Tag Archives: mp3

Oh sure, I try to sink the boat ONE TIME and everybody gets all hypercritical

"Hello, I am an Adorable Dolphin. May I have some of your delicious snacks?" (Actual photo of actual needy dolphin)

GateHouse — Listen, I’m from Indiana. We don’t know a lot about saltwater sea-craft in Indiana, given our state’s disappointing proximity to most oceans. We are, as you know, a land-borne people who spend our time farming, jerking around with daylight savings time and being Colts fans when they’re winning. My childhood, it can be safely said, was not one that involved a lot of rigging up a jib sail to the topmast or whatever.

So it was with this sort of generations-old sailor’s background that I found myself last weekend on a boat for an afternoon of sailing around the waters of my little coastal town, a pretty unconditionally delightful way to spend an afternoon, save for the brief few moments in which I attempted to sink the boat and all aboard it, which included my six-year-old son, several lovely couples from whom I will no longer have to worry about responding to dinner invitations on time and three or four large coolers, all of whom are now totally ignoring me.

In my defense, though I did, admittedly, attempt to point a pontoon boat directly at the seafloor, I didn’t do so on purpose. By definition I couldn’t, since I didn’t do anything on this trip on purpose, since I didn’t (and still don’t) have the foggiest idea how to transport a boat through waters that have waves and sharks in them, mostly sharks. We received shockingly little guidance from the company that rented us the boat, mainly the helpful advisory to keep the red markers either to our left side or our right, and, if heading directly at another vessel, to turn the wheel a bit, or, failing that, whoop and jump up and down a lot.

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Oilpacalypse ’10: Sorry, guys, I guess I should direct my concerns to whoever OWNS THE EXPLODING RIG

You know who would have never let a massive, apocalyptic Gulf oil spill happen? This guy.

GateHouse — When my brother was very young, he would frequently pee directly into a garbage can in our basement playroom rather than risk the long and perilous journey to the bathroom, which was all the way upstairs, like nine steps or something (in his defense, it’s not like you could pause the E.T. game on the Atari).

My parents, being sharp people (though aided by an Anonymous Tipster who may or may not have been trying to score more Pitfall time), would usually address the issue by asking Dave directly what he knew about the objectionable fragrance radiating from the garbage can. And every single time he was subjected to these intense investigations, each time he gazed into the face of parental wrath and irrefutable and dribbling evidence, he would provide the same singular, unvarying response: “No, Mom,” and then he’d conclude his presentation by casting suspicion upon the dog.

The massive oil spill currently begloppening (or threatening to begloppen) up the entire Gulf Coast, at least to my untrained eyes, seemed at first awful but not apocalyptic, mostly because that is what I was being told by some combination of BP, which owned the exploded rig, and the federal government, each of whom spent the first few days post-disaster gradually poking around online for each other’s phone numbers. The government passed the first days of the mess — which began with the explosion of a massive BP rig — by largely deferring to BP, asking for updates from BP, and deciding that they pretty much were OK with whatever BP said, which, surprisingly, was that BP had everything under control. It is as if my parents went upstairs, poured some coffee, looked at each other and sighed, “Maybe there’s something to this dog thing?” (Note: there wasn’t, as to successfully hit the garbage can Cutty would’ve had to basically get out a ladder, travel three steps up and then whizz diagonally).

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Enjoy your final days before we’re all devoured by murderous pigs, or, Porky’s Revenge

Pictured: Babe, age 54

Island Packet — We have had, it can be argued by most good people, a fairly colorful few months here in the swamps of Carolina. Our governor vanished for a week, another guy lost track of his Red Bull allowance and yelled something at President Kenya O’Islam on the TV, another dude and his grandma called poor people farm animals and then whined about being made fun of, some hilarious representative person introduced pointless nuisance legislation about banning paper money to make a point about small government and it’s still legal to marry your first cousin. There is also a story about a horse my editor won’t let me write about.

But even these many terrible people are mere hors d’oeuvres when compared with the greatest problem facing residents of South Carolina, which is that we are all going to be eaten and probably killed by feral wild pigs, which are running wild throughout the state and cannot be stopped at all, by anything, except maybe feral wild dragons, and I’m pretty sure we exported most of those already.

