j mascis

circle May 1 on your calendars. Dinosaur Jr drops Beyond.

i've been lucky enough to get a copy of it, and it sounds as good or better than their SST days - or even Where You Been - and that's a bold fuckin' statement. the fact that the original line-up is back together is the icing on the cake. apparently the band is aware of the leak, and is being very non-Metallica about the whole thing, asking that the leaking stops until after it's officially released. after that, they said, it can be a free-for-all.

but i know you won't do 'em like that. get the record, and then hit the show. unfuckwithable.

so as much as i'd like to let ya hear the first one off their new album, i'm gonna wait like they said. in the meantime, check out mascis + the Fog from 2000.

listen: j mascis + the Fog - sameday
listen: j mascis + the Fog - ammaring

buy: j mascis records

johnny on the spot

if anyone calls, tell them to call me at 1-627-826-3789.


stop by Mondays at fttw for shit from johnny.

cabman #9

while i was waiting for a fare, i stopped in Market Square to get a cupcake at the bakery shop. the meters give you seven and a half minutes for a quarter. when i came out of the place, a meter maid was about to put a ticket under my windshield wiper.

“what are you doing?” i said.

“what’s it look like i’m doing?”

“wasting your time.”

“is that so,” she said, and ripped the citation from her pad and placed it under the wiper. “you have a good day now, mkay.”

“what am i getting a ticket for?”

“you are parked in a metered space. to park there, it requires you pay the City a quarter dollar for an allotted fifteen minute parking privilege. the meter’s currently empty.”

“i didn’t think you had to since it’s a leap year. my quarters wouldn’t fit. i think the slot is jammed.”

“the hours of operation for the machines are Monday through Friday, 7:00AM until 6:00PM. the slot is fine, sir, but if you wish, you can report any mechanical difficulties you may have experienced to the Department of Public Works over on…”

“but i’m working here. i’m down here spending money.”

“would you rather i have the vehicle towed, sir?”

“what?”

“be happy i gave you a ticket,” she said, and wiggled her ass down the sidewalk.

who the hell gets happy about a ticket? it was so early that there wasn’t even anyone down there trying to park. there were just some pigeons bobbing around and a few perverts standing on the corners. no one was looking to park. and i was in and out, five minutes. not even.

goddammit, i thought, she fucked up my cupcake.

i opened up my car door and slumped inside, turned the key in the ignition, and turned on the windshield wipers. i let them sweep back and forth and back and forth until that yellow ticket dingledoodled in the breeze. my glove box was filled with them and another would make it a fire hazard. i clicked the latch on it and surveyed the damage. the Meter Maid was behind me now, heading across the street and picking her nose.

i rolled down my window. “hey Rita,” i yelled, “Rita! hey Meter Maid.” and when she turned around, i threw a handful of the yellow slips from my glove box out the window. “hey!!! here’s your tickets,” i said and threw another handful out the window and then another.

“hey,” she said, “HEY!!!” as she began running towards me, talking into the radio mouthpiece that was on her shoulder as she was reaching towards her belt, probably for a can of pepper spray. but my ride was already in gear and riding off into the sunrise. after i’d rounded the corner and driven a few blocks, i pulled over to use a pay phone. The Doktor answered after several dozen rings, probably impeded by pulling himself from under a sweaty pile of innocent female college students, confused by a night of drinking at the Sorority House and easily led by the hand of Satan himself into the stinking den of iniquity that vicious pigfuck of a man calls “home.”

“h-h-h-h-hello,” he whimpered.

“awww get up,” i yelled, “get the fuck up.”

“who is this?”

“you know goddamm well who this is.”

“what are you doing up?”

“i got another ticket this morning down in Market Square. what am i paying you for if you can’t even properly get me immunity from a stinking parking violation.”

“you don’t pay me.”

“NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR TECHNICALITIES!!!”

“oh wow. what time is it? i drank too much.”

“FOCUS!!!”

“ok. listen man…i put a call in to That Guy, but they weren’t trying to listen.”

“i know man. we gotta do something about that.”

and he said with an air of terrible certainty, “we gonna go to jail man. That’s what we’re gonna do.”

that was really all i needed to hear.

who wants cake?

