Shameless

Too Old To Rock 'N' Roll...

 'VE REACHED AN AGE - a settled state of being rather - where my natural inclination, on those rare occasions I find myself situated in a record store, is to head for the "Classical" section or perhaps the "Bluegrass" section, or more likely the "Lost Youth" section wherein are contained the LP's of my once-humungous record collection, presented for renewed consumption in convenient Compact Disc form.

I left a thousand LP's behind, and with them my delicately-cartridged turntable, receiver, equalizer, and laser-designated loudspeakers: product of a highly-competitive youthful obsession with Hi-Fi and music, left them all behind as a gift to whoever purchased the property once I'd gone. I brought my CD's with me though, which is just as well since all my Operas and most of my classicals are on CD, not vinyl. I have forgotten most of the records that inhabited my collection, but some that I do remember I wish I hadn't? Competition was strong in those days to be "into" weird new bands - "new" meaning unknown to or unheard of by our peers, not necessarily New as such. An awful lot of drivel sure enough, but a lot more genuine gold. There were of course certain standards to be maintained in what records one publicly acknowledged possessing. These were the standards of the chosen Tribe - Rock 'n' Roll Hippies in my case, as opposed to Punk or caring Genesites, or despised Mods and New Romantics. Rock, verging on the Metal, although I was never into Metal as much as my pals. Those were the days. My own eclectic interests, when they emerged, were viewed as eccentric, verging on the esoteric: they preferred never to speak of it, to remain silent as though one suddenly came to realize that one's belovèd brother or cousin was that David Icke? How funny, then, that my eldest son is assisting in the regeneration of musical neurons lost to time: he seems intent on reproducing for himself the core of my long-neglected Rock contingent, the acceptable parts of it. I must remark that it is a little bit scary to observe a son buying the same records, wearing the same T-shirts, walling the same posters, and strumming the same bass guitar in the same pal-filled bedroom jammerees as I did. Zep. Zep-zep-zep-zep-ZEP. Led Zeppelin: just about the only two words he can spell. His minor pantheon, his Hendrix, Floyd, Rush, AC-DC, frightening Skynyrd even - all of them once were my own. [A little bit scary that: but not in the same class of scary - or creepy - as Mr Outer Life, who writes so beautifully, but as though he had trained some mind-piercing spycam upon me and my daily doings; who writes with unnatural perception about the things I am up to or the things I am pondering, but at or close-to the same time as me. That just freaks me out, as I've mentioned in mail to some of you, Him included.] Another son, a different son, second-oldest of the five, he at least is forming his own musical tastes, rather more contemporary; but he, even he, he ripped my Aqualung the other night. Then put it back afterwards - totally suspicious - normally he'd just dump it somewhere in his room or the garage and I'd never hear of it again. So what else was he up to that he felt compelled to return it to its proper place?

In any event, browsing record stores happens infrequently, maximizing the serendipity of meeting some former love by accident. After years of abstinence, for example, I am once again buying Dylan. So I was in the local Wherehouse last week - it always seems upon the brink of closure - an off-the-cuff visit sure enough but this time with a definite off-the-cuff purpose: I was looking for something, anything, by the Traveling Wilburys: my Goddess had recently purchased an E.L.O. album out of pure nostalgia, and had expressed a liking for the Wilburys. So I thought I'd look in the store, see if I could surprise her? Nae luck.

Neither E.L.O. nor Wilburys are typical of her musical tastes or gifts - for she does indeed have serious powers, and a shocking degree of street-cred that's always several steps ahead of the kids. Her specialities are the recollection of lyrics, any lyrics enjoyed at any past point in her life; band membership and trivia - who's dead and how, who they all played with, how they interrelate; broadway musicals, "american" punk and R.E.M. She provides the best laughs when our up-and-coming teenagers "discover" some new phenomenon only to have her recite the songs while driving the car. She has similar powers of Movie trivia, but let's not go there today. She is a Goddess, and I clasp my arms about her knees. Way, waaaay cooler than I've ever been.

But while I was travelin' the aisles looking for Wilburys, under "T", I came across the new Tsar album, which in turn made me think of The Mars Volta, but don't ask me how. Both CD's going for a tenner, so I snapped them up.