Indeed, according to a story right here in the Newspaper written by my cubicle-mate, Patrick Donohue, who spent all of Feral Pig Infestation Reporting Day growing increasingly unhinged by panic, “There may be no slowing the state’s booming wild hog population, experts say.” Moreover, it turns out our state is home to the nation’s sixth-largest population of wild hogs. (It is also home to the nation’s fourth-largest collection of owners of the DVD of “Wild Hogs,” which is equally troubling.)

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Bessie Smith – Gimme A Pigfoot

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Coffee Makes You Immortal, or, Last Night A Decaf Saved My Life

This has nothing to do with anything, but is awesome.

GateHouse — Because Science is difficult and includes many absurd words and phrases with which I am not familiar, such as “continuum” and “polyphenols” and “mice,” I have a new personal rule in which I only read studies in the news that pertain directly, indisputably to me.

I am not interested in studies about “global warming,” or “people who have scurvy,” or “ways I can personally improve the greater good by changing a few minor, convenient personal habits, such as not driving a Nissan Armada or setting the thermostat lower than 82.” I am a very, very busy person, and Science is a large field that also apparently covers rocks and outer space, and I don’t know who has the time to keep up with all this flip-flopping — eggs are good for you, no they’re bad, and you should drink eight cups of water a day except that you shouldn’t, and you’re not supposed to eat walrus meat when you’re pregnant, etc. etc.

So unless Science can magic me up a helper monkey or something to take care of all this “reading,” I’m gonna just choose which studies to subscribe to (Note to Science: I would also accept a helper walrus, because I am not a picky man, and tusks are neat).

Anyway, shortly after enacting this new set of personal bylaws, I came across a study in the Newspaper — which is the weird, papery thing that will print tomorrow news that you read on the Internet an hour ago — that said that people who drink coffee may, in fact, live longer than those who do not.

This news caused my hands to begin shaking uncontrollably, although I don’t know if that was due to the study or caffeine, because on any given morning I put down enough coffee to kill anyone over the age of 55; enough coffee to, if distilled properly, actually power an oscillating fan; enough coffee that I would basically save tremendous time and effort by just chawing on beans. (Note: I am kidding; chawing on beans tends to make teeth the color and consistency of a saloon barrel, not that I’ve tried or anything).

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They sit down at Springsteen concerts in Indianapolis

GateHouse — People ask me why it is I am pulling for the New Orleans Saints today instead of my near-hometown Colts, and there are many reasons, most of which are comical and dumb, but here’s the main reason I am rooting against Indianapolis: They sit down at Bruce Springsteen concerts in Indianapolis.

Much has and will be written about Indy, which, to many New Orleansianians, went from a pleasant, corn-smelling spot on the map last week to a rival arch-nemesis empire that must be vanquished (however unlikely this is gonna be) this week. There have been snarky remarks about its status as a large suburb, its sudden obsession with the tenderloin and the lively diversity of its thousands upon thousands of Chili’s restaurants. And there have been jokes about Peyton Manning, a pleasant-looking sort who apparently plays football if he’s not plugging products on television, which happens almost 20 minutes every day.

But I will not join in the seasonal-affective piling-on, for a very good reason: My friends will be mad at me, and I like getting calls on my birthday. It is a perfectly lovely place, except for the thing about the Bruce.

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KFC makes Indiana finger-lickin’ good, or, I hate the Colonel with his wee beady eyes, and that smug look on his face. “Oh, you’re gonna buy my chicken! Ohhhh!”

Because he puts an addictive chemical in his chicken that makes you crave it fortnightly, smartass.

GateHouse — I can’t be sure how much time my reader(s) spend in the state of Indiana — except my mom, who I’m pretty positive spends most of her time there, and if not I need to get some birthday cards forwarded immediately — but here’s one thing about Indiana: It is not especially difficult, when in Indiana, to be aware of your nearby fast-food options. (It is also not difficult to locate people who command an astonishing supply of Manning family facts and students currently furious with Lady Gaga, but those are both for other times).

Certainly, Indiana is hardly alone in this regard. We do a good bit of road-tripping in my family, thanks to the deeply rewarding feeling we get by paying for gasoline, and as I’m sure you have noticed, there are vast sweeps of American interstate that branch off into exits of inveterate sameness, exits that exist seemingly to explore the countless land-planning combinations that can be made using only fast-food providers, jerky superstores and Cracker Barrels. I have driven — and I’m sure you have driven — upon thousands and thousands of federal roadway just off of which, using solely the context clues provided by local eateries, you would have hopeless little clue about where you are currently super-sizing something (with the notable exception of a Burger King in Spartanburg, S.C., which has been forever scorched into my brain due to the extraordinary inability of its waitstaff to successfully furnish to me a Regular Coffee With A Couple Of Little Creamer Packets, which is a story I’m saving for an eventual book series, as I could expend probably six chapters discussing how I passed the time waiting in vain for someone to smoke out a stirrer).

