Eric Friedmann and The Lucky Rubes: drivel

The other night I had a dream wherein somehow I had come into possession of a nuclear bomb, and decided to nuke Berkeley. I wonder what that says about me.

See you in Liverpool!

So I promised myself a bit of time to think about this, because the field is pretty thick, and it's awfully hard to narrow it down.

There's that stupid couple that's been hanging out at the Riptide lately, pissing everyone off by throwing elbows and aggressively and so very ineptly simulating oral sex on the dance floor. The guy picked a fight with me a couple weeks back, I defused it, and the band thanked me for getting rid of them. That'd be a 2-fer award.

There's the guy who almost ran me off the road the other day in an apparent meth haze, wondering why I didn't notice the stop sign that wasn't there.

And naturally there are any number of politicians I'll never have contact or influence with, but whose endlessly idiotic decisions impact our lives on a daily basis. Nothing new under the sun there, and beyond the scope of this little non-musical mini rant.

But I just can't let this one go. Maybe about a year ago, Billy and I went to his favorite sushi bar, Tomiko in Encinitas, to wile away the hours and, well, do what one does in a sushi bar. We were in the actual bar, where Bill is treated like a conquering king, and all was well. It's nice to row in his wake there whenever I'm in town.

And then, against anything I could possibly imagine, there's this guy on the other side of the bar with a blue t-shirt that reads, "Once you go black, we don't want you back."

Huh?

In a sushi bar. Think about that for just a minute.

I can't get this little punk turd out of my mind. This was ENCINITAS! On the ocean. Where did this NASCAR reject come from? That kind of shit is expected in Alpine, or Julian, or anywhere 20 miles east of I-5 really. But I'm dying to know how on earth you can go out in public with that punk-ass shirt on your back, to a sushi bar, and get away with it.

So, Award Winner boy, shall I ever encounter you again with your delightful livery I'll stick around until you leave, follow you home so very casually, and slash the tires on your stupid truck. I'll forever