Spooner D and Me

 By SoDak

The breeze feels like spring, 

bringing memories from thirty years ago,

when we were driving

through the hills

and you showed me 

all of those places 

that one day we would call

our own.

Thunder and Consolation

intertwined our lives

with the power of song.

“I love the world”

and I think of you, 

sitting by the campfire, 

laughing at our follies,

basking in the glow of the moon, 

above Castle Peak, 

when life was uninterrupted.

Today, I am reminded of 

“these valleys of the green and the grey,”

as the sun is out

and the clouds look the same 

as they did thirty years ago.

Spring always feels lonelier,

when you are miles away,

but these memories

are an embrace, 

waiting for your return.

Cory Farley: Horrible Voice and Cheap Gimmicks

By SoDak

This past summer, I had the unfortunate experience of seeing Cory Farley as an opening act. Before the concert, I was a bit nervous, wondering whether or not it was wise to go given the ongoing pandemic. My mother was visiting and was excited to see the main performer, as this was the rescheduled show from the previous year. We went to the stadium, masked up, and took our seats. Farley took the stage with his band, which included his brother playing bass. All I knew about him was that he was originally from a rural community in Iowa. Generally, I am quite curious to see a newer musician and to hear something new. On that night, during his set, I might as well have been at a shitty bar. Farley played a mix of cover songs, interspersed with his own tunes. He started with Toby Keith’s “Should’ve Been Cowboy.” It was immediately evident that Farley could not sing. His voice did not warm up as the set progressed. He just belted out each song, lacking any inflection or emotion. Musically, he played crappy rock music, which parades itself as modern country. He strutted around stage, trying to play up that he was a “good ole boy.” As he introduced one of his own songs, he indicated that it was about all the people who are refusing to work for a living, as they lived off the backs of hard-working folks. Is it possible, he was talking about the rich and the deepening economic divide between the classes? Nope. Instead, he sung a song attacking the poor, describing them as parasites. He launched into a medley of bad 1990s songs, which included “Achy Breaky Heart.” He played another Keith song, “A Little Less Talk, Lot More Action.” He asked his brother to sing a song, which further revealed how horrible Cory Farley’s voice is by comparison. He talked about all the hard work associated with farming, before playing his song “You Can Go Farm Yourself,” the title of which is a bit clever. While addressing some important issues, such as the rural-urban divide and aspects of what can be seen as alienation, the song was still rooted in reactionary politics. Farley just gets to pretend that he is a rebel. All of my relatives are ranchers and farmers, but they have a much more sophisticated understanding of these issues than Farley, who wants to believe that he is the voice of them. To further cheapen the entire performance, Farley closed his set with jingoistic bullshit and cheap gimmicks. He played yet another Keith song, “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue,” followed by the National Anthem as the U.S. flag was unfurled. This ploy was clearly used to get most of the crowd to stand and clap. It was complete bullshit, but it was done because Farley lacks good songs that can move an audience to stand and cheer. Sadly, he is likely the type of scoundrel who can thrive in such reactionary times. 

Ronald Wilson Reagan (February 6, 1911-March 30, 1981)

 

From time to time, taint-ticklers like to ponder alternative realities.

By Chastity Morgan

The United States of America mourns the death of actor Ronald Wilson Reagan. His life came to a halt after John Hinckley Jr., in an attempt to catch Jodie Foster’s attention, shot the B-grade actor in Washington D.C. on March 30, 1981. Hinckley was not so lucky with capturing the admiration of eighteen-year-old Jodie. However, many unborn Americans are thanking him from the metaphysical plane.

Reagan got his acting debut in 1937 when he moved from Tampico, Illinois, to Hollywood, California, to pursue his dream of being a mediocre actor. He was a mentor to aspiring actors, reminding them that “producers don’t want movies good, they want them Thursday.” Such honesty served as a gentle reminder that ambition is highly overrated. His words of wisdom had long lasting impacts in Hollywood. To this day, we continue to celebrate mediocrity in the form of actors such as Seth Rogen, Bill Paxton (1955-2017), Rebel Wilson, and so many more.  

Reagan’s “good enough” mentality carried him through the ranks of government where he eventually became the Governor of California in 1966. He was versatile and able to acclimate to any situation. He used his acting skills to win the hearts of the wealthy and international dictators, but he was able to stay true to his core by ensuring that social services operated with the minimal amount of resources necessary.  

