Monday, July 16, 2007

Stuck Inside of Clevo

I spent the other night listening to a Bob Dylan show from across the Cuyahoga River. I’m out of my contacts for a week and my glasses were prescribed a decade ago so there was no way I could have made out the figure of old Bob even if I had spent a large sum of cash on a ticket. It was a weird experience but I guess I should have predicted that. Sitting on a bench with a couple of hippies and a few ex-hippie yuppies, sipping a tall can of cheap beer and watching (or trying to) a family of ducks swim by.

My only complaint was that I had to piss REALLY badly and I was not drunk enough to resort to doing the homeless lean against a wall. Also the set list was weird; slow pacing and a lot of newer or obscure numbers. Or so I thought. Admittedly, I am not a huge Bob Dylan fan. I guess the fact that I would rather listen to him from a half of a mile away than see the show in person might have given that fact away. Still, I couldn’t pick out a single number that I knew well.

Then I found the set list online… I’m either deaf or daft.

‘That’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)’, ‘When the Levee Breaks’, ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile’, ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, and an encore that closed with ‘Blowing in the Wind.’ (Granted I left before the encore to find urinary relief at the Flat Iron where I also found relief from life within the warm embrace of a few pints of Guinness.)

Maybe the river messes with the acoustics. Or maybe I was too involved with listening to the random conversation floating around me (the best was a far too enthusiastic response to the news that the Moody Blues would be playing Nautica soon). No matter, I still think this is a great way to pass a summer night. The company is weird and the view is lovely (that red bridge brought back memories of a River Fest that my momma took me to so that I could see my first real rock show. The band I was there to raise a fist to? Local glam almost-heroes: ZAZA!).

I could wait awhile before visiting the Flat Iron again, however. Too many Irish blokes and not enough drunken Irish women. I feared for my Hungarian life

Saturday, July 14, 2007

so, it's saturday afternoon

My neighbor across the street, the one with the Red Dog sign in his window, is cranking Classic Metal as he works on his house. He’s been doing just that since about seven in the morning. It’s a Saturday but don’t ask me what year it is. When you have college radio and Mercyful Fate, everything kind of just stays the same; caught in some wonderful timeless drift. I hope it’s like this forever.

Side note: I got in my car to go to a doctors appointment before posting this entry. I found out that the last song heard before leaving my house was by our own Shok Paris. They may, in fact, have the GAYEST name in Cleveland rock history but don’t ignore the chops. I suggest you research them. The song was off a compilation brilliantly titled ‘Cleveland Metal’. I have to get myself a copy.

Friday, July 13, 2007

summer time blues (and reds)

There’s something very interesting about living in a metropolitan town where only miles from the heart of the city lies a shit load of summer fun. I live a stone throw away from downtown and am a drinking, fucking, all around cancerous type of man. Yet, in the last few weeks, I have laid out in the sun at Edgewater staring at the skyline (and avoiding trolling gay guys), hiked in the woods and stood knee deep in the dark Rocky River waters catching Sheep Head. There are very few places like Cleveland where an ugly part of the music scene can transform himself in to a Huck Finn with such little effort.

But with this new found outdoorsmen attitude comes the harsh reality that God hates us all (also a Slayer song title). In the midst of my last solo fishing trip (there is nothing that takes the pain of being a loser away like fishing alone in a valley) some kind of organic garbage found its way into my right eye and gave it the gift of infection. If you have met me you probably know little more about me other than that I have beautiful eyes. No longer. The eye I speak of is an unholy red. Not the type of red that might come from a huge bong rip but rather it looks like it was penetrated by a rusty rail road spike. And a lot of discharge is involved.

Today is the first day of the past three that I can raise my head high enough to look around the house due to this bastard known as light. I have no intention of seeing the outdoors anytime soon except for the hundred foot walk to and from my Buick. The city and the country do not mix. Outdoor life is fine when looked at through a television screen or an Al Gore documentary. Listen to me. If you go in the wilderness of Cleveland this summer you will get stung, slapped, laughed at and then your eye will be infected.

I am getting a chance to read, though; a paragraph an hour. Currently it’s the Lemmy autobiography, White Line Fever. I think Lemmy and I could have been mates. I doubt he has any desire to ever fish in a filthy river again, either. Though he probably never did so to begin with. The speed might make you yearn for other things.