This One’s A Banger
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Beer Can-delier
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The Need for Historical Primacy
It is with great humility and with great pride that we tonight will make history for our country and progress for the American people. — Nancy Pelosi1
This president seems particularly fixated on doing something for the sake of historical magnanimity. His election was historical, healthcare reform is historical, cap and trade is historical, we’re at a cross roads in history, etc. The list is long and arduous–historical moments are what this government is all about.
And we may very well be approaching some of the most important events of our era, but our identification of them as such should seem dubious. Who are we to say what will be considered important details in one hundred years time. Certainly President Obama’s election would be one moment, but the passage of a flawed set of rules and regulations that do not approach the change they were believing in?
Perhaps. For good or ill, I don’t know.
I’m just a little unnerved by this unhealthy need to create these moments for the books; it is incredibly egotistical and narcissistic of the lot of them.
Should a man seek history’s pen or should history’s pen seek him? Depends on who is in charge when said pen strokes paper, though I suspect telling everyone you’re doing something historic does not equal historicity.
Cross posted here.
- Pelosi, Nancy. Making History, Making Progress, and Restoring the American Dream. The Gavel Blog. Accessed 4/15/2010. http://www.speaker.gov/blog/?p=2209
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Worcester Bound and Down
Several years ago I received a postcard from my dear friend Sebastian Dangerfield, sent from Worcester Massachusetts. The front, in black and white, boasted a drunken Irishman passed out on a park bench in City Square. On the reverse, these words, “It’d be wise of you to find your way east. Before it all burns down. S.D.” His implication was that a devil of a good time was going down, and I should join the revolution. I politely declined at that time, as my current state of affairs would not allow for such a journey.
One could imagine my surprise when my crony Erik Lerdal headed to Worcester many years after that postcard found its way to my hands. When the opportunity arose for me to join him, Mr. Dangerfield’s words chimed through my mind. I found my way east.
I’ve been in Worcester for two and a half months now. The irony is I have no idea where Mr. Dangerfield found a postcard to send. I’ve been driving around these winding roads for two weeks now searching for two postcards I promised a Mrs. Albert Stefani, for some 2nd graders learning geography. Phone calls made, stores searched, miles driven through pothole infested roads. Not a goddamn postcard in the county. Like Indiana Jones searching for the Arc of the Covenant. NOBODY KNOWS NOTHIN.
Although postcard woes are the least of my many concerns, the overtones of the situation ring true for my life here thus far. Nothing is cut and dry, nor easy, and the answers are always just out of grasp. It’s remarkably easy to identify my dislikes of Worcester. Let me share a few.
Foremost it should be noted that Worcester is the second largest city in the greater New England area, meaning that only Boston has more scurvy Micks and Guidos. It appears as the roadways were made on the fly; winding, thin, and completely unorganized. Accommodations needed to be made for the severely hilly landscape, yes. That’s hardly an excuse.
On these roadways are “Massholes.” These freaks drive like they just snorted an eight-ball shoelace of uncut yack, and chased it with a quart of Jack Daniels. I don’t leave the house unless I’ve had at least twelve punchinos. At that point, I rip and roar, taunting others with raunchy collegiate gestures and demon-like snarls. It can be fun yes, but never abuse it.
The roads themselves and their conditions are simply deplorable. There are potholes large enough to drown a pair of mating rhinoceros (if said pothole was indeed full of grimy street water). A water main will jut out 4 inches above the concrete. Large tree roots have had their way with Route 70 near the Charter cable headquarters. Vehicles speed along at 50 miles per hour then drop down to a crawl to navigate the fifty yard stretch where a war seemingly broke out some time ago, and the mess remains to remind us of the sacrifice.
Surely there must be kind hearted folk somewhere in these parts. However, for every one found you must wade through 341 shitbags of utter disgrace. A sense of entitlement carried around like a badge on the chest. “I was born here. So was my dad. And his dad. And his.” Though these folks have never left Worcester county, they are more well traveled than I, or any other. It took me a full month just for the guys at work to make eye contact with me. Hell, maybe because I’m so handsome though… neither here nor there.
