Wednesday, April 20, 2011
I don't have an exhaustive record collection or piles of obscure 7" vinyl like cool people do, but this one was a game changer for a bunch of dudes in Liberty, Missouri back in the Reagan era. (Chris Gile tells me Reptile House played the last Foolkiller show in KC, and that he bought this record there.) It is back in print, for an affordable four bucks. It was clear right away with a song like "Keel-Haul Love" that RH was not some oompah-four-four hardcore band, and that Daniel Higgs was a real writer of songs from an eerie and particular point of view. (See umpteen awesome Lungfish records for confirmation of that, full of street-level pre-Biblical poetry and wide-open weird vocality.)
The first couple weeks of the baseball season has been pretty fun. The Royals are doing okay, though every single win has been a reach-for-the-Tums kind of thing. Tonight was horrible, and the WTF! texts were flying between me and my nephew Graham. He was at the K last night for the win. Tonight we transitioned from five innings of a no-hitter to a two-balk meltdown and four-run implosion. First instance of I'm-turning-this-shit-OFF! this year. I jumped over to the end of the Reds-Diamondbacks game.
It's hard for me to generate any feeling for the Diamondbacks. But I'm a grownup baseball fan now, not just a battered Royals fan. I told myself when this season started that I would enjoy all the teams, all the games, all the good plays, all the emerging stars, and try to be as open to the game at 42 as I was at 10. I know the rhythm of an average Royals season. The first six weeks are like having a ten-year old case of plantars warts go into remission. (Awesome, I can play whiffleball!) Then the warts come back and all you want to do is lay down in a cot in the basement, where it's cool and dark.
I'm reading Heat by Bill Buford. This is a fun book, especially if you're into reading about the athleticism and intensity of high-end kitchen culture, and the kind of skin-toughening apprenticeships and team dynamics that make the culture run. (On my end, the romance of adrenalized multi-tasking has pretty much run its course. If I make something other than a salad with grilled chicken I feel studly.)
So, as I wind up my blog tonight, I see that Jeff Francoeur smacked a two-run homer in the ninth, but it was not enough...and the last droning chords of "Sleestak Weather" wind down on my Itunes. Life's pretty good. I'm glad Graham went to the K last night instead of tonight. I am the proud uncle of two nephews (Alex and Graham) who root for The Royals while even my parents seem to have leaned toward the Cardinals, after relocating to central Mo.
And Watt is coming to Eugene a week from tomorrow and The Golden Motors are playing the gig too. That's alright!