Thursday, September 29, 2005
I got a pocket full of rubbers and the Gourds do, too.
The Gourds, a great band who apparently listen to sage advice from the Druz, played the Neurolux tonight. The Gourds came to Boise for the second time in two years. The band is the best kind of folk-country-rock out there, a roots band that drinks and swears and on Wednesday I talked them into playing the song that made them. The Gourds played a great set at the Neurolux, a set that had white people in Hawaiin shirts doing dangerously epileptic dances that threatened to injure the masses and embarrass white people everywhere. But the band kept refusing to play the band's signature cover of Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice."
So I approached the fiddle player, and said, "Look, I've seen you guys plenty of times and I don't care if you play it, but my friends are begging me, so could you give a brother a break an play 'Gin and Juice.?' Please." He told me he would try but that it was up to the singer. So the band played an encore which was awesome but did not include the Snoop Dogg classic and I approached the bassist, again with the same plea. He told he would see what he could do. The band took the stage and immediately broke into Gin and Juice, listening to my advice and wowing the crowd.
After a bang-up two-hour set, they finally played the song most of the crowd was waiting for and put gangsta rap to shame with their superior folk rendition of the classic. There's nothing quite like a mandolin-wielding dude saying "I got a pocket full of rubbers and my homies do, too." Especially when I made it happen. Go Gourds and go Druz.
So I approached the fiddle player, and said, "Look, I've seen you guys plenty of times and I don't care if you play it, but my friends are begging me, so could you give a brother a break an play 'Gin and Juice.?' Please." He told me he would try but that it was up to the singer. So the band played an encore which was awesome but did not include the Snoop Dogg classic and I approached the bassist, again with the same plea. He told he would see what he could do. The band took the stage and immediately broke into Gin and Juice, listening to my advice and wowing the crowd.
After a bang-up two-hour set, they finally played the song most of the crowd was waiting for and put gangsta rap to shame with their superior folk rendition of the classic. There's nothing quite like a mandolin-wielding dude saying "I got a pocket full of rubbers and my homies do, too." Especially when I made it happen. Go Gourds and go Druz.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
The importance of grammar
A store near work apparently takes one-stop shopping to a new level. Its sign reads:
Dicks
Stereo
Dicks
Stereo
Monday, September 12, 2005
Deutsche-land, Deutsche-land, uber alles!
Note: the oomlat (sp?) is not supported by the German-hating folks at Internet Explorer so I changed it. Sorry to any Germans who are offended (as if the title isn't offensive enough)
"Uh, yeah, dad, we just need to swing by Albertson's to pick up the keg."
Even at 24 that sounded weird coming out of my mouth but my dad was game and let me throw a keg of New Belgium Sunshine Wheat (yum a dum dum) into the back of his rental car to drive it to a going away party for a friend (dad did not tap the keg, though the only thing keeping him from a keg stand, I contend, was a bad back).
It was the end of a whirlwind one-day tour of Idaho for Papa Druzin. He saw everything from the big city, Boise (Don't laugh. Actually, do.) to the rugged mountains and got an unrepresentatively delicious culinary tour of the state. After ascending from the Treasure Valley through the golden brown grassy fields of the foothills (actually, mostly made up of noxious invasive species with names like Medusa head and skeleton weed), and forested mountains, we wound up Highway 55 along the roiling Payette River. We stopped at Flight of Fancy bakery in Donnelly, near wear W stayed recently, where we inhaled a delicious huckleberry danish and were chatted up by an employee named Crystal, a cheeky hippy who bragged that her bran muffins caused the prez to make a hurried pit stop during his mountain bike ride ("Our bran muffins wait for no one.")
After a quick lunch and a delicious beer at the McCall Brewing Co., it was time for a relaxing soak at the rustic Burgdorf Hot Springs, about 40 miles north of electricity. It was Sept. 10 and we drove through a snow storm to get there.
Burgdorf is a beautiful harnessing of Idaho's geology. Volcanically heated spring water is piped in to a giant pool with a gravel bottom and timber walls. The temperature ranges from 104 in the main pool to 114 in a smaller pool that makes you feel like you're in some black and white film that takes place in Papua New Guinea, cooking in some cannibal's stew. After a relaxing soak with a stunning mountain backdrop I was brought back to reality when I asked the hot springs proprietor where I could find a garbage can.
He gave a toothless snarl and pointed at a sign that said "Pack it in, pack it out," explaining that there is no garbage service at Burgdorf before complaining about the guvermint. It was then that I noticed the tattered military shirt he was wearing and the German flag sewn into the shoulder. Welcome to Idaho!
"Uh, yeah, dad, we just need to swing by Albertson's to pick up the keg."
Even at 24 that sounded weird coming out of my mouth but my dad was game and let me throw a keg of New Belgium Sunshine Wheat (yum a dum dum) into the back of his rental car to drive it to a going away party for a friend (dad did not tap the keg, though the only thing keeping him from a keg stand, I contend, was a bad back).
It was the end of a whirlwind one-day tour of Idaho for Papa Druzin. He saw everything from the big city, Boise (Don't laugh. Actually, do.) to the rugged mountains and got an unrepresentatively delicious culinary tour of the state. After ascending from the Treasure Valley through the golden brown grassy fields of the foothills (actually, mostly made up of noxious invasive species with names like Medusa head and skeleton weed), and forested mountains, we wound up Highway 55 along the roiling Payette River. We stopped at Flight of Fancy bakery in Donnelly, near wear W stayed recently, where we inhaled a delicious huckleberry danish and were chatted up by an employee named Crystal, a cheeky hippy who bragged that her bran muffins caused the prez to make a hurried pit stop during his mountain bike ride ("Our bran muffins wait for no one.")