And I guess that’s my main gripe, the people and the roads. Hell, I guess that’s not too bad, huh? There are some very picturesque settings around here. Some great history. Fantastic dining and bars. Opportunities for recreational activities. Close proximity to ALL the key east coast players; Boston, Providence, NYC, DC, etc. Not to mention seafood is so readily available that you can put a pot of water on to boil, go get a lobster and come back, without the water being close to hot.
Unfortunately, those luxuries are not yet available to me. This is a place where the established thrive, a locale where money can surely buy happiness. For the struggling new professional, you’re stuck with dollar drafts at The Ship on Tuesdays. And the roads. And the people. If I’d only known this when I received that postcard from Mr. Dangerfield. I would have sent him a postcard of my own, perhaps of the picturesque pier heads where the mighty St. Joseph empties into the big, blue beauty herself- Lake Michigan. On the reverse side, the following words would be etched, “Let the motherfucker burn.”
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just because
I felt I needed to share this with everyone.
…And The Hazy Sea by Cymbals Eat Guitars
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Friday 04/02: The Day After My Birthday, A Night To Remember
The Dillinger Escape Plan was in Chi-town with Animals as Leaders, Iwrestledabearonce, and Darkest Hour @ Reggie’s. We arrived in Chicago promptly at 6:15 PM. At that point, the four of us: Chad, Cory, I and Matt, were all very, very drunk. What a fucking threat to be on the streets of Chicago. Picture the four of us prancing/prowling around like a couple of wicked wolf-men with the strength of ten-thousand night foxes, drunk as snakes on Canada House and Diet Coke, primal bloodlust in our eyes… Excuse me, I’m getting ahead of myself. To begin:
@ Carroll Avenue 4:35 PM:
In the station parking lot a young Cuban boy approached us. His name was Patrick Somethinguez. Clothed in the cherriest of Converge shirts, this Vermont-ian, Political Science major from the University of Notre Dame, recognized immediately that we… we were not unlike one another: middle-class, semi-intellectual metal-heads. At that moment our Wolf-Pack grew by one: Patrick was one of us, and we were never gonna let him forget it. We forced ourselves on him via Facebook and later (approx. 2:00 AM) left him notes scribbled on paper bags, pinned under his windshield wipers before we left; which reminds me, I need to buy some of those. Together, we proceeded to board.
Later on the Train:
“Mom, Dad… this is Bay.”
We met Bay on the South Shore train on the way to Chicago from Michigan City. We fed him whisky. He fed us LIFE!! Look at how fucking cool he is: he posed for that picture. He knew we were making fun of him and he did it anyway. He told us we got a pass in the South Side, if we ever needed help we just needed to say his name because he knew EVERYBODY on the South Side and they knew him. He also gave us his number just in case. He told Matt that he (Matt) was his (Bay’s) “Man”. Chad (pictured: back of head, arms & hands) got jealous of Matt and forced Bay to also make him his “Man”. You’d think Chad’s petulant, self-entitled attitude would prompt a defensive reaction in Bay, perhaps even enrage him, but Bay didn’t even give no fuck, he made Chad his “Man” too. He said we were the coolest white-boys he ever met and even invited us to dine on pig feets with him and his wife that very night. He wanted to feed Chad carats in his nose and ears. He woulda done it too, except we were getting off at a different stop. I’m not sure if Bay has been on the internet before, it’s hard to Google him.
Cut to: Museum Campus/11th St.
We get off the train with Patrick in tow and fucking IMMEDIATELY three more dudes joins us: young, impressionable and sober, ready to follow us to hell and back. (Wolf-Pack count now at 8!) Olive Branch-ian cigarettes were passed out and lit. Ceremoniously, lighters had to be shared. Eight scrappy, flaming mouthed youths; if we got to fellin murderous, it would take the entire CPD to take us down. The venue was a mile point two away. People cleared the way where we walked. We stopped at a gyro place to use the bathroom and satisfy our alcohol induced hunger. There was a man there, sweeping, guess who the fuck he knew? MOTHER-FUCKING BAY!! I asked him, first thing. He replied, “That asshole?” NO SHIT!!
