Wherefore Art Thou, Juliette

Ending a relationship can be rough. Even if things haven’t been great lately, there are the memories of better times and wondering where things went astray. And if you think things have been going really well, an unexpected break-up can hit you upside the head like a foul ball in the 8th inning after you’ve been drinking for three hours and busy texting your significant other to let them know that you’re going to be a little late because there’s a special on Rolling Rocks at the bar by the ballpark and then before you know it you’ve got a tattoo of a Rawlings on your temple, your buddies are laughing at you and you’re thinking maybe you should have read the fine print warning on the back of your ticket stub a little more closely. Unfortunately, women don’t come with any fine print so even if you’re an overly diligent attorney you’re going to get hit sooner or later.

So in case you haven’t figured it out by now, I’ll spell it out for you: I’m breaking up with Juliette Lewis. We had a good run. If you remember we first connected back in 2006, but it wasn’t until a year later when the relationship got really hot. That’s when we bonded at her show with the Licks at Reggie’s back in December. I was acting like a lovestruck schoolgirl. More so than usual. I got a Juliette poster as the centerpiece of my shrine. I was going to incorporate one of those salami sticks hanging in the meat market since they’re very tasty, but I was trying to stay focused. I put the picture we took together on my nightstand. I asked Mrs. F’er if she would change her name to Juliette. I later suggested Joe Pesci after the beating she gave me. I also suspect she’s the one who vandalized the poster with a Sharpie mustache. But I digress.

The two and a half records she made with the Licks just plain rocked. Hard. Muscular. Nothing fancy – just loud guitars, driving drums and high energy vocals. We’re talking a two year-old on Red Bull and pixie sticks kind of energy. Her band were some no nonsense, jeans and t-shirt guys who got sweaty and didn’t comb their hair. Not the kind who spent a lot of time trying to look like they don’t comb their hair, either. And the show I saw back in 2007 was off the hook. Or off the chain. Whatever the kids say today when something is totally copasetic.

So Juliette and the Licks stayed on my playlist fairly regularly. Then she announced the Licks were no more. I wasn’t happy, but gave her the benefit of the doubt. She posted a new website for a new band called The New Romantiques. Now I was having some doubts, but sticking them in the far recesses of my brain. Back where I also keep the knowledge of where to find any cooking utensils in the house. I was in denial that we were growing apart. She finally released the new record and it was good. In fact, there were a few rockers that held their own with the best Licks tracks. Even a raw blues number that she is seemingly able to pull off. But there were a few that strayed from rocker territory. It’s like when one of your mountain bike buddies buys a road bike “just to ride when the trails are muddy”. Then before you know it he’s shaving his legs twice a week and talking to your wife about razor burn. But I digress.

There were darker tunes, more emotive tunes, and “sonically different” songs. There was even the pure pop goodness of “Uh-Huh” which I can appreciate but just seemed out of place. Still, I gave the CD multiple spins and looked forward to her show with the same anticipation normally reserved for the Little Debbie delivery man.

I talked people into going with me, and on the night of the big show the five of us were pretty much the first ones in the house. You know, ‘da house, dawg. The first opening band Juliette has been touring with must have called in sick or something because they were replaced by a local band called The Wanton Looks. Not the Wonton Looks. That’s that happens when you order some tasty soup at PF Changs. The Wanton Looks are a four rocker chick power pop quartet with a punkish edge. The singer/bassist had good stage presence, and although the guitarists seemed adequate they never quite inspired me to rip off my shirt like The Incredible Hulk and stab myself with a pencil. The drummer appeared to be immensely talented, much too talented to be hanging out with these broads. They need to step it up a notch. However, I stuck around for the whole set and feel I got my money’s worth for an opener. Plus I have to say that or else they’ll break my face the next I show it in public.

American Bang was the middle act and I had seen them open for The Pretenders earlier in the year. However, it was at The Riviera which is the Ford Focus of venues. It will get you there, but you won’t look cool and definitely won’t be rocking any rich Corinthian leather seats. I was also distracted by worries that I was going to find a parking ticket on my car. So I deferred judgment.

Turns out that at a small club like the Bottom Lounge, American Bang can tear that shit up. The band looks like it consists of three Nashville stoners who ditched class to listen to Black Crowes records, and a fourth guy who looks like he might have been recently released by Night Ranger. I’m not even sure he’s really in the band. I think he just showed up and the other three are still trying to decide who needs to tell him. In the meantime, they came out and rocked way harder than Juliette fans deserved. And did it all while “drunk as piss”.