...damm...

can you believe Kurt Cobain would've been 40 years old today? kinda coincidental, i suppose, that i've been listening to the shit out of Bleach lately and reading some cool articles about how they recorded Nevermind and got thrown out of their own record release party [thanks to the Doktor for the articles].

who knows what would've happened had he stuck around a little longer. i've gone on before about what they did - and you can call me cliché or predictable or typical or whatever you'd like - but i think they were special. so without me getting too sappy, here's two from Nirvana.

enjoy.


listen: nirvana - sappy
listen: nirvana - negative creep

buy: the box set

johnny on the spot

if anyone calls, tell them i'm in the midst of a trauma. leave a message, i'll call them back.


stop by Mondays at fttw for shit from johnny.

professionalism #19

i had arrived early for the meeting. a projector had been set-up in the middle of the room and the usual tables were pushed to the back, along the wall. in their place stood neat rows of plastic chairs with metal wire legs, perhaps thirty of them in all, and a nervous little man with some kind of remote in his hand, chatting with The Boss.

this could be ugly.

i took a seat on the aisle near the back and surveyed the parade of brainless monsters and worm-ridden perverts that work in this place. sometimes they came in alone, but more often they shuffled into the meeting in clumps like blood-matted hair. it would be a goddamm miracle if i got out of this meeting alive. my head would soon be full of acid and the walls were already beginning to breathe. Good Lord, i thought, i should have waited.

i bent low, pretending to tie my shoestrings while i stuffed what was left of the drugs into my left shoe. suddenly, my head exploded with white light and the dull clang of flesh on metal.

“excuse me. oh i’m so sorry, i didn’t see you down there. are you ok? do you mind?”

i was shell-shocked. in her rush to get a seat, the Big Red troglodyte from Human Resources had slammed my head into the chair in front of me with her ass.

“what were you doing down there anyway? hmmm? i’m just gonna sit right here. are you ok? wow, you’ve got a big red mark on your forehead.”

i said nothing.

“what are you writing there?” she said.

“fuck off.”

“it looks interesting.”

“STOP BREATHING ON ME, YOU CRAZY OLD BASTARD!!!”

“ooooooo, someone has a case of the Mondays,” she said, turning the words into some twisted kind of two-note jingle. i remember resisting an urge to elbow her in the mouth and make a run for the conference room door. but there were people milling about, and i’d almost certainly be caught.

“woo. i hope they get on with this. this is so early, dontcha think? hmm? well…i’m gonna have to eat something. low blood sugar, ya know.”

low blood sugar? please. cut her and i bet she bleeds corn syrup. she proceeded to open up not one, but three bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. she handled them every so delicately, breaking them into smaller pieces before daintly putting them into her mouth, then chomping down with the violence and precision of a hydraulic vice. piece after piece she shoveled into that gaping maw, occasionally pausing only to yawn or suck her sausage fingers. she didn’t bother to close her mouth to chew.

“those good?” i say.

“mphblargsnarfgle.”

“yeah. they look like it.” you greasy pig. “the cornerstone of every nutritious breakfast.”

“you want some of these chips?”

“you have more to eat?”

“they’re really good.”

“really? i didn’t think you tasted your food.” i hoped she choked, that fuckin’ cow. there was a dull pain spreading across my forehead and a slow ringing in my ears. i was beginning to fear i had suffered a concussion or some kind of brain swelling. the walls were swaying back and forth now…there was no denying it. the Speaker took his place near the screen at the far end of the room. he wasn’t so much smiling as baring his teeth, sharpened to fine points. he was licking his lips, slicing his tongue and dripping his blood on the boardroom floor.

the man in front of me turned around in his chair and said, “are you ready?”

“TURN AROUND BEFORE I BELT YOU IN THE THROAT!!!”

“ooowee,” Big Red next to me said. i heard a low, distant rumble. “i think i need to excuse myself.” she started to crawl over top of me.

“back. BACK!!!”

“excuse me. excuse me Johnny. i have to go.”

“like fuck you do,” i said, and pushed her with my forearm back into her seat. “you’re not molesting me again.”

“GET OUTTA MY WAY,” she bellowed, “I HAVE TO GO!!!”

and with that she scrambled over me like a dog and scooted her ass down the aisle and out the back door. well fuck that, i thought, she’s not getting away with this.

i had planned to make it to the washroom before her and flush an M-80 down the toilet, bursting the lines, and forcing her to shit her pants. but she had too much of a lead on me, and her girth prevented me from passing her in the hallway.

i shoved her brutally from behind.

