I visited our new log friend yesterday out on the Fern Trail. I thought by going solo I could session it with no pressure- and possibly die unconscious, face down in the mud. After a pedal to the shin and handlebars to the groin I am just as scared as when I had not yet attempted it. This is going to be a summer of many trials, and perhaps some sort of reckoning.
That’s OK though because it is time to scuff up your Chuck Taylors, untuck that flannel and meet me at the Son Volt show Saturday night at the Moon.
Are you White?
Talk of road trips West over cans of PBR?
If so, chances are good you are a Son Volt fan. Ma and Pa Ingalls are hitching up the donkey team and double-wrapping the hardtack for a big adventure to the Capital City. They may have to bivouac along the Suwanee to let the donkeys rest, but they will make it in time. They never miss a Rendevous.
I can’t talk, I’m a fan too you see.
Thank God someone out there is interpreting and romanticizing so many of the bad decisions my generation made and lamenting about the alarming decay of our national fiber.
I will have a chance to get my indie cred warmed up at a party tomorrow night celebrating a new book by a former professor of mine who was known about town as the “Barmadillo” back in the early nineties. He reviewed bars of course, and drew pictures of stick armadillos drinking in them. His career has since faltered, as he no longer gets paid to go to bars, but must travel the world and do uncomfortable things to be paid for his writing.
I will probably spill my drink on him.
The best formerly racist and currently gender-bigoted golf event in the world occurs this weekend. That’s right, dust off the green jackets because it is time for the Master’s. Say what you want cyclists, it is the Tour de France of golf and a great excuse to enjoy a social Sunday, after a ride of course.
So Spring is reaching critical mass around here, as every hour brings word of some watershed or seminal event this weekend.
Wait for it, here comes the closing line…
With weather like this, what isn’t special?
The Tally Dem was a better place when they still ran the ol’ Barmadillo.
And, no, I’m not a Son Volt fan, as far as I know. Good thing, too, because if I tried to dip out Saturday night for a show, I think my mom would kill me.
I’ve still got a copy of Bucky’s Barmadillo on the night Finale’s closed.
I think it was about the night Finale’s closed.
He’s got a new book out?
And no, son, you ARE NOT going out on Saturday night. Uh-huh. No way.
(And if you do, don’t tell me about it.)
Son Volt’s coming this weekend? After the poignant noises and harrowing lyrics of Iron and Wine tonight? We’re doubly blessed.
Look for my I&W review in a comments section near you soon. Unless Juancho the music snob deletes it.
I miss Barmadillo and Finale’s.
Man, y’all have left this South Florida girl in the dust on this post. The only thing I can relate to is the first photo. 😉
OK ‘Tops, since I&W features local it boy, Patrick, you can have top billing.
Barmadillo was awesome! Mark Hinson has improved over the years but Barmadillo was brilliant from his first article to his last, and that was way too short a time frame. Juancho, any chanced you could scrape up and post us a copy of Barmadillo’s last review?
My wife and I still lament the passing of Grand Finales. Where else can you go starving at 11PM and get an order of rock shrimp and a scrumptious steamed veggie platter covered in provolone and then go upstairs for a poetry reading, reggae or rocknroll? There is no replacement I tell you.
Whatever happened to rock shrimp anyway? Are my memories getting distorted with B-52 songs are were we really able to get all you could eat rock scrimps at The Pearl, Finales and “You know where…
Nice round up J! And I’m happy for you that Mrs. Worm has been confused all these years.
Man, back in the day all the band dudes would meet up at Finales after playing, and Cam would make us all full. What would I pay for bowl of gumbo and a garlic bread? A lot! New potatoes, broccoli and carrots with havarti cheese, oh Dear Lord! We would all sit at the big round table, eat, sober up and head home with our waitress girlfriends from Flamingo Cafe’.
You’re a stud Wreckin’ Ball.
If I can locate the Barmadillo Archives I will run them as a weekly feature. Maybe I can steal them at the party after I cruise the liquor cabinet?
I barely remember what a rock shrimp is these days. Now everyone pushes the Vietnamese “Tiger” shrimp- so called for the way they make your gut growl.
Alex Chilton upstairs at Finale’s was a great moment in rock history.
The Barmadillo illustrations were drawn by Jerome Stern, professor of english at FSU.
Whoa, I remember that now.
R.I.P. Mr. Stern
Blue crab etouffee. Good God.
I own the old Finale’s sign. I have it in MY possession. I did not steal it. I promise.
Some one else did and gave it to me.
I wasn’t bragging, just making a Zevon reference. I married that chick from Flamingo.
Come on, say it like you mean it- BASTARDS!
I only hit three out of four of the criteria, so I guess that makes me a loser. Too old. To my nephew and my sister, I admit to being too O-L-D.
I’m just a wonderin’ what’s up with all the Jack-not Zack-not Mack-not Smack-Johnson, he’s not the boss of you subtle trash talkin’ I’ve noticed lately at the top of the blog. Brushfire Fairytales doesn’t sit well or something? 😀
Going to dollar drink Thursdays after splitting a pint of bourbon at home with a friend… yeesh.
It was cracking me up. 🙂
My vendetta against Jack, “born with a tiki spoon in his mouth Johnson” stems from a hilarious conversation which began with me pointing out how judgemental his child-like lyrics are.
Zach Johnson won the Master’s last year and wears his sunglasses on the back of his head- which is more than enough to get him in my sights.
Funny stuff. 😀