R.I.P., Ray Manzarek

A bit of Doors trivia for you: The band did not include a bass player — onstage, Ray Manzarek provided bass lines via his left hand, using a Fender Rhodes piano bass. Bon voyage, Ray.

Burning daylight

Today started and ended well, lightly toasted slices of metaphorical bread comprising an actual shit sandwich.

On arising I recalled that we had a huge slab of meaty Ranch Foods Direct bacon in the fridge, so breakfast included coffee, eggs over easy, American fried potatoes, buttery English muffins and great thick rashers of pigmeat. Your basic heart-attack special, but I like it.

My plans for the workday hinged on breaking a piece of new technology to harness, but despite a hearty breakfast I couldn’t even get my rope on it, much less my brand.

Being something of a persistent cuss — you may call it “obsessive-compulsive,” I call it “persistent” — I kept working at it, trying first this and then that and finally the other, all the while taking copious notes on each fresh dysfunction with an eye toward eventually tattooing same on someone using an icepick and ball-peen hammer, with a sack of wormy dogshit for ink.

Thus the hours passed and the daylight faded, and the technology breezily countered my every move. By late afternoon, which saw the mailperson deliver an overdue check for services rendered that was redeemable for slightly less than half the expected quantity of Dead President Trading Cards, I was at a rolling boil, hissing like a teakettle full of vipers, blistering steam boiling out of both ears.

Herself and I had earlier scheduled a joint birthday dinner with friends, so I stuck my head in the freezer, counted to a thousand in Irish, and off we went to The Blue Star, where the four of us ate all manner of good things while discussing music, metaphysics and literature. Also, we solved every last one of the world’s problems save mine (you’re welcome).

Now I’m hardly pissed off at all. But tomorrow is another day.

Hello, sailor (all my lovin’)

Carnival Cruise Lines ought to be planting some big-ass Valentine’s Day smoocheroos on the 4,200 smelly suckers who thought they were taking the Love Boat to Cozumel but found themselves aboard a barely floating honey wagon being towed to Alabama.

Alas, the waters in which these buccaneers ply their trade are full of pinstriped sharks, heavy on teeth but lacking in the lip department.

Lawyers speaking with The New York Times say the ability of passengers to sue cruise-ship operators “is sharply limited,” and the location for any court action generally fixed in some shithole (Miami) favorable to piracy. “Shiver me timbers, matey, ye must file yeer complaint on Skull Island, arr.” Plus passengers are barred from collecting for emotional distress unless they are actually flogged, keelhauled or forced at cutlass point to walk the plank.

No gambling? No drinking? No showers? Sounds like a little trip to heaven.

Herself is on a little trip to Vegas, where they have all three of the aforementioned items plus “Love,” the Cirque du Soleil tribute to making money. I would insist on a functional toilet afterward, or perhaps during. But it was a girls’ outing and I wasn’t invited for some reason, so I’ll just have to make do with my memories of the Fab Four’s debut on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” Was it really almost a half-century ago?

Christmas music that doesn’t suck (6)

I must have discovered John Prine sometime around 1974, and actually got to meet him some years later, at a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band anniversary concert. I’m sure he found me obnoxious, because I was, but I’ve always considered him one of our great American artists, and this song is one reason why.

Christmas music that doesn’t suck (5)

Elvis has left the building, but P-p-porky Pig is still very m-m-much with us.

We had a white Christmas, which meant that instead of lollygagging around the rancheroo I had to drag ass outdoors in 15-degree temps to broom the block. Yes, “broom” — thanks to the global climate change that the Elefinks don’t believe in, we never get enough snow to shovel.

I tried shooting it, but that didn’t work. Clearly, we need more guns.

Christmas music that doesn’t suck (4)

I already slapped this one up this year, but it is about Christmas Eve (in the drunk tank), so up it goes again. Can’t tell you how delighted I was to learn that Shane MacGowan has new teefers for the holidays. I wonder if they’ve changed his “singing” voice. …

Meanwhile, Herself, Herself the Elder, Mister Boo and I drove to Fort Fun for an early (and delicious) holiday meal with my sister and her husband. A wonderful time was had by all, and — ¡que milagro! — the trip there and back was completely without incident. Normally we see a half-dozen cars upside down in the median thanks to the usual palette of human stupidities, but this time around there wasn’t even any serious stop-and-go. We even beat the snow home.

A Christmas miracle, to be sure. Here’s hoping your holiday goes likewise.

Christmas music that doesn’t suck (3)

Any longtime fan of the DogS(h)ite knows my fondness for Tom Waits. He was a favorite, whether my old bros and I were in residence at the Mombo Club, El Rancho Delux or Ed Siegelman’s Ground Zero Equal Opportunity Apartments.

I mean, who else would perform a mashup of “Silent Night” and “Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis” on “Austin City Limits?”

 

Christmas music that doesn’t suck (2)

This is another holiday favorite, one that indulges my inner redneck. Hey, Dad was from Perry, Florida, Mom was from Sioux City, Iowa, and we all did five years outside San Antonio, Texas.

Plus Herself was born in Nacogdoches and Herself the Elder is visiting from Tennessee. So ‘scuse me for gittin’ mah y’all on, all y’all.

Christmas music that doesn’t suck

Thanks to Kathleen Geier over at Political Animal for reminding me of this one. And may your days (may your days, may your days) be merry and bright.

Revised Music for Guitar and Low-Budget Orchestra

Meanwhile, over at the Denver alt-weekly Westword Dweezil Zappa discusses his father’s music and the difficulty of playing it live with only six musicians, which to me feels like trying to write “War and Peace” by beating a Linotype with a feather duster.