“what kind of a bully are you?” she said.

“YOU RUINED MY HIGH!!!”

“what are you talking about? get off of me!!!” she said, and slammed the washroom door closed. inches away from Ground Zero, i bore witness to a tortured gastric upheaval. her bowels unleashed a brutal, vicious kind of violence that is only familiar to those who’ve survived heavy, sustained hand-to-hand combat or frequent the ruthless cockfighting syndicate of southwestern Pennsylvania. i’ve done both, and let me tell you, that shit is fun.

after the initial burst subsided, there was relative quiet until i heard the toilet flush and the handle on the door click. she appeared in the doorway.

“hey!!! what the hell is this?” she said.

“everything come out all right?”

“you know…there is something wrong with you.”

“that may be. but you, you swine, you didn’t even wash your hands. you classless hound. i’ve got a good mind to bind and gag you and leave you in the janitor’s closet. let the rats have their way with you. KEEP YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM ME!!! never again send me interoffice mail. YOU’RE E COLI MARY!!!”

“ST. CLAIR. ST. FUCKING CLAIR.” it was the Boss. how the fuck did he get here, i wondered. i became transfixed on the hairs dangling from his nose.

“nice shoes,” i said.

“GET THE HELL BACK TO THAT MEETING. NOW!!!”

“relax. i’ve got the situation under control here. this lady, this Beast…check her hands. i bet she’s got shit under her fingernails. hey…where did she go? hey, COME BACK HERE!!! dammit. you know what they say…they can hide, but they can’t run.”

“WHAT IN THE SAM HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, BOY?”

“hey man…i don’t appreciate that ‘boy’ shit, you know. i ain’t nobody’s boy. make me all claustrophobic and shit. like it’s the Plantation days up in here or something. the way you say that ‘boy,’ i don’t know man…i might have a flashback to them slave days or something. might lynch a Cracker’s ass or two up in this motherfucker. you better watch yourself.”

“YOU BETTER GET BACK TO THAT MEETING!!! DO YOU WANT THIS TO GO IN YOUR PERSONNEL FILE???”

“hey…as long as you stay outta my shoe, i don’t give a fuck what you put in my file. but i want some representation, a lawyer. where’s the Doktor? SECURITY!!!”

johnny on the spot

if they call back, tell them there never really is a good time, there's always nothing much to say.

stop by Mondays at fttw for shit from johnny.

i told you it was wrong, and other gambling disasters

as soon as i got my official Faster Than The World press credentials, i immediately called the Doktor to gloat. he said nothing on the phone, which i initially took as rather rude even from his ignorant ass. it seems that he dropped the phone and raced to my place with, among other things, a tape recorder. he was very persuasive that we leave at once and test the limits of my new found authority, or something like that. the following is a vague recollection of the past week.



DATELINE: January 28, 2007. 11:58 PM. somewhere in Pittsburgh.

i show him the press pass. “well?”

[strange rumblings, broken glass, a few dull thuds]

“you hit me with a fuckin’ bat?”

“get your shoes on. we’ve got business to attend.”

“alright. fuck. where are we going?”

“Miami.”

“well, that’s all you had to say.”



DATELINE: January 29, 2007. 8:03 AM. Portland, Maine.

“welcome to…Portland? what the…Portland!”

“damm…this compass is worthless.”

“Portland? you drove to fuckin’ Portland?”

“well you were no help.”

“I WAS SLEEPING!!!”

“exactly. man i drive like Steve McQueen.”



DATELINE: January 29, 2007. 2:17 PM. somewhere outside of Philadelphia.

“license and registration.”

“it’s cool, officer, seriously. johnny, show him the pass.”



DATELINE: January 29, 2007. 2:19 PM. somewhere just a bit further outside of Philadelphia.

“how come they’re chasing us.”

“relax. i bet it’s just a police escort. we’re like royalty.”

“you sure?”

“totally.”

“why are they behind us then?”

“i dunno. it’ll be a goddamm miracle if we make it there on time.”



DATELINE: January 30, 2007. 12:27 AM. around Walterboro, South Carolina. i think.

“here comes a pick-up. keep your thumb out and look sad.”

“what are we gonna do about my car?”

“sorry about that.”

“we can’t just leave it here, can we? i mean, it’s still on fire.”

“shut up and look sad. HEY!!! HEY!!!”