Tsar stood out because two of my all-time favorite bloggers - Matt Welch and Tony Pierce - both of them rave about Tsar all the bloody time - TP never shuts-up about them. He is their sometime-roadie, their band-aid, their acolyte and he doesn't care who knows it; they are The coming L.A. Band, a krew to be watched. He is to be indulged in his enthusiasms, for it is indeed a wonderful thing to be so enraptured.

So I bought Tsar - Band Girls Money, just to see.

I bought Mars Volta Frances The Mute because when I first heard "The Widow" on radio, and each occasion after that until one of the gormless Deejes finally mentioned their name, when I first heard that song I was convinced it was Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. The tone of the singer, the style of the background guitar - totally Zeppelinesque. So, provided I could remember to, I would have to buy that album when I could. I didn't remember of course - not until I happened across the Tsar CD.

I lost interest with Rock bands years ago: I had, and still have, this disease, this mild obsession, that isn't satisfied by regular run-of-the-mill rock music. None of it sounds original to me any more, and most of it is too simplistic. Strummed chords, occasional riff, hash-bash drums, pretentious singer - just doesn't work like it used to. I need depth, or breadth, or whatever dimension you want to choose: I need for all forty-eight or ninety-six tracks to be used on that studio tape, to be playing something different, something more than a bashed-out chord. Those simple tunes have their place, mind - I always liked the Pistols and the Clash and Sabbath - but that was rare: most Punk left me cold, and most Metal left me gagging. Spinal Tap said it all, for me. Most of today's bands - when they play them on the damned radio - most of today's bands leave me cold and colder: meh, or crappy meh, or shitty. Besides, back in the original days those Punks were filthy - british punks I mean, hardcore punks, not pale-shadow american punks, those british punks with all that puking and spittin' on top of regular teenage soapdodging, they were filthier than Hippies and Bikers combined. Then half of them started wearing make-up, which eventually led to the evil that was New Romanticism, about which no more shall be spoken. All these years later I still have to wonder: How did that happen? We'll never know.

Back to Tsar. I'm afraid to say I can't fill myself with the same enthusiasm for this band as my Blogvatern, and though I really do not wish to damn anyone with faint praise, I can't really think how to avoid that and still say something. They are not quite my cup of tea - which is a long way from saying I think they're bad. They're not bad, not at all - just not to my taste. Some of the songs are growing on me, though, and I do like the title track. It is difficult for me to define their style, since I haven't kept-up with the terminology? The lyrics are not bad at all, certainly nothing cringe-worthy (unlike some of my old favorites). The musical style is... well? I can perhaps best describe it as a flat-out rock guitar bound and gagged by repeating chords and beat-keeper drums? Is that wrong, anyone? The guitarist often breaks free of his chains and lets loose with some wild riffs, but when he does that he completely overpowers the rest of the band - it sounds so out-of-place. I'm sorry. I figured the band would be more to my wife's liking, since they remind me of many of the CD's she plays; so I put the disc in the car, let her listen. Curiously the band sounds "too guitary" for her, whereas it's too punky for me and not guitary enough? Jack Spratt, meet Wife. But don't give up: it's still in the car, still being listened to, still growing on us. But that'll only go so far, I'm afraid. I suppose, given all the rave reviews written about this band, some old codger would have to vent cabbage in the cabin eventually? Why'd it have to be meeeeeeeeeeeeee.

But, you will recall, I bought two new discs that day: the other was "Frances The Mute", by The Mars Volta. This album is simply stunning.

Stunning, but not without it's difficulties. Anyone who hs heard "The Widow" in its entirety quickly learns that the radio people only play half the song - and that the tail-end is, to be a little circumspect, godawful weird. The whole album is like that: the tracks are all very long, and comprise absolutely wonderful songs wrapped in an envelope of atonal electronic weirdness. The first thing it reminded me of - and this was totally a psychiatric associative response - the first thing the strange parts reminded me of was Tangerine Dream. And what horrorshow album memories that dragged up. Oh how cruel a comparison - and totally wrong. What next it reminded me of - and this is more accurate and in-keeping, I think - was those long strung-out Zeppelin solos: you know, where Jimmy bows his guitar while John-Paul bumbles on bass? But without the continuous Plant wailing. Like that. This whole album, this band, they remind me as I listen of so many other bands: Zeppelin undoubtedly, in the style of play and the voice of the singer; but also Rush, Santana, Floyd (good Floyd and bad Floyd, but never godawful Barrett Floyd.) Indeed it was upon early Floyd - Ummagumma Floyd - that I finally settled on as an explanation for the wrappers. I think - I hope - that this band is still young and still experimenting to find its true feet? And just as those early Floyd albums led to the majesty of Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and Animals, so this early 'Mars is leading to something new, something wonderful? That's what I think at least. The songs, the music, inside the envelope is brilliant; styled magnificently with - as is my want - all ninety-six tracks of the production deck playing something different, something crafted. There's an on-going fight in my head between various songs from this album, all competing for The song-in-the-head-for-today slot.

