guttermorality blogpost #588, in which mkf tries to redeem himself for guttermorality blogpost #587

.

[i.e., another blast from the past that's been on high rotation lately]

so the other night eric clapton's cocaine comes up on shuffle as it does from time to time, and at some point after i settle in to enjoy its well-worn but eternally-cool groove--but before i allow its seductive strains to completely lull me back to its place and time--i suddenly remember it's really not eric clapton's cocaine at all.

it's actually j.j. cale's cocaine [just like it was j.j. cale's after midnight, but who's counting--right, eric?].

which got me thinking about j.j. cale, and about that day back in 1971 when my young, impressionable 14-year-old ass first heard the song which is the subject of this post and thus became aware of the existence of this guy who made music that was utterly unlike anything else on the radio at that time.

like pretty much everything else he's written, crazy mama has been covered by pretty much everybody under the sun--but unlike all the others, it's his own version of this one that's stood the test of time.

seriously, if you know a cooler song than this, please lemme know.

guttermorality blogpost #587, in which mkf reconnects with his inner teenybopper

.

it's no deep, dark secret to regular readers of this blog that i compose my deepest, darkest posts to (a) liberal amounts of vodka, and (b) more often than not, a single bouncy pop song from my misspent youth upon which i fixate and set to "repeat" when it comes up on shuffle at the optimal moment in that particular night's alcoholic cycle.


and while the booze is integral to the creative process, the song selection is probably equally if not more so.  because to me, these songs aren't just songs, they're little aural drug pushes that last precisely as long as the music does--i.e., little two-and-a-half minute endorphin-loaded packages of happiness that, in combination with the booze, hold off the darkness long enough for me to actually write something.


songs such as the one that's the subject of this post, for instance.

*     *     *     *     *

 
yeah, she's from way back in the day and her flippy hairdo was tragically wrong for her face, but lesley gore was the britney spears of her day--and even though her signature song never did much for me, this all-but-forgotten follow-up ranks, imho, among the best pop records ever made.

she was all of 18, her voice was sublime, her song selection shrewd, and the impeccable, multi-layered production was, believe it or not, quincy jones at his early best.  and if all that's not enough, it turns out that despite all her protestations of boy trouble to the contrary, she was One Of Our People all along--who the fuck knew?

and, half a century later, maybe when lady gaga manages to come up with something even half as hooky as maybe i know, then maybe i'll start to pay attention to her scrawny, desperately-theatrical ass.

unless and until that happens, i'll stay down here in the dinosaur pit, pour myself another one and keep lil' lesley on repeat, thank you very much.

buyer's remorse is a bitch, ain't it?

.

state of mkf:  sitting here reviewing the fallout from this story, laughing at all the idiots who were surprised (it's either that, or cry), sipping my cocktail and wondering how much liberal-jew money we'll see pouring into the campaign coffers of [insert name of republican presidential candidate here] around this time next year.

quote of the day

.
actually, two [fine, three--and yeah i know i'm like a broken record with this shit, but this one pretty much says it all].


first, this one:

I am a scientist who was on the carbon gravy train, understands the evidence, was once an alarmist, but am now a skeptic.

and then, (literally) the money shot:

If theory and evidence disagree, real scientists scrap the theory. But official climate science ignored [crucial evidence] and instead clung to their carbon dioxide theory — that just happens to keep them in well-paying jobs with lavish research grants, and gives great political power to their government masters.

i know that posting an article like this has--no matter how credible the source--no more power to sway noblesavagethe true believers than does waving the long-form certificate under the nose of a birther, but i'm gonna keep plugging away anyway, because it's too important.

why am i like a dog with a bone on this issue, you ask?  here--i'll let dr. evans tell you:

Official climate science, which is funded and directed entirely by government, promotes a theory that is based on a guess about moist air that is now a known falsehood. Governments gleefully accept their advice, because the only ways to curb emissions are to impose taxes and extend government control over all energy use. And to curb emissions on a world scale might even lead to world government — how exciting for the political class!

read it--it near-perfectly condenses all the reams of contrarian data i've read over the years into a few riveting paragraphs.

of course, if you're one of the many out there who, in these troubled and uncertain times, take comfort in the fact that our national and global leaders are standing poised and ready to guide us forward into our brave new world with the same selfless integrity and skill that's brought us to this point, i can only say (a) get your head examined; and (b) why the hell are you reading this blog?

how to not succeed in business by really, really trying [part 2]

.

so i'm in the car the other day and i flip over to a station where the host is interviewing some pioneer in the food truck craze currently sweeping the nation and as he congratulates the guy on his visionary genius, i shake my head and wonder what these hipster gourmets would think if they knew they'd been beaten to the punch a quarter-century ago.


and then i think, "i really need to get shitfaced and finish that post."

and if you have no idea what i'm talking about, go back and read part 1.