In 1981, his wife, Nancy Reagan, became fortieth President of the United States. (Ops, I mean, Ronald Reagan was the president.) While Nancy was promoting her naïve “Just Say No” anti-drug campaign, and reinvigorating Richard Nixon’s War on Drugs, Ronny was a having a secret love affair with high wealth earners throughout the United States. 

As Jodie Foster mourns, the millions of people who were spared incarceration due to nonviolent drug offenses celebrate. Community clinics throughout the United States are welcoming the much needed federal funding from the overturn of Reagan’s repeal of The Mental Health Systems Act of 1980, signed by President Carter. 

In other news, a plot to assassinate Egyptian President, Muhammad Anwar el-Sadat has been stopped.

James McMurtry, The Horses and the Hounds (New West Records 2021)

by Kloghole

There is a deep and profound emotional exhaustion that haunts me, and unlike most, it is not the result of the current pandemic. I am struck, however, by how the new James McMurtry record captures this melancholy and psychic desperation.

I recently took an online stress test and scored 38 on depression and 40 on stress. I have tried all manner of techniques to try to alleviate some of the worst physical and mental effects of the more than decade-long trauma I have endured. This past week, I tried listening to the new McMurtry record in the same way I would devour a new CD when I was 22. To get to know an album intimately, I would just play it over and over and over, pouring over the lyric sheet. There are still songs that pop on my random player that I immediately know all the words.

It was different with McMurtry. Although I listened to the album repeatedly, I simply do not have the time to focus on the songs. I am answering emails or crafting classes. I rarely sit still unless glued to a computer monitor. Eventually, I did get to read all of the lyrics, but not as the song was playing.

What I was left with is the sense that his new album is good, but there are not those songs that grab me that I ache to hear when I am away from the record for a while. Sometimes, I feel, the mark of a really good album is the fact that it does not have one or two memorable songs and a host of forgettable ones. The Horses and the Hounds is a solid album throughout with a great deal of consistency. There are dark lyrical turns that tug at your heart strings and just enough ambiguity in the poetry to keep you unsure of the inspiration driving the story.

I am drawn to the crunchy hook of the title track. It is probably the closest to a song that rises above the engaging sanguine lilt of the rest of the album. He does keep a bit of space for his endearing sense of humor with the line, “I keep losin’ my glasses.” Since I have a pair of cheap cheaters in every room, I can totally relate.

I should really take my geriatric dogs out before I head to bed. They need their pot pills, and they will most likely wake me up in three or four hours having to pee or, the youngest’s favorite trick, nibbling on her poop and spreading it helter-skelter like someone shoved a firecracker in a turd.

I feel as though I have emotionally lost the ability to evaluate music even if I like it. I have played James over and over, and keep playing it, but I sense something missing. I am not sure if it is in me, or I am longing for the feelings I have from his earlier albums. There seems to be some resonance with his line from an earlier song, “I don’t want another drink. I just want the last one again.”

Because there have been few albums that have made me want to listen to them repeatedly lately, I am going to give The Horses and the Hounds three sweet sticky balls.

Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers!

The Day Alice in Chains and Michael Jackson Met in My Ass

 By Null

Per the normal procedure, I had taken off all of my clothes, except for my polka-dotted socks, and put on the hospital gown, open in the back. I then slipped on my “COIVD masks,” which consisted of a surgical mask underneath a black-and-white cloth mask. After putting the loops over my ears and readjusting my eyeglasses, I laid down on the hospital bed, which contained a strategically placed “incontinence pad.” It was my big day, as I would soon be on my fiftieth trip around the sun. Thus, I had to get my first colonoscopy—the time-honored tradition wherein a person fasts for at least 24 hours before drinking a gallon of liquid magic that turns one’s anus into an angry water faucet, thereby completely emptying the colon so that the doctor can insert a camera in one’s large intestine to check things out. While I’ve never been called a tight-ass, and the pad was there for possible leakage, it thankfully was not needed. 

On this special day, I was in the surgery center, because even though one isn’t under the knife during a colonoscopy, an anesthesiologist is needed as one is put under for about 30 minutes, not all the way, but more like in the “date rape drug” kind of way—just below the surface.

At any rate, I digress.

Katie, the nurse attending me, walked into the curtained off section where I was waiting. We engaged in a bit of small talk, along with some questions and answers regarding the procedure. At one point, I asked her about her accent. “Is that a Southern accent?” 

Katie laughed and replied, “Yeah, I don’t know why. It just won’t go away. It’s Arkansas. I moved to Colorado 3 years ago.” She seemed a little embarrassed.