What a wonderful feeling. After all these years, finally a band on the cusp of greatness I can rave about again.

Out with the old, back with the new

I'm afraid I have to disagree with Andrew Sullivan's take that the BBC has today reverted to "The Old Ways" because it is blaming yesterday's atrocity on the re-election of Tony Blair.

I'd say that was exactly wrong.

The BBC did indeed revert to the "Old Ways", but that was yesterday, Bomb Day, and only briefly, when it once again called terrorists Terrorists. Those are the "Old Ways" we miss - where Aunty Beeb was honest and would report all news without any self-preening political agenda. What we see today, as Harry's Place ably demonstrates, are the "New Ways" in action, where the mighty BBC, once the glory of worldwide news, prefers to play Pravda by revising its own texts. You really have to click that link to believe it.

How they must miss the Cold War, poor dears? Reminiscent of Galloway, even - that same pompous creep who recently scared some senators by talking back - how he regards the collapse of the Soviet Union as the greatest tragedy in History, or some such.

It makes me weep to see this; to see what has become of dear old Aunty. Its honesty, its lack of political agenda, its simple reporting of facts without any hint of propagandizing, these are what made the BBC of old Great and believable around the world. That they could tell a story without artifice was propaganda enough to the hidden and trodden people of the world. It was that, that plain honesty, that one time scared the Chinese: Rupert Murdoch, you ought to recall, agreed to prohibit BBC transmission through his Star Network Satellites in order to beam "I Love Lucy" to his waiting chinese audience.

It's clear to me that Beijing would have nothing to fear today, and that's shocking and sad and disgraceful.

A plague on all their blushed-out plooks.

Been There, Done That...

Your Friday Meme comes today via the excellent Cowtown Pattie...

bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C. /

Go HERE to have a form generate the HTML for you.

This being the United States, the word "state" has a typically parochial meaning. But there are others, outside you know?

Tubbs: You lied to me Edward! There is a Swansea!

They might include, for no other reason than to brag how widely-travelled we may be here in the Xenoverse:

Africa / Asia / Australasia / Balkans / Belgium / Bulgaria / Canada / Central America / Cyprus / England / E Viva Espana / The Falklands / France / Germany / Greece / Greek Islands / Ibiza / Ireland / Italy / Luxembourg / Majorca / Mexico / The Middle East / Mittel-Europa / Monaco / Narnia / Netherlands / Northwest Passage / Norway / Oceania / Portsmouth / Romania / Any of The Russias / San Marino / Scotland / South America / Southeast Asia / Switzerland / Utter Mongolia / Wales / The West Indies / Wimbledon

Lots more, really, I've um, just forgotten, that's all...

Choose Any Channel You Like...

Wonderful nostalgia on Boing-Boing featuring this marvellous old-fashioned radio from the Soviet era...


Clicksky


I have taken the liberty - exploiting in highly-capitalist style the slave labors of the lumpen proletarian Gimp - of magnifying the dial, if only to bring-back mass memories of old.

By sheer force of competetive will I shall be first against the wall, I shall!

Begin at the beginning...

Thanks be to the Chief Blogging Officer for reminding us of the gift of Dylan Thomas, whose poetry I find mesmerising. Being in no part equipped for literary criticism I cannot tell you how or why his painted words beguile me so. Perhaps it is because they are so abstract, so strange at face, but still somehow I read them and, as if by some warm magic ancient as the trees, a meaning emerges where none was thought possible? Or perhaps it is his sultry rhythm, contagious as the 'Flu? I have an old BBC recording, a cassette, and old recording of a radio play, "Under Milk Wood", narrated by Richard Burton and other actors welsh, and I swear that after last I listened I thought and spoke and wrote within in its rhythm and its rhyming for four or five weeks after?