@ Reggie’s:
First of all, Reggie’s is the shit. There are three parts to it: Reggie’s Rock Club, where we saw the show, specifically; Reggie’s Music Joint, the adjoining bar; and Record Breakers, a music store that sells CD’s, DVD’s, Vinyls & T’s. This place is my new heaven. We didn’t go into the Music Joint Bar but they have Arrogant Bastard Ale aged in Oak Casks. They have brews from Bell’s, Founder’s, Stone and several other noted breweries. For a moment there we lost Patrick, but then we found him again.
Animals as Leaders played, but eight and seven-string shredder Tosin Abasi’s Fractal Audio Axe-FX Ultra ($2,299.95) did not have enough power going to it (only 206v) and so they only did two songs before it died. This was the only mar on an otherwise perfect night. We talked to Tosin after the show and told him we were sorry but we really liked his music and that we had seen him before at South Bend at Elva’s Fiesta Club and… the conversation got interrupted when he had to accept a call on his iPhone. I shook his hand (OMG!).
For the Iwabo portion of the evening, Cory and I record shopped, ergo we didn’t watch them. But they probably played this song. I bought this ($25):
Darkest Hour played. I know nothing about them, except the singer kept telling us to “get the fuck up” and stuff like that. I don’t like being told what to do at concerts, I paid to make you do stuff bands! Chad and I stood next to a midget, while double-fisting PBR. I gave Underage Nate, Patrick’s friend from Vermont, who attends the University of Chicago, a 16 oz Pabst Blue Ribbon ($2). Some bitch didn’t know who Christopher Walken was.
DEP TIME BITCH!!
We decided to leave half-way through the Dillinger show to catch the 11:06 PM Central Time train back home otherwise we would have to wait until like 12:51 AM Central Time. Dillinger opened with “Fix Your Face” off of Ire Works, then “Panasonic Youth” from Miss Machine – both two megaton blasters. Here is the rest of the setlist. It was during “Mouths of Ghosts” I started to think, “This is too good, we should stay for the whole set.” Meanwhile Chad said to himself, “If we’re gonna leave early, we might as well get kicked out.” So he staged dived three times, against Reggie’s rules, and got thrown out by a large man in a black shirt. Now out on the street, this is when we talked to Tosin. Another mile point two back to Museum/11th and we were on our way home. This is what we missed (actual video from the show):
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The Injury (A Villanelle Based on Actual Events)
Because of the gosh damn knot in my back,
it hurts like hell to sneeze. I can’t do it.
It’s really hard to even take deep breaths.
I can feel it under my right shoulder
blade, every cough causing discomfort.
Because of the gosh damn knot in my back,
I have trouble sitting down, standing up
or doing things that require breathing.
It’s really hard to even take deep breaths.
The dull, painful pinch, the pressure I feel,
limits the inflation of my lungs, all
because of the gosh damn knot in my back.
I got the knot fooling around on the
football field, faking an injury. Now
it’s really hard to even take deep breaths.
Oh bitter Irony, how I want to
laugh at it all but of course I cannot.
Because of the gosh damn knot in my back,
it’s really hard to even take deep breaths.
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To No One Who Reads This Blog
I am now, at the request of a great friend, submitting this online apology to all Cubs fans this side of the St. Joe River: I’m sorry I’m not at Buffalo Wild Wings enjoying some boneless spicy garlic hot wings, watching the home opener for the greatest team to play at Wrigley, sipping an Oberon, and having a great time with friends. Instead, my life sucks, and I’m forced to work. Though, if I play my cards right, maybe I can live off of your tax dollars.
Then I’ll be at Buffalo Wild Wings for every Cubs game. Plus, if I keep linking to Buffalo Wild Wings, perhaps Buffalo Wild Wings will pay me for advertising.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
And maybe if I link to Bell’s enough times, Bell’s will feel inclined to allow me a lifetime supply of Two-Hearted Ale be delivered on the 1st and 15th of every month, which incidentally follows my billing schedule for most of my creditors.
I don’t know. At any rate, enjoy the ‘good’ food, great times, and go Cubs!
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