That said, today I’m writing about Indiana for two reasons:

  1. I know about 30 people in Indiana who get instantly indignant when I make jokes about my home state, such as gags about the time that the bulk of the capital’s populace rose up in seething, pitchforks-and-slogans revolution when the Colts pulled their starters in the 3rd quarter one time, and how, depending where you are standing, the state smells either like the scorched earth of the steel mills or John Mellencamp’s hair. Sometimes both.
  2. Indiana was paid recently — entirely true, this is — by poultry oligarchy Kentucky Fried Chicken to promote its new quote-fingers “fiery” chicken wings by emblazoning the capital city’s hydrants and fire extinguishers with KFC stickers and stuff.

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Little Feat – Dixie Chicken

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Lyle Lovett – Up In Indiana

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Breaking: Everyone has suddenly realized what Crocs actually look like

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George W. Bush, donning black socks and Crocs on his way to Sunday morning post-church grocery shopping at the Sun City Food Lion

Island Packet — Full disclosure: I have never worn Crocs, except for that day with the unpleasant episode of the exploding garbage disposal, about which the less said, the better.

But otherwise, that’s not for any particular reason other than that Crocs don’t come up much. I’m inside all day, and regrettably, I work for a company that requires me to wear human shoes to work (they have a similar policy regarding pants, which I oppose) and what’s more, I am cursed with larger-than-average feet, so wearing Crocs has the unsubtle effect of making me appear to have a small aircraft carrier to each of my legs, which is a highly confidence-rattling way to go about your day.

But that’s OK with me, because very soon, Crocs will be known solely as the ridiculous rubber clown shoes that achieved immense popularity largely because Americans will buy anything if their neighbor has one, even if it makes you look like you’re wearing pickles on your feet.

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Camel’s milk is the wave of the future. Yeah, I said it, cows.

malkGateHouse — I can’t be sure about you, but I know that every single time I come across a full-grown camel in my everyday travels, the absolute first thing I think is: I got to get me some milk from that.

Which makes this the best week ever, because I have just read that camels, in addition to being some of nature’s most gorgeously attractive beasts, represent the bright shining future of American milk production. You hear that, cows? Your days are OVER, jerks, with your incessant mooing and walking everywhere in groups and being easily seasoned. Camels are the way to go, as they can produce a cappuccino-esque beverage with magical properties and all you have to do to obtain it is tickle them a little bit near their udders. DONE.

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Burger King Utilizes Cheap Lettering, Lunch Meat To Deny Flame-Broiling Of Planet Earth

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"Also, our burgers are made of dogs!"

GateHouse — First, let me state right off the bat that I am not remotely comfortable poking good-hearted laughery at the vast and powerful Burger King empire, for the reason that it is single-handedly responsible for the Egg N’ Cheese Croissan’wich. This is possibly the most perfect breakfast food chunk ever birthed by human hands, if indeed it was birthed by human hands, which I do not believe for one minute, because its eggy, buttery succulence is of such a thick and wondrous magnitude that I am pretty sure it was bequeathed us by some divine creation, like fire was given Prometheus, or the girl who plays Thirteen was sent to “House.” And stop, you’re all thinking it.

Egg N’ Cheese Croissan’wiches, when coupled with Burger King’s equally splendid French Toast sticks, comprise what is possibly the finest American breakfast you can obtain for under $5 and just a little tasty smidgen of eventual heart problems. One time, drifting down the lonely highways of southern Florida on spring break, my friends and I came upon a rest area selling Croissan’wiches at like 3 in the morning. I am not kidding when I say it was like stumbling out of the cornfield into the Field of Dreams (especially when the ketchup machine told me to “GO THE DISTANCE,” which was weird). I would sell my own flesh to indentured servitude in the Burger King’s castle without so much as a second thought if I thought it would score me free croissan’ery, and I highly recommend you stop reading this column immediately to eat as absolutely many of them as you can before the circulation problems claim you.