I suppose that a grown man wrapped in poems - poyums in the vernacular, annoying as nuculur - for a full-grown man to admit of such without the excuse of a woman to woo, that such calls in to question his jewelery, his stuff, his stature and statuary amongst his fellows? Rather like confessing to the ballet? Well P'tah! to that, says I, who is of an age where such considerations lie, thankfully, a-withering and shrivelled in the grave. Besides, though she be caught, and willingly, I shall always woo her, unto the last day, the final breath. Like Jonah Jarvis,

Fatuous Bearded, come to a bad end... very enjoyable.

UPDATE: Too good to pass up, it's turning out to be quite the Patty day... she'll be thinking I fancy her or sumpthin', stalking mibbe? Well I'm not: I'm happily married, thank-you.

You're John Keats! You were born poor, trained to
be a doctor, and then decided you wanted to be
a poet. You threw yourself into poetry with
great dedication. You're very nice and
extremely dedicated to your art. You write
great letters and sexy poetry. It's amazing
how much you got done in your short lifetime.


Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by Quizilla

Name writ in water. Damned straight.

Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense

Terrorist attacks are nothing new to Britain - and surely not to London, where the IRA used to reckon one bomb was worth a dozen or more in Belfast. But neither that, nor my countrymen's ability to absorb the damages of evil men should ever be mistaken for complacency. Quiet and reserved we may be, but we are not complacent. Our governments do not treat with terrorists; and any one that did, or which was perceived as doing so, would not remain a government very long. Our instincts are not to appease, not to excuse, but to fight back - and not just in obvious ways: we'll line-up next day, politely too, to take our places on the Tube or on the bus or on an airplane; we'll be back at work with a vengeance, or back in the pubs or restauraunts or whatever it is they blow-up; back again next day, even if it's only to be turned back by police. This we do, this quiet defiance, and a point is made whether evil men take note or not. We know, too, that our police and our armed services will not sit idle: that terrorists will be hunted, stalked, chased, harried; brought to justice one way or another.

Today our thoughts are with the people of London - the ordinary everyday workaday people of London - with those who bore the brunt of this evil and their loved ones. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow there will be a reckoning.

Afterwards...

Well, that was surely the noisiest Fourth around here that I've ever heard. From about an hour before sundown, the streets around the old outlaws' place erupted in the noise of other peoples' fireworks. Later there were rockets - hundreds of them - but for the first hour or so none it visible; just the noise. Very funny though - rather like crickets, all would go silent moments before we'd notice a prowler creeping along the street in the distance. There is sooo an underground communications network here that we are excluded from.

The trees that line our streets have all grown too far this year: we could see nothing of the municipal fireworks show in the distance but the afterglow, flashing like Glasgow during the blitz; but from there came the solid bass crumps of the heavy artillery, the big mortars, almost sufficiently pleasing in itself.

Somewhere to our northwest was an absolutely stunning private rocket show that ran for an hour and a half. How they evaded capture we'll never know - especially since, best we could tell, they were being launched from just-about where the police department sits. Maybe that's what they do with impounded fireworks - except I doubt it? They claim when they confiscate them that the Fire Department will be disposing of them safely. Huh.

Either way - Good Show, what?

Though Rockets Daren't Fly

 LTHOUGH IT IS NOT QUITE my favorite holiday, July 4th - Independence Day - comes a very close second. I love it. I would say that I adore it but that would be unmanly, and lord knows I don't need to invite any further emasculation than already slices my way throughout that day.

Although it is not quite July 4th at all today, I am nevertheless posting in anticipation because we've a busy weekend and I could not withstand the malevolent gaze that would burn my way were I to sit on my arse tappiting. Floor tiles are cracking and stripping even now.

As with most holidays here, the meaning of the day is important, and is celebrated. Holidays in britain are rarely so: they're mostly an excuse to relax, to do nothing, to perhaps visit a beach - a very welcome day off work, but given no more thought. Is that unfair? I don't think so. Here, on the other hand - while holidays retain their essential do-nothingness - there are usually rituals to perform, commensurate with the day. An occasion is marked.