After a quick lunch and a delicious beer at the McCall Brewing Co., it was time for a relaxing soak at the rustic Burgdorf Hot Springs, about 40 miles north of electricity. It was Sept. 10 and we drove through a snow storm to get there.
Burgdorf is a beautiful harnessing of Idaho's geology. Volcanically heated spring water is piped in to a giant pool with a gravel bottom and timber walls. The temperature ranges from 104 in the main pool to 114 in a smaller pool that makes you feel like you're in some black and white film that takes place in Papua New Guinea, cooking in some cannibal's stew. After a relaxing soak with a stunning mountain backdrop I was brought back to reality when I asked the hot springs proprietor where I could find a garbage can.
He gave a toothless snarl and pointed at a sign that said "Pack it in, pack it out," explaining that there is no garbage service at Burgdorf before complaining about the guvermint. It was then that I noticed the tattered military shirt he was wearing and the German flag sewn into the shoulder. Welcome to Idaho!
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Bad ideas = good stories
STANLEY, ID - Just miles from a giant forest fire in the Sawtooth Mountains, Joeja and I saw nothing. Puffy white clouds and pristine vistas was all that was visible as we approached the sleepy mountain hamlet of Stanley Monday on our way to cover yet another forest fire.
Then, as we crested a hill near Sheep Creek (pronounced "crick" in Idaho), the road turned to the south and it looked like we were driving into the apocalypse. A 100-acre forest fire looks impressive. A 13,000-acre fire looks like a nuclear war (http://homepage.mac.com/Joeja/iblog/). And, as usual we did battle with The Man, and won.
The first savvy move we made was skirting offialdom and driving straight to the fire before telling the fire bosses we were there. Dressed head to toe in regulation fire gear (yellow NoMex top, green NoMex pants and heavy boots) we drove up to a closed road that led to the evacuated community where we wanted to be. The Custer County Sheriff himself was guarding the road and, much to our shock, he mistook us for firefighters (please fight the urge to snicker at the thought of me being mistaken for a firefighter) and waved us through.
After busting up a narrow, rocky dirt road, finding no people and thinking up different headlines for a story about two Statesman journalists killed in a wildfire, we turned around to find another road and hopefully some people. After chatting up some local firefighters and finding out the cause of the fire (a detail the authorities did not want us to know) we headed back out. This time, though, we did not get waved through.
As the Sheriff played nice and distracted us, politely asking who we were and what we were doing on a closed road, a deputy went around the back of my car and started writing down my plate number. We, of course, played dumb, aw shucksing and apologizing and were let on our way. Excited to actually have something to do, they ran my plates and actually called the Statesman to make sure we were who we said we were, as if we would have stolen a car, threw on NoMex and drove into a wildfire.
The rest of the day was spent playing firefighter, talking to people with Fu Manchus and cheeks full of chew, driving too fast on windy dirt roads and scrapping for info we weren't supposed to have. And we got paid. All in all, a perfect Labor Day.
Here's the story (at least read the lede):
http://www.idahostatesman.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050906/NEWS01/509060311
Then, as we crested a hill near Sheep Creek (pronounced "crick" in Idaho), the road turned to the south and it looked like we were driving into the apocalypse. A 100-acre forest fire looks impressive. A 13,000-acre fire looks like a nuclear war (http://homepage.mac.com/Joeja/iblog/). And, as usual we did battle with The Man, and won.
The first savvy move we made was skirting offialdom and driving straight to the fire before telling the fire bosses we were there. Dressed head to toe in regulation fire gear (yellow NoMex top, green NoMex pants and heavy boots) we drove up to a closed road that led to the evacuated community where we wanted to be. The Custer County Sheriff himself was guarding the road and, much to our shock, he mistook us for firefighters (please fight the urge to snicker at the thought of me being mistaken for a firefighter) and waved us through.
After busting up a narrow, rocky dirt road, finding no people and thinking up different headlines for a story about two Statesman journalists killed in a wildfire, we turned around to find another road and hopefully some people. After chatting up some local firefighters and finding out the cause of the fire (a detail the authorities did not want us to know) we headed back out. This time, though, we did not get waved through.
As the Sheriff played nice and distracted us, politely asking who we were and what we were doing on a closed road, a deputy went around the back of my car and started writing down my plate number. We, of course, played dumb, aw shucksing and apologizing and were let on our way. Excited to actually have something to do, they ran my plates and actually called the Statesman to make sure we were who we said we were, as if we would have stolen a car, threw on NoMex and drove into a wildfire.
The rest of the day was spent playing firefighter, talking to people with Fu Manchus and cheeks full of chew, driving too fast on windy dirt roads and scrapping for info we weren't supposed to have. And we got paid. All in all, a perfect Labor Day.
Here's the story (at least read the lede):
http://www.idahostatesman.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050906/NEWS01/509060311
Friday, September 02, 2005
Birth control
I can now reliably say that recess at Washington Elementary is right around 9 a.m. The other day I was awoken at that ungodly hour after a night of festivities that left me hobbled and head-sick to the charming screams of urchins and the rhythmic metal on metal ping of a tetherball chain hitting a poll as some socially awkward 9-year-old played by himself, trying not to get his lunch money stolen.
Moving into my apartment in July left me unprepared for the consequences of living next to a school - for a blissful two months there was not a hint of a child in my neighborhood save the occasional family biking past my house - but now I have a five-day-a-week reminder of where I live.
If my aversion to procreation in the near future ever wavered the new school year has made me resolute.
Moving into my apartment in July left me unprepared for the consequences of living next to a school - for a blissful two months there was not a hint of a child in my neighborhood save the occasional family biking past my house - but now I have a five-day-a-week reminder of where I live.
If my aversion to procreation in the near future ever wavered the new school year has made me resolute.