Anyway, now that I’m reasonably assured that we all know I like Croissan’wiches, here are a few things about Burger King that I do not like: their Big Fish, which is big enough but would more accurately be termed a Big White-ish Loaf Of Something; the Whopper Jr., which is a pale imitation of its monsterish father; and the way that some franchises are delivering their flame-broiled goodness and gastrically opposed fries with the good solid message that global warming doesn’t really exist.

Well, that may not be fair. Instead, the signs outside a number of Burger Kings in the Southern region of America known as “Tennessee,” the hand-changed ones that usually read something like DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER DOLLAR DAY or (GARISH PROMOTION INVOLVING POPULAR CHILDREN’S MOVIE) or something hilariously misspelled, said, and I’m quoting here, “GLOBAL WARMING IS BALONEY.”

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Interview: Grace Potter’s magic

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Florida Times-Union — If the name Grace Potter and the Nocturnals sounds familiar, maybe it’s because you caught the band opening for Robert Cray on Thursday night at the Florida Theatre. Or opening for Soulive a few weeks back at Freebird. Or opening for Cray last year. Or on the bill for this year’s Springing the Blues festival.

They call what the New England-based performer is doing “market saturation.” They also call it still a really good way to get people to remember your name.

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• Grace Potter and the Nocturnals – Nothing But The Water (1).mp3

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All of 22 with an infectious giggle, Grace is out to make herself the world’s most famous Potter since that magician kid, gig by gig.

Reached en route to a New Orleans show on what sounds like a beast of a van ride (“We’re not a tour bus band yet,” she says with a laugh), Potter lets on that it’s a big night. She even bought herself a present for the occasion: a 1957 Gibson she picked up in Austin, Texas, a day prior.

“I only pay money in towns that I like,” she said. “I’m a Gibson girl, so I went in for a vintage one. I love it. It’s a really sexy little thing.”

Potter played guitar when she started about a year ago, but she spends most of her time these days behind the Hammond organ, which, not counting a crazy good a cappella performance of Nothing But the Water, is the main thing you take away from one of the band’s shows.

“According to the guys in the band,” she laughs, “there are no chicks in the country that knew how to play it. They said, ‘Come on, it’ll set you apart from all the sad girls with pianos.’ So it’s sort of become the centerpiece of the band.”

Potter gets compared to Norah Jones, but where Jones’ supple voice tends to quietly kiss her notes, Potter goes full steam ahead with her funky blues/rock, hence slots opening for Dave Matthews, Trey Anastasio and Derek Trucks. The production speaks to that, as well – she and the guys (guitarist Scott Tournet, drummer Matthew Burr and bassist Bryan Dondero) recorded their most recent, Nothing But the Water, in a New England barn. The work is a mix of gospel and funk and rock and plenty of the blues that helped secure her place in the Springing the Blues festival this weekend.

Jacksonville enjoys a special place in Potter’s heart. It was here that her band first opened for the relentlessly touring Cray last year, a performance that, by most accounts, brought down the house.

“[The 2005 Cray concert] was one of the most big-deal shows we ever had,” she says. “We were such a baby little band, and he called us up and said, ‘Hey, here’s a random opportunity to play in front of 2,000 people.’ “

Until that show, Potter says, the band stuck mainly around its northeastern base. They formed at St. Lawrence University in New York, when they all met regularly to do what music people do when it’s too cold: plunder whatever vinyl shops they can find and sit around and play records.

Potter was into Joni Mitchell and Patty Griffin (“Total chick music” she says), but she already knew that wasn’t her direction. When she met “the boys,” she found her heart was in something a little more rocking.

“We all got into the same sounds, late ’60s and early ’70s rock that nobody, for whatever reason, was paying attention to anymore,” Potter said.

And once the band started picking up, she quickly pulled the plug on school – “I’d always planned on not going for the full four years,” she jokes – and the band relocated to its native Vermont, where it still makes its base.

“If we’re not touring, we all kind of sit around there. And if there’s no money to buy groceries, we have my mom make us up some catfish soup.”

There’s a little more money now. The band recently signed to Hollywood Records, which will re-release a spiffed-up version of Water on May 2.

“It’s not really a big-shot deal, but it’s a great opportunity for us to open up creatively and brush off this record that was recorded two years ago to see if there’s something about it that’s worth putting out again.”

Plus, it’s a pretty great prologue to a summer that’ll include a stop on Bonnaroo and more touring. World domination is still a ways away for the muggle Potter. But at least maybe her mom can take a break from whipping up the catfish soup.


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