In keeping with every other holiday but one - that being Thanksgiving - July 4th celebration begins in our family with a barbecue in our back yard. Because we can, we do. Before you ask, Christmas Day is a barbecue holiday here but not in our yard, on one of Ventura County's state beaches, where such things are permitted and where dolphins promenade just off shore. Barbecues, like almost everything else, are strictly verboten on nanafascist LA County beaches unless your company is able to pay for a permit and the mandatory security guards who must prevent potential drunkards wandering off-beach and across PCH. But I digress: this July 4th our backyard barbecue will christen a brand-new grill, yet to be assembled, that weighs an impressive 150lbs. Must be good then. It replaces our old grill whose burners have rusted to dust, but which was the first-ever birthday gift my wife gave to me. We are loathe to let it go. That it rusted is particularly weird, since nothing rusts in California: just doesn't happen ordinarily. I'm hoping to build the new bugger Saturday morning after the 25-yd dumpster has been delivered to the foot of the drive and the kids have begun emptying the garage, the family rooms, and the downstairs carpets into it. Big changes gathering momentum in the Bearded home. The upside of a gammy leg precludes my own participation in any of this lumpwork, heavy-lifting being well out; but that won't stop me from pretending to try, from attempting to lift something or other giving every appearence of pain and incapacity. Besides, what are sullen teenagers for, if not this?

Backyard barbecues are not entirely unheard of in Scotland either, as you might have supposed, although they are quite different in their execution. The same invitations extend to friends and family to gather at a house - no particular reason necessary - the same patriarch will have run to Asda and purchased a couple of single-use all-in-one tinfoil grills and set them flaming on top of a pile of bricks, or choice rocks temporarily hauled away from the rockery, laid out haphazard on the grass. It will be raining, inevitably. Pishing down most likely. Everyone - adults and a hundred kids - will be indoors peering through curtains, out the windows, drawn to the smoke and grilling burgers and sausages. Everyone inside but the host, who stands poking and prodding the meats like a boy with a stick at the side of a burn, ratty thing dead at his feet. He will be taunted and jeered by his cosily cold-comfort friends. And sodden; possibly with gin. Later, paper plates in the kitchen and laughter. Always that.

Three things set July 4th apart: fireworks, marches, and slagging - and therein lie my reasons for loving it. I make no secret of my enjoyment of marches, being a former lumpen bandsman who trudged through mining villages on annual gala days, school uniformed but tie coupled loosely, blasting a tuba while holding the music out front in a spare hand. Strictly american marches here though, as you might expect: no room for Johnny Foreigner when there's Johnny Sousa to blast. You'd think? One year we took the kids to the Hollywood Bowl for its orchestral fireworks, but it took them forever to get round to marches: they spent an hour playing sappy drivel - all-american drivel, true - that bored us to our seats. On this, a day for the rousing crump of a badass drum and the blazing of trumpets if ever there was, we have no need of pious prairie paens. I have taken steps this year, he declaims with blusto, to secure for this yard and its peoples the blessings of the Liberty Bell, the Washington Post, the Stars and Stripes Forever, the Star-Spangled Banner and others, performed as is fitting by the Band of the US Marine Corps; all using the gift of iTunes and an iPod FM transmitter bought me for Fathers' Day. There shall be marching. Oh yes.

Fireworks are trickier - a fact I find highly amusing. Most years - including this - we'll seek our skyborne entertainments locally, somewhere round sundown. We might venture out in the van to try to find some patch of roadside with a decent view of the sky above the High School, where the official city display occurs - the only permitted display, of course? More likely we'll head to the in-laws, who live a mile or two inwards, away from the combustible fringe we inhabit. We'll sit on their front lawn watching the skies. The biggerbombs of the city display will be visible in the distance, but all around us will be the lively bursting in air of illegal mexican rocketry that local amerexicans seem able to acquire with ease. All fireworks are illegal hereabouts this time of year. Indeed there's only one part of Los Angeles, even, that allows them to be sold openly, way down in Garden Grove seventy-odd miles away. But they only sell "legal" illegal fireworks there - the tame and timid whitebread stuff, wildly overrated Phzzzts that rather resemble those "disturbing content" warnings on Fox. We spent a hundred bucks on such zingers last year, waited until dark to set them off, prepared a steel base in the center of a quiet side street to launch them, then had them confiscated by the polis five seconds after one of the sprogs lit a sparkler. Confiscated the whole bloody bucket. It was clearly our own stupidity that led to this: we had tried to light them as safely as possible. Had we hid in the backyard and fired-off the wildly illegal Mexican variety we'd have had no problem, clearly, for while Officer Dibble was writing our ticket and growling his stern rebuke, his face, his plain-clothes prowler, indeed his notebook and writings, were all iluminated brightly by the bursting rockets, and shrieking roman candles launched from every street around us. Ours were the only ones taken: we were the Example, the Sacrifice, the Point Made. Funny thing was, strolling round the streets later that evening, we heard such rumors about what had befallen us. We had, by several accounts, been arrested and taken away. We did not deny this.

