don’t use that term loosely – from 40 years ago? I mean, I know you’ve heard them. I heard them and didn’t know who they were until I made That 70s Connection. The thing about Big Star is people love them. And for someone – me – who grew up strictly on classic rock, it’s bizarro that I had never heard them before. It’s also surprising to me because they were one of Jeff Tweedy’s biggest influences. Lyricism, developed song writing and (well, I guess) pure magic can be found in these records.

#1 Record

Take a moment to appreciate some under appreciated rock and roll from Memphis, TN. When I listen to them, I still want to like them more. But I keep going back because that’s the kind of band they are.

hello, nasty

Why is it – thanks Dave – that we hear (heard?) them on rare rotation on modern rock stations (whatever that format is now) and never hear them on any hip hop (or dare I say) hits channel? Too white for one and not white enough for the other? Either way, pay your dues and listen. Cause these men know what the hell they are doing.

Then he goes and does this.

It’s one of many many reasons to go to SXSW. If you haven’t been to the Third Man Records site, go. Even with all the country I’m involved in at work, Third Man Records is the only reason you’d get me to go to Nashville. Anyone else interested in a hard rock and roll hommage trip?

It’s weird that tomorrow is March. So much time has gone by, people move further, grow up so far from what we once knew, and college seems further away daily. Even if some of us still want it back. (For the record, I don’t.)

Since living here I’ve been to nyc to visit twice, and both times I like DC more. I’ve worked it out and it seems as though DC is grown up. Not to say New York City isn’t. It is a great, world city. A hub and full of everything you could ever want. New York City is beautiful and there is something great about each part of it. But when I come home to DC I feel the differences. The district feels polite where a ruckus on the Metro is frowned upon. And in New York it’s a characteristic. The thing about our Metro is that it’s more of a commuter rail. Looking at the way it was designed with seats abreast instead of lining the side of the car (like New York and Boston) it was made for a long term ride. More expensive depending on the time of day you travel and where you’re going, it always seems to be broken or being ‘fixed’. When you see loud kids traveling in packs and tourists they treat it just like other subways, which it is not. And has taken a long time for me to come to terms with that.

DC is a city like Los Angeles where not everyone who lives here is from here. People move here for a reason in their career like government, politics, law or higher education. Other famous platforms of the city do exist, like punk rock, but people rarely know it. It’s not even technically a city, hence ‘district’. Taxation without representation is alive and well. The people here are all dressed up, because their jobs call for it. Uptight in the nicest of senses, people take things very seriously. It’s hard to come by hippies, beards and open toed shoes (even in 100+ heat.) The differences between DC and other cities I’ve been to and spent a lot of time in are astounding.

The neighborhoods are aplenty and knowing them can help keep you out of trouble and in a place where you belong. High class and murder are only a few blocks apart. Full of color, life and history, the District is it’s own bubble. Since living here Angeline made the discovery that every few weeks the city is empty because people leave. Cabin fever is very catchy. You need to get out (hence my trips to NY.)

Today it started raining and the wind is supposed to get nasty. The weather here is funky. We’re on a swamp, below the Mason Dixon line, and peoples’ moods change with the forecast. The Metro will be crowded and damp after work. I can just feel it. The same way I can feel the rain coming even though I sit in a room with no windows all day. The office feels humid and no one really wants to be here. I know I don’t.

This wasn’t meant to be about New York and DC. Or the weather. And the train systems. I wanted to share that the previously mentioned chili was and still is amazing. Also, I caught a marathon of Portlandia on IFC yesterday afternoon. An entire episode revolves around Aimee Mann being their cleaning lady. How can you not fall in love with this show? Also, it’s easily the funniest show I’ve seen in a long time. I feel like I’ve had a version of this conversation many times. Also, this is fun. Even though I’m not feelin’ the art, I like reading the titles she sings in the shower.

I wish ya’ll could hear the show I run every day. Bill Mack is a trip. Playin’ the best country music there ever was: Mel Tillis, Willie Nelson, Bob Wills, Ray Price, Merle Haggard, Ernest Tubb (the list goes on…) He’s a  man with a thick southern drawl. When I was watchng Gwyneth Paltrow performing the Country Strong song during the Oscars last night I found myself commenting on it’s poor writing and crappy ”country” sound. Forgive me father for I have sinned, I know my country music and have become a country music snob.

And with that, it’s lunch time. Stay tuned for results of homemade whoopie pies. Happy Birthday Pat.

And I’ve been there. It’s pretty unnoticeable. We had to go looking for his grave site.

It is great to see an existing program supporting today’s veteran’s. But really, does MillerCoors – an American beer conglomerate – really need to encourage veterans to drink at organized events upon returning home from the Middle East? For men returning to strange wives and worried families, won’t the alcohol pour itself?

Jerry Seinfeld has a joke about Raleigh cigarette coupons:

Each one is worth 1/1000th of a penny. You lose a lung trying to get a badminton set. Even if you get it you can’t play. “Cough, cough. Let’s smoke a few more packs. I can get a new birdie.”

It’s really overkill. MillerCoors’ program isn’t conducive to a healthy life. It’s causation of addiction. Vietnam Vets didn’t have this 10-cent cap program in place, but that didn’t keep thousands of men in faded jeans and tattered shirts from chain-smoking cigarettes and calling the local bar “home.”

Maybe these activities created for the vets won’t focus on drinking. I’m thinking corporate sponsorship will creep its way in, though.

Yesterday’s heat and humidity made the invitation to any backyard with a pool a welcome one. Luckily during the afternoon of the fourth, I found myself waist-deep in a pool with a beer in one hand, burgers on the grill, and surrounded by plenty of friends. The bare necessities of any Independence Day celebration, those of meat and beer, were met, and the company only bettered the day’s celebrations. Fireworks were launched from downtown Springfield over the Connecticut River. Patriotic tunes emanating from car radios echoed the sanctity and formality of such a day.

Even when the criteria for the holiday are met, we are reminded of how short we can fall of the supreme celebration of the holiday. Flash back a year ago: July 4th 2009. Ithaca, New York. Meat was cooked atop a shopping-cart-turned-grill. A bonfire was fueled by a couch and a half-gallon of gasoline. Small glaciers were carved out to keep the beers in the cooler cold. Throughout the day, the flag never stopped waving, and the National Anthem cried out through speakers on repeat. A group of fifty college students had truly readhed the apex of patriotism. Considering the veneration and reverence showed to the United States at this time last year, this year was – although not so heartily celebrated – far from a disappointment.

This year, careful attention was paid to keep the flag off the ground; the pool was consistently skimmed of bugs, leaves and dignity; the fire roared (without furniture being burned), and we had coozies aplenty. Three cheers for U.S.A., and a prayer for next year’s festivities.

“It’s because of us that Jewish dermatologists have beautiful houses on the beach!” – drunken Irishman at a cookout