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it. I think it’s great.” Why does someone expect to lose their accent in 3 years, and why would they want to?

“There’s a lot of rain down there, and heat,” she said.

“And armadillos,” I said in my best Southern accent, pronouncing it “armadillas.”

We continued to chatter. I was already smitten with Katie. She was funny, wasn’t taken off guard by my off topic questions and comments, and, most importantly, she was very relaxed and chilled out. Considering that everyone in the hospital was wearing masks, I could only see her eyes, and they were pretty, kind, and sympathetic. I have no idea how old she was. As I get older, I find it almost impossible to guess the age of most people. I can recognize children and teenagers as such, as well as people in their 90s, but everyone between those age groups is a crap shoot. As a 49-year-old man, I continuously view people much younger than me as my peers.  It’s weird. They’re clearly not. Regardless, I’m gonna say Katie was in her late 30s, but I wanted to call her “mom.” I guess context is important.

“The anesthesiologist will be in to talk to you in a few minutes. We are going to put you under for about 30 minutes. They use Propofol,” Katie said, as she wheeled her chair over to hold my hand as she searched for a good vein for the IV. She continued, “It’s really great. It puts you to sleep in a matter of seconds and then you wake up really quick right afterwards.” She had a sparkle in her eye that made me question, just for a second, if she had a Propofol problem. I immediately discarded the thought from my mind; however, I quickly recalled how this sleeping drug killed Michael Jackson. I didn’t mention it, because, ya know, mentioning Michael Jackson is akin to opening a can of worms. Besides, I didn’t have time, as the anesthesiologist walked in and said, “Hummm, Alice in Chains. They didn’t even have masks back then.”

I had forgotten that I was wearing my Alice in Chains, Rainier Fog face mask that I had picked at the beginning of the pandemic. From a distance, it looks like a black and white air filter. The anesthesiologist gave me the rundown of the procedures, asked me about my medications, and mentioned he’d be using Propofol. Fuck it. “Isn’t that the drug that killed Michael Jackson?” I asked with a chuckle. 

He replied, “And that is why it should be administered in a hospital under the watchful eye of an anesthesiologist and not at home.” He nodded, smiled, and finished writing down a few notes. 

Having secured my IV, Katie squeezed my hand, looked at me from her chair, and in a compassionate voice, which betrayed any sense of irony, said, “Michael Jackson really needed to get some sleep.”

I refrained from laughing out loud due to her empathetic tone. I had to wonder if the consensus in Arkansas was that all of Michael Jackson’s problems boiled down to not getting enough sleep, or if this was just Katie’s summation. I looked at the anesthesiologist to see if this was also his take on the matter, but he had finished his paper work and left the room.

After the doctor entered the room and went over the procedure with me, it was time to get the job done. I was wheeled into the operating room. I was instructed to lie on my side. The lights were killed as to better view the monitor that would project the feature film that would star my colon.  The anesthesiologist put his hand on my shoulder and informed me that the he would administer the Propofol in a matter of moments. Suddenly I heard “Man in the Box,” the big hit from Alice in Chains’ first album crank out of speakers that seemed to be situated throughout the room. Is the doctor okay with this? He never mentioned my mask? Was this the anesthesiologist’s idea? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

I heard a voice say, “You’ll start to feel sleepy in a few seconds.” My fading thoughts were as follows: “These guys must be pretty cool. They’d be cooler if they played something from the new records. It’s no big deal. It’s just a colon exam. Put on some rocking tunes. Alice in Chains. Michael Jackson…needed sleep.”

I began to fade back into consciousness, aware that some time had passed. I was sleepy, but awake. The room was still dark. Am I supposed to be awake? Should I verbalize this thought? I noticed two things simultaneously. The first was that a well lubricated, slightly vibrating object was in my butt. It didn’t feel unpleasant. The second thing was that now a different song was playing from Alice in Chains’ third album. Still not the new stuff. It was a good song though. I can’t remember which one exactly. I only knew what album it was from. I felt really good vibrations. I mustered up the energy to speak, “I’m awake.” 

“I know.” 

I faded away again.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the original room I was in prior to the procedure. Katie was there. She said, “See, you wake right up afterwards.” It took me a few moments to collect my thoughts and realize she was talking about Propofol again. Michael Jackson definitely got some good sleep on that shit. It does the job. I felt like I had been sleeping for hours; I was well rested. After putting my clothes back on, the doctor came in to go over the results of the colonoscopy. When he finished he was about to walk away, when I stopped him.

