There’s a Weird/Funny Story If You Hang In There
Suddenly it’s warm and beautiful. Outside, I mean. My body is hanging on for dear life to a sinus infection that I got as a consolation prize when I had the flu. I haven’t been able to smell or taste for about two weeks now. Nothing. At all. I’m not fucking joking around here, chief. Do you have any idea how you start to lose your zest for life when you can’t enjoy your favorite food-escapes?
The foolhardy pucker of a mouthful of Shockers (formerly ShockTarts)?
The pert throat-punch of an ice-cold swig of Vanilla Coke?
The all-encompassing soul-warmth that accompanies escargot drenched in garlic butter?
Anywho, the complete and utter lack of taste and smell is sad when I’m eating a sexy Portobello panini but comes in handy when my dog takes a crap on the kitchen floor.
My sister sent me some sort of Zithro-magical medicine that should have helped but it didn’t. I’m still tasteless. Bah-dum-bum… PISH! (That was supposed to be a comedic snare/cymbal hit.) Fuck it, I’m going to eat another package of tiny size Chiclets.
The Dirty Ass R’n’R Diaries:
I saw The Dirtbombs at a Baltimore club called Sonar a few nights ago. Easily the best show of the year so far. Dirty ass rock ‘n’ roll with stop/start precision, but still with a dirty ass.
(Sometimes kids, the secret is the “dirty ass.” I mean really, do you trust your rock to a band that cleans its shorts every day? That’ll just get you something like Maroon 5.)
My suspicion that Dirtbombs mastermind Mick Collins was a glam rock fan was finally substantiated by the 7” 45 I bought at the show’s merch table. The Dirtbombs cover L.A. glam gods Sparks! And with his fine taste he chose a song from the underappreciated (yeah yeah, maybe for good reason) “Big Beat” LP. You remember that one. Instead of Dinky Diamond playing guitar they had fucking Jeff Salen from Tuff Darts! But you knew that.
I always wanted to cover the Sparks song they chose, “Nothin’ To Do,” if only to sing the great lyric, “If I had a million thumbs I’d twiddle, twiddle, but I just have two.”
Instead, my band Cinnamon Toast stole the last two minutes of the Sparks song “Who Don’t Like Kids” and tacked it on the end of our song “Nail Me To Bridget Cross.” You can find it on our “Soft” CD somewhere on these pages. It’s far less satisfying than the Dirtbombs doing Sparks, but still good enough for the likes of you! Sorry. You’d be pissy if you couldn’t taste or smell.
The funniest/weirdest part of the night came before the band went on. My friend Chris X was outside smoking a fag and I was at the bar chatting with Daphne when the conversation turned to Dustin Hoffman and his autistic Wapner-loving performance in the film Rain Man. She said something about spilling toothpicks on the floor (it’s a scene from the film. Dustin Hoffman’s autistic character is in a diner, someone drops some toothpicks, and he names the exact number) and at the exact same time we both said the number THREE HUNDRED FORTY SIX.
I stopped, looked at her and said, “What number did you just say?” to which she replied, “Three hundred forty six.”
I said, “You know that’s the same number I said, right?” We both marveled at how weird it was that we’d both named the same number, as she hadn’t seen the film in ages, and the only time I ever saw it was in the theater when it first came out.
Perhaps the even weirder part is that I called a very, very freakishly attractive friend and asked her to look up the number of toothpicks. She said, “It was two hundred forty six.”
So somehow Daphne and I both half-remembered the number, filed it away in our little brains, and when forced to make a guess, each guessed the exact same incorrect number.
C’mon, that’s at least a tad weird.
Now I’m going to go to Ottobar, drink some vodka/Red Bull, and DJ some hot hip young sounds for the in-crowd!
Love ya. Mean it.
