History Meme, AKA, the Lifeguard made me do it.

The Lifeguard tagged me so here is my response....


Gram Parsons
11/5/46 to 9/19/1973
The not so widely known founder of the Country Rock Genre

1. Despite having been born with the career handicapping moniker of Ingram Cecil Connor III, Rolling Stone Magazine ranked Gram as #87 on their list of the 100 Greatest Artists of All Time. Rolling Stone Issue 946.

2. He briefly attended Harvard University to study theology.

3. Gram Parsons was originally hired to play keyboards with Byrds. Eventually he moved to the guitar and was...instrumental...in pointing that band towards country music. The culmination was a February 15, 1968 performance at the Grand Ole Opry. Most notable, they were the first bunch of longhairs to perform on stage at the Opry.

4. On July 29, 1968, just before flying to South Africa to perform, Parsons separated from the Byrds, not because of their inability to spell their own name, but because he refused to play to a segregated audience.

5. After Parsons’ death, road manager, Phil Kaufman stole Parsons' body from the airport, where it was to be transported to Louisiana for burial and in a borrowed hearse, drove Parsons' body to Joshua Tree for a botched dessert cremation.

6. Since stealing a body was not a crime, Phil Kaufman was only fined 700 smackers for burning the coffin. Incidently, Johnny Knoxville starred as Phil Kaufman in Grand Theft Parsons, a dark comedy surrounding the events of the dessert cremation.
7. Ironically, just a few months prior, during the Summer of ‘73, Parsons’ home in Topanga Canyon met a similar fate having burned to the ground as the result of a stray cigarette. He lost nearly all his shit with the exception of guitar and a really cool Jaguar.

Strangely, almost exactly one year ago, Gram Parsons was inducted into the Shertastics.

Coming soon to a venue near you......

I’ve recently formed a electric zydeco band. We call ourselves Cold Hearted Bitch. Flaco plays the spoons, while Arlo and Lefty trade off between the accordion and the washboard, or as it known among the zydeco worlds, the frottoir. We’re little more than just a jug band without a jug. Myself, I sing and toss in an occasional kazoo solo.

The name is a throwback to my seventh grade teacher, who during my formative years used to punch my in the throat. I thank her for that now as the resulting damage has left me with a unique tremolo in my voice. Actually, I never called her a cold hearted bitch. It was one of her many boyfriends who first used that term of affection when he showed up drunk to our classroom one warm spring day back in the 80s.

Anyway, back to Cold Hearted Bitch the band. We do mostly covers, adding a zydeco twist to songs by Steve Winwood, Earth Wind and Fire and Nat King Cole to name a few. Well, to name three specifically. However, we make true magic together when we belt out Elton John’s Rocket Man.

Things have gotten pretty rough at a few of our shows. We do mostly small clubs in and the occasional county fair. In fact, last summer we traveled out to Coe County for a gig. I don’t think we went over so well as I can only assume they wanted something a little more country.

So I was saying things have gotten a little wild at our shows. This one time, at the conclusion of our first set, I started spinning the mic around over my head by the cord, it made this great wushing sound and the crowd loved it. Well, I must have been pretty sweaty, because that mic got away from me and hit Arlo square in the center of his frottoir.

Now normally one would think that you would be well protected wearing a metal washboard on your chest. Not this time. The cheap-ass promoter had us use the piece of shit house equipment and when the mic hit the metal something must have short circuited because Arlo, the poor bastard, got lit up like a Christmas tree. The jolt shot him clear across the stage and right into Lefty sending the both of them tumbling off the stage.

And that my friends, is the last time we covered any ABBA.

The price is wrong b!tch!

I’m not much of a T.V. person, in fact, I cannot even remember the last time I watched something on network T.V. You can usually catch me watching stuff on the Hitler Channel, ah History Channel, or the Discovery Channel. There are also the odd-ball dark humor shows on AMC or FX that I’ll watch with the regularity of an 80 year old.