*     *     *     *     *

by late may in that fateful year of 1985, the die was cast--the agreements were signed, the money was in place, time was short and we had to move if we wanted to launch by fall.

we found the RV on the first saturday we looked, snatched it cheaply and ruthlessly outta the hands of the new widow whose dead husband had tended it so carefully for us all those years, and had it safely back in the parking lot outside beau's apartment by nightfall.

where we'd work on it all that long, hot summer--from dawn til midnight, all day, every day--until its transformation from common, plebian motorhome to mobile full-service restaurant was complete.

how beau managed to sweet-talk his apartment management (not to mention his neighbors) into enduring all that racket all summer long i'll never know, but then i'll never know how he managed half the shit he pulled off while i knew him.

gutting the thing was easy--we removed everything from the inside we didn't need (i.e.,  everything but the bathroom), while carefully leaving the exterior shell intact.

i remember as we ripped her apart we scoffed at how flimsy and lightweight the construction was, without taking even a moment to consider why.  we'd find out later when we took our twelve-ton, solidly 2x4-reconstructed behemoth out for her first swaying, tire-flattening, zero-to-60-in-two-minutes drive.  god, we could be so stupid.

but by god, we did it--into a cramped space scarcely larger than the sorta jail cell that'd make amnesty international blanch, we managed to fit (a) a custom high-heat three-wok cooktop; (b) a prep area; (c) a three-compartment sink [even though we'd never use it--and even now, 25 years later, may i just say fuck you very much for that little space-eating requirement, city of austin health department]; (d) a bathroom; (e) refrigerated undercounter food storage; (f) a huge noise-isolated generator; and, last but not least, (g) room enough for two people to move around each other and cook.  that motherfucker was an engineering marvel if i do say so myself--and this, largely thanks to beau.

but she was beautiful, too.  unlike the utilitarian food trucks of today, ours was open on three sides, thanks to the huge 3x5 horizontal-sliding windows i picked up at the home-improvement store [safety glass?  we dun' need no stinkin' safety glass], and her interior was a masterpiece of artfully illuminated resin-coated butcher-block and stainless steel.  we wanted people looking in (hell, i even designed a special ribbed-steel ceiling, knowing our customers would be slightly below us looking up).

and, of course, we pulled it off for next to nothing--whatever our differences, that's the way beau and i both rolled.

i'd give anything to have pictures of the thing; problem was, by the time we were finished, we were too exhausted for such niceties--all i've got to show for the effort are some of the promotional materials.

i don't remember exactly at what point our little walk-up chinese restaurant became "WokUp"--i'm pretty sure it happened early on--but once we had the name, the rest clicked together in my brain pretty quickly (because, for better or worse, i was the advertising and art department for this operation).

hell, our logo couldn't possibly be anything but a walking wok, right?

and yeah i know real woks don't have lids--just go with it, ok?

here's our first flyer (with a dollar-off coupon on the other side):

and the mock-up for our first print ad:

kinda cute, huh?  well, considering how bone-weary and brain-dead i was by the time my young, amateurish ass had to conjure all this shit into being, it coulda been a lot worse, trust me.

whatever--by late august and right on schedule, our mobile kitchen was a thing of beauty, our menu perfected and our ad campaign complete.  beau and mkf were finally ready to take their show on the road.

and as exhausted as we were, we were also exhilarated--i mean, having survived our summer-long trial by fire, it had to be smooth sailing ahead, right?  i mean seriously, how wrong could things go?

stay tuned:  in part 3 i'll count the ways.

alvaro update

.

you remember alvaro, right?  well, since last we visited his haunted ass in february, much has happened.

probate finally closed on dead george's estate in late april, with the entirety of same going, as expected, to dead george's brain-addled mother.

which immediately prompted mean brother #1 to call alvaro and crow to him at the top of his lungs, "pack up, you faggot motherfucker, because we're finally gonna get your ass evicted."

alvaro, seeing the handwriting on the wall, packed his shit and awaited the sheriff's knock.

but a funny thing happened on the way to court:  on the day before george's mother [or whoever was gonna guide her hand] was to sign the eviction papers, she very obligingly dropped dead.

whether or not dead george called his mama home at just the right time isn't the point of this post--all alvaro knows is, the probate clock has just reset, and he's been granted at least another year by the people's republic of california before he has to worry about george's mean brothers tryin' to throw him out again.

god, karma's a bitch--don't you love it?

fuck yeah!

.

if you came over here today looking for my usual dark, cynical take on the day's events you're gonna be disappointed, because today i'm taking off the tinfoil hat and joining the rest of america in a long-overdue celebration.

that's right, bitches, today i'm proud of my government and i'm proud of my president--hell, i'm even proud of the goddam military-industrial complex.

i'm even happy to say that i, mkf, was wrong. about what, you ask?  allow me to explain.

see, bill clinton had several chances to get this motherfucker back in the late 90's, and, fearful of the blowback if things went to shit, cravenly pulled back at the last minute every time.  and george bush?  had him dead-to-rights in tora bora in 2001, choked, and let him slip through his fingers.  and boy, have we paid for their collective indecisiveness and timidity a thousand times over.

which is why i gotta hand it to this president and his team--i honestly didn't think he had it in him.

this was an operation that was fraught with potential peril at every level of execution--anything and everything coulda gone not only wrong, but disastrously wrong, and it would've all landed on his head.  and by god, he stepped up--or, in this case, stepped back and had the courage to allow the experts to do what they do best.   and that, as often as not, is what good presidentin' is all about.

tomorrow we'll be right back where we were yesterday. but today?  today is that rare day in guttermoralityland when mkf is proud to say something he never imagined he'd have cause to say during the course of this administration:  "kudos, mr. president--well played".

sober update:  i am already embarrassed by this post.