“you boys need a ride?”

“yeah, we’ll take it as far as you’re goin’.”

“mmm hmmm. the other one’s gotta ride in the back. but you ride up in the cab with me. you got a pretty mouth, boy.”

“whoa. johnny, show her the pass.”

“i don’t think i really need to.”

“you heard what she said.”

“yeah.”

“well?”

“well i don’t want to abuse my power, you know. so…”

“come on boy.”

“i’ll be in the back if you need me.”



DATELINE: January 30, 2007. 9:11 AM. on the dais at Dolphin Stadium, Miami.

“yo…we made it. meet the press, motherfuckers.”

“wow…look at all the cameras and shit.”

“HEY!!!”

“it’s cool…we’ve got credentials. check it out.”

“GET OFF OF THE STAGE YOU TWO!!!”

“look…it’s Peyton Manning. hey Peyton. Peyton. yeah…a couple of questions for ya. it’s ok, i’m with the press. seriously.”

“SECURITY!!!”

“yeah, uh, does the back of your hand smell from taking snaps under center? if so, after about how many? and when is it the worst?”



DATELINE: January 30, 2007. noon-ish. on the way to Miami-Dade county jail.

“alright. remember…we can survive this.”

“what the fuck are you talking about? we’re going to the county for a few hours.”

“don’t protest. it only makes them feel better.”

“what?”

“start growing your thumbnails.”

“look…i’ll call [deleted], he’s got a boat down here. if we’re lucky, he’ll post our bail once it’s set, and in a few hours, we’ll be out.”

“man. as soon as we get in, i’m puttin’ some bread in the toilet and makin’ that jailhouse wine.”



DATELINE: January 31, 2007. 3:26 AM. on the way out of Miami-Dade county jail.

[breathes deep] “you smell that johnny?”

“no.”

“ah. that’s freedom.”

“damm…where’s my press pass?”

“don’t worry. contraband. i didn’t want The Man confiscating it. i took care of it.”

“you did?”

“yeah. i’ll get it after we eat.”



DATELINE: January 31, 2007. 7:33 AM. back in Miami. i think.

“motel time…how about that one?”

“sure.”

“it’s close to the bus stop.”

“indeed it is.”

“where are we?”

“i don’t know.”

“las hojas sucias por la playa.”

“wow. you’re all Spanish and shit.”

“yeah man.”

“sounds classy. must be a four-star.”

“wait until they see your press pass.”

“we’re gonna be like royalty here.”



DATELINE: February 1, 2007. the less said about it, the better.



DATELINE: February 2, 2007. 10:45 PM. south beach.

“i think we’re kinda early.”

“i know, but this is where he said.”

“i can’t believe Snoop said he’d hook us for this Playboy party. man…that press pass is working wonders.”

“i didn’t tell him about that. he’s a big Steelers fan. me and Snoop go back.”

“how far back?”

“way back.”

“shhhh…act serious. Ladies, ladies, good evening.”

“they’re smiling. they must not understand English.”

“relax. i got this. now, Ladies, who wants to see if the groundhog in my pants casts a shadow?”



DATELINE: February 3, 2007. 4:32 PM. south beach.

“listen, Officer, sir…i don’t know that guy at all.”

“well, he says you came to Miami together.”

“yeah, well, he’s a liar.”

“he said you guys are down here covering the Super Bowl.”

“we’re not…i mean we are. what i mean is, no one is supposed to know. it’s highly confidential. top secret. Patriot Act-type shit, you know. but i told him not to do it, ok. i told him, ‘you better not. you better not even touch it,’ you know. but sometimes there’s no reasoning with him. he’s an animal. the sooner you lock him up, the better.”

“he says you’ve got some kind of press credentials, immunity from prosecution or something-or-other.”

“i did…well, i do. but you don’t wanna get your hands on it. better that you don’t even know. better that NO ONE knows about this, you know what i mean? i’d hate for you to get the federalés on your back.”

“right.”



DATELINE: February 4, 2007. 6:28 PM. Dolphin Stadium.

"let's walk down this way."

"uh oh...be cool."

"hey look. it's Prince."

"oh shit...hey watch this. Prince. Prince, hey. Pancakes, bitches. ha Ha!!!"

"SECURITY!!!"

johnny on the spot

if any one calls tell them i'm not here, this isn't happening.

stop by Mondays at fttw for shit from johnny