Unfortunately, my girlfriend has some bizarre sub-basic cable package where most of my favorite channels are scrambled. Often I’m left with having to decide if a particular show is worth watching through the static. In case you’re wondering, the static isn’t so bad if you sit off to the side. So this past weekend, I flip on her T.V. and start channel surfing. It’s one of those odd times, maybe around 7:18 p.m., when the news is over and there are only syndicated sitcoms to watch. Well, up pops the Antiques Road Show, and since it’s not on one of the static filled channels, it looks like it’s being broadcast in hi-def.

I don’t particularly enjoy antiquing, in fact, I think it is one of the most insufferable things I had to do with my parents during my developmental years. My motivation for watching comes from an entirely different perspective. What, you actually thought I’d come on here to tell you how I get my rocks off watching junk being paraded across the television? No, I treat it more like a game show. If only Bob Barker was there, “Actual retail price. . . . “ However, when I watch, I root against the contestants. “The price is wrong bitch!”

Yes, nothing gives me greater satisfaction than watching some dope’s heart break when she finds out the 1937 Mickey Mouse ashtray she has treasured for years is nothing more than a reproduction. I get even more excited and laugh even harder when the back story reveals that an individual paid some exorbitant amount of money at a garage sale for costume jewelry.

From my time watching the show, I’ve even learned quite a bit about picking out fakes. It doesn’t happen that often, but at least once an episode, a contestant turns out to be a complete loser, embarrassed for their stupidity on national television. Yeah, okay so national television equals the 26 people watching PBS at the time but whatever.

There is actually quite a bit of drama and just when it looks like my fun time will be spoiled, I learn that their winnings will plummet because of a missing part or a dent in their antique waste paper basket. “Had this been in mint condition it would easily fetch $250,000 at auction....” Then they cut to the contestant’s face, a face so full of joy and wonderment. I sit patiently waiting for the hammer to drop. “But because your antique dildo is missing the balls you can only expect to get $3.97.” Bam, fuck you loser! Ah yes, I live for those moments too.
The easiest way to differentiate between the outright losers and the so-so losers is that the so-so loser still gets the glory of having the little banner appear on the bottom of the T.V. screen with the item name and approximate value. The total loser gets nothing! “You lose!” “You win, NOTHING!” What they should get is a giant red stamp across their face, across the T.V. screen would be fine too, that says “FAKE” or “WORTHLESS” or even “DUMB ASS”.

When the contestant wins big, I can still find solace in the fact that they are so enthralled about their winnings that they fail to recognize one little caveat regarding the price. “It’s worthless unless you have a buyer.” Well, they don’t say it quite like that, usually it’s more like, “You can expect $x.xx at auction.” Short of going to Sotheby’s or Christie’s I don’t think Larry from Ohfuckme, Nebraska, is going to find many quarter million dollar bids for his collection of chewing tobacco tins at the local carnival.

The greatest moment for me in this week’s episode came when a woman brought in a bright and shinny copper bowl or something that was supposed to be 100 plus years old. Now this thing is bright copper which leads me to believe right away that it’s either not 100 years old or that she has done something to it to ruin the value. Why did I know? Well, you don’t have to have a 150 foot tall woman wearing a crown and a toga in your front yard to know that aged copper will collect a beautiful green patina over time.

At this point I’m on the edge of my seat, well, actually, I’m sitting on the floor, but I’m really, really excited. This is the part of the show I’ve been waiting for! “Have you ever polished this?” She hesitates, and answers “No” and I just know she is lying. “You lying bitch!” I exclaim. The host explains how without the patina it’s virtually worthless, my hands shoot up into the air with the same excitement I had for the Giants when they won that big super football game thing. But my moment of glory isn’t over just yet, down but not out yet she asks, “Is there anyway to put the patina back?” Yeah ya dope, don’t clean it and come back to the show in 50 years. I’ll probably still be rooting against you.