I said, “Was it you that picked out the music.” He lost his air of authority and gave me a slightly embarrassed look. He said, “Yeah, did you like it? I try to play music for patients some times and I’m not sure if it….”

I interrupted him. “It was great. I appreciate it. Thanks.” 

A big smile appeared on his face and he looked relived, “You’re welcome.”

I was going to mention the new albums, but I decided to just go home knowing that, to some degree, he must have had a little music junkie in him too.

Foreigner, Head Games (Atlantic, 1979)

 

By Null

I’ve never been a Foreigner fan. Even when I was a young kid in the late 1970s, the only impression I got from the band was sweaty polyester, testosterone-driven, mediocrity. If stinky jock straps in a high school locker room had a sound, and not just a smell, they would sound like Foreigner. The cover of the album Head Games did little to dissuade my opinion, as it looks like an advert for a slasher/rape scene. SoDak and I wrote a review of weird albums covers a few years ago and we included Head Games in our list for this very reason. You can check out that review here: https://tickleyourtaint.blogspot.com/search?q=album+covers.

Now, I don’t want to come off as a jerk. Maybe the guys in Foreigner are great people. I don’t know. Usually, I can find something interesting even in music I dislike. In addition, sometimes, a band I can’t stand has a few decent songs based purely on a memory of a specific time and place. Thus, I have a confession here. The Foreigner song, “Waiting for a Girl Like You,” on the Footloose soundtrack is okay. It makes me feel nostalgic and sad, like a puberty heartache, or something. It’s got a gentle atmosphere about it. Foreigner also reminds me of being a small child curled up in the back seat of the car, driving many miles through the country on cold dark nights going to my older step-brother’s wrestling matches. This was something I didn’t look forward to, or enjoy, but I guess I was too young to leave home alone at the time. Foreigner was all over the radio back then. The other exception, and I hate to admit this, is that if I am driving alone somewhere and “I Want to Know What Love Is” comes on the radio, I don’t change the station and I get a little emotional. I don’t know why. Don’t tell anyone. Anyway, that came out years later, right? Was it 1984?

Anyway, I digress. The point is I hate Foreigner. You may ask, then why did you listen to Head Games? The answer is that sometimes I make bad choices. The album was on my radar after SoDak and I reviewed the album cover and I just happened to be in a used record store and saw the LP for a buck, so I thought, “Ya know I should listen to this just for good measure. Just to experience the horrors that lie beneath the retched album cover.” I had never listened to an entire Foreigner album before.

So, I listened to it. It wasn’t worth the buck I paid. What a horrible record. It is exactly what I expected and only solidified my decades long opinion of the band.

The album starts off with “Dirty White Boy,” which is a song that just makes me think of gross hyper-sexual guys in my high school PE class who talked about “pussy” constantly. Gross.

The next song is “Love on the Telephone,” which makes me want to hit myself in the head with a hammer repeatedly. Boring crap.

By the time I got to the third song, “Women,” I realized that I may have been mistaken when I have stated that Kiss are the worst lyricist of all time. It’s actually Foreigner. 

What follows are the lyrics to “Women.” I have them here in their entirety so you can get a sense of the horror that goes on for a full three and half minutes. 

Women behind bars

Women in fast cars

Women in distress

Women with no dress

Women in aeroplanes

Women who play games

Women in uniform

See that woman with her clothes torn

Women who satisfy

Women you can’t buy

Like women in magazines

And women in a limousine

Women who sip champagne

Women who feel no pain

Women in a disco

And women who don’t wanna know, know, know

Oh women wanting sympathy

Women feeling ecstasy

Women who live in fantasies

Bringing man to his knees

Women who fall in love

Women who need a shove

Women who can’t be beat

Get that woman in the back seat, yeah, yeah

Women in the U.S.A.

Those women steal your heart away

Women into rock ‘n’ roll

Women who steal the show, go, go, go

Women that you write songs about

Women that turn around and kick you out

Women you dream about all your life

Women that stab you in the back with a switchblade knife

Oh women, ooh, ooh

Talk about women

Around the world

Yeah women

Oh no, it goes

Talkin’ ‘bout women

C’mon baby

Holy crap.

I suffered through the rest of the album like a paint-by-numbers hair-shirt exercise. The song “Head Games” eventually shows up on side 2. However, by that point I couldn’t even wax nostalgic for the long drive in the cold, backseat of a car rumbling down country roads.

This album is awful. I don’t even want to talk about it anymore.