That here in the Golden State in the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave the nannies had smacked our bottoms and taken away our nasty fireworks on this our Independence Day, our National Effing Fireworks Day, the day Jeff Goldblum and Randy Quaid destroyed the Alien Invaders using real rockets no less, well that was just dandy with me. It gifted me the last laugh on a day of abuse at the hands of the colonial contingent. For my favorite part of all the great Fourth of July holiday, is the day-long merciless slagging sent my way; in which my manhood and nationhood and heritage are torn apart. It isn't just that I'm british, and therefore We beat you! and We kicked your redcoat asses - standard response to any question or remark:
- Cup of coffee, baby?
- Coffee? Sure. None of your stinking Tea - because, you know, We Beat You!.

Type of thing.

It isn't just that I'm british - I'm scots, and therefore doubly despised on account of our national preoccupation with complaining about the english; with hating the english; with being hard-done-to and having our shoulders chipped by the english; with our perpetual whining and gnashing about the english, but our never having done anything about it. After all these thousands of years we're still under their thumb, and run away like pop-socked schoolgirls from any hint of independence. Not like we americans. We kicked your asses and sent you all crying back to Blightey. I mumble a few words about Bannockburn and Robert The Bruce and Proud Edward's Army - but it's pointless: 1314 was an awful long time ago.

But here at the end of day, family brooding on the lawn, here I can always turn round and say, in all innocence, Bonfire Night in Britain, we're allowed fireworks you know?. Hah!

What you delicate, sensitive North Americans cannot seem to come to terms with - and I'm including Canadians in this generalization - is that british people show their friendship by viciously slagging - roasting - themselves and their friends. The harder, more intense the slagging, the better the friendship. Something like that. My wife detests that aspect of our character, and my faint-hearted colleagues recoil in such horror and offense - they take it all so personally, so deeply - that I've had to stop doing it altogether; even with other expats, though not entirely in their case. This is such a shame, and it's something I've come to miss deeply about the old place. Worse, not only does the habit require constant feeding to maintain its edge, but in starving oneself, so to speak, one becomes overly-sensitive oneself: can't recognize a joke any more, start to take slaggings literally and personally blah-di-blah. I find myself slowly turning into a shocked and fainting pansy? It is therefore most welcome to see the old spirit rise on the fourth of July. I'm usually so pleased that I neglect to mention how you americans are all very good at dishing it out, but totally unable to take it. I'd get my arse handed to me if I dared. Not complaining, Just saying.

In any event, enough from me. I'll away and let you enjoy your holiday, people - have a great Fourth, and if you are able, fire-off a rocket for Old Bastard Bearded.

<AAARGH>MY BEAUTIFUL NEW STAINLESS STEEL GRILL was smothered at birth - buckled and bent and crippled in its box! I had to take it back to Target this morning, which was totally sold-out of all BBQ-related merchandise. So it was off once again to Home Depot where I managed - just - to snap a cheaper, flimisier model which is still twice the size of our original. The place was mental today - not helped by a burst fire hydrant and a 50-70ft Geneva Fountain smothering First St. Anyway: back on track with a replacement brand new grill.I managed to build it all by myself, and now I'm quite knackered. I expect to sleep through tonight's game at Dodger Stadium. We're playing the Diamondbacks [at least, I think we're playing the Diamondbacks?] Both legs are aching like a bitch. 5pm on Saturday night and the entire horrid slidey-white floor tiling is up and away, piled in the dumpster. A very busy day all told - a trip to a ball game should be just the thing to recuperate by.

<DOUBLEPLUS AAARGH>WHAT A TOTAL TUBE! It was a day game, dammit, a day game! We misread a "1" as a "7" on the tickets! Oh dear me, such good seats, too. and we had to give-up our seats in early June because of a sick and contagious child. Utterly sickened we went to the mall. Bought a Dodger shirt and hat at last, and not for no $170 either. But still - disaster on the ball game front.