Next up was Juliette. Funny, but I had just also seen her open for The Pretenders a couple months earlier – it was a short 30-minute set and never seemed to find a groove so I also deferred judgment on the new band and material that night. Tonight I would offer no excuses for them.

Let’s start with the band. All seemed proficient. But the drummer seemed bored. Seemed to sit there with a nonplussed look on his face. The bass player looked as if she were plucked from a Quentin Tarantino movie just for her exotic look. One guitarist was rocking a modified Flock of Seagulls ‘do. I didn’t find the other guitarist as bothersome but he was no Lick.

When I first introduced Juliette to Moist Rub a few years ago he was skeptical. How did he know whether she was a true rocker or just using her mad acting skillz to play a rocker? I thought he was the one off his rocker. Eventually, it seems he was satisfied that she was for real, but now I’m having my own doubts. The oft repeated line during her promotional appearances that her shows were about “communing with the gods” and some other mumbo jumbo I can’t recall. The new flair for the dramatic in the new songs. The posing and dramatic long stares during her performances. Ah, phooey. I know there is still a little rocker in there.

I even waited around to see if she was going to come out so I could get my liner notes signed and get to the bottom of it all. Nope. I get the hint.

I got my $15 worth. Definitely. But the shrine is being replaced with that stick of salami.

Me and Dave

I have an announcement to make. I intended to go to the grave with this information known only to me and to one other. Not my own grave, mind you, but the grave of Fatty Arbuckle, until I remembered that he was cremated, and his ashes were spread over the Pacific Ocean. I suppose I could have gone to the Pacific Ocean with the information, but it just wouldn't be the same without a headstone upon which to unleash my mourning and reflection. I wonder if they make floating headstones for burials at sea. If they don't I have dibs on inventing them. Don't even think about stealing my idea. Blogs are legally binding in patent court. You can look it up. I don't expect to have a grave of my own, choosing instead to fall from a cliff to be left in anonymity and natural disgrace as the wild boars of Dover feast on my corpse.

I can no longer keep my secret to take to anybody's grave, even convenient ones like that of Wally Dandrel, who put his grave on the Internet (www.wallylieshere.com). The circumstances surrounding my secret have become too volatile to hold dear, thanks to that blabbermouth, David Letterman. Since, as you may have heard in the news lately, the ex-weatherman late night funny man seems determined to scrub his dirty laundry on national television using the ancient art of monologue, not unlike the Sophoclean King Creon as he set forth a course for the demise of his own insouciant little world, I thought I had better fess up before I ended up in another Top Ten list (the other time was March 6th, 1989: Top Ten Microbial Disinfectants Used by the Supreme Court).


I had an affair with David Letterman.


There. I said it. I'm not proud of it, but I'm also not ashamed of it. He was good to me. Although our affair never made it to the orifice compromising stages many people associate with affairs, the emotions were the same, because there was magic in that hand shake on that bus that day. And like Oprah, he was gentle and tender with me and held me afterward as I wept.

I admit this now in the hopes of saving my family from further embarrassment and to keep the tabloids and paparazzi at bay. That, and I want to ensure they get my part of the story correct when the very special made for TV movie about the David Letterman Affairs is released in time for the February sweeps this television season (starring the caustic Danny Bonaduce as the ambrosial Moist Rub). I'm sure they will offer a generous royalty package for those of us who have become victims of Letterman's lechery as we are splattered across television sets worldwide. Also, look for a cameo by Richard Simmons as an anonymous shopper at Rupert Jee's Hello Deli. He's fabulous!

Demographic Awareness Month

In case you didn't notice all the pink around football stadiums this weekend (and I'm not talking about the cheerleaders), the NFL added some fab pink accents to their uniforms to promote Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

As the newest member of the mommy blogger community I'm all for breast cancer awareness, but given the typical NFL fan isn't the message a little displaced? With all the men in the audience, wouldn't prostate cancer awareness make more sense? Or given the amount of red meat being grilled up at tailgate parties outside the stadium make colon cancer awareness slightly more appropriate? I think it might take a little more prodding to get those prostate exams and colonoscopies done. Pun intended.

I'm sure all the football widows around the nation are thrilled that their husbands are offering to give them breast exams after a long day of drinking and eating bratwurst.

But seriously, take care of yourselves. See a doctor once in a while. Eat an apple. Go for a walk. Feel your boobies. And if you're a guy, you shouldn't have boobies so you might want to lay off the cheesy poofs.

Knee Jerk Reaction of the Day

Okay, I got the message. Nobody reads the blog, everyone misses Moist Rub and the last post was outed as a thinly veiled attempt to show how cool I am by telling you about bands you never heard of.

I'm quitting, going to pretend I'm a woman, and join the mommy blog community.

Thanks and regards,

Sid

Show Me The Way

In planning my upcoming concert calendar, it appears there are some conflicts... I think I already know which shows I'm choosing, but which would you pick? (This is also a covert way to see if anyone still reads this damn blog.)

Scheduling Conflict #1

Which show would you choose? Juliette Lewis Supersuckers Current Results

Scheduling Conflict #2

Which show would you choose? Screaming Females Teenage Jesus and the Jerks Current Results

Scheduling Conflict #3

Which show would you choose? Cage The Elephant Poster Children Current Results

Scheduling Conflict #4

Which show would you choose? Devo Keb Mo Meat Puppets Current Results

I Salute You, Brother

I just discovered that Jim Carroll died, died last Friday. I confess I've never read any of his stuff and I've never seen The Basketball Diaries, but damn if he didn't put out one of my favorite songs.

No Logic On The Horizon

I’m clearly schizophrenic when it comes to music. I scoff at popular music with nearly the gusto of the indie hipster with the fixie, but will readily ‘fess up to downloading a top 40 tune to feed my appreciation for the perfect pop song. I’ll make fun of those same indie hipsters, but then throw down a Neutral Milk Hotel lyric just to mess with people. I despise the big stadium show and make fun of people who go to see Elton John and Billy Joel in this decade. And then I get tickets to see U2 at Soldier Field.

And then come here to report that the show was absolutely spectacular. They’re really fucking good. Despite all that shit The Edge does with effects, the songs play well to a stadium show. The ridiculously large claw structure and video screen that they’re carting around the world is awe inducing. And that they can coordinate the sound, effects, lighting, video and technology for this event seemingly without a hitch is a logistical and production achievement that blows my mind and really needs to be seen. It was like being in the middle of an MTV video. In a good way. Not one of those Men Without Hats videos where they dance around a renaissance faire, either.

I’m Sid F’er, and I approve this tour. Save up some cash, sell a kid if you need to, but get yourself a ticket.

If I have some time I’ll add some additional details of our day, aka Mrs. F’er Bueller’s Day Off.

F'er Living

My doctor gave me another six months to live with an option to renew, so I was feeling pretty good today. As such, instead of my mid-afternoon snack consisting of a can of Pringles crushed and sprinkled over a quart of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia, I decided to celebrate my continued existence by treating my body like the Temple of Doom which it is and sliced up some sticks of celery.

I also learned that you're not supposed to put celery in a garbage disposal. Who the hell knew? Oh, I guess everyone.

I swear if they made levees out of shredded celery, New Orleans would still be standing today. After a half hour under the sink unplugging pipes (not a euphemism), I learned my lesson. Stick to ice cream and Pringles.

On The Waterfront

I was a very strange kid. I wanted to be a meteorologist when I grew up. Well, not exactly... more like I wanted to be the TV weatherman. I even had one of those Junior Weatherman kits that you could use to measure rainfall, wind speed and temperature and a log to record it all. Of course, this was well before Excel was invented so I lost interest and took up something more interesting, like bowling. Now I'm embarrassed to admit I still don't really understand what the dew point is and why I need to know that.

I also don't understand why the weather report on the news takes five minutes. All we really care about is the damn forecast. Do I need to wear my slicker and rubbers, or can I just wear my "Somebody Went To Branson And All I Got Was This Stupid Shirt" shirt? Instead we get computer models, high pressure systems, doppler radars and a recap of the current weather in case we're shut-ins and just curious what it was like outside today.

But I'll let it slide as long as the forecast continues to bring the weather we've had this week - sunny and 70's without a cloud in the sky. It's even brought out a kinder, gentler Sid, and I've left the mean streets to take the slightly longer and more crowded lakefront path home on my bike. Click on images for full size versions if your eyes suck or if you just want to further admire my iPhone skillz.


Leaving downtown, just north of Ohio Street Beach, ferris wheel at Navy Pier in the background.


Accidental photo of me and my shadow and the evil black Trek since I don't have a new Globe bicycle yet.


A little further north at Oak Street Beach near the Gold Coast. Not sure what all those people are running from - probably some sort of sasquatch.


Just over halfway home looking back toward downtown from near Diversey Harbor. The woman is clearly not amused with my riding thong and is calling the authorities.

You Don't Sing Me Love Songs...

I came home and found this today... I think my wife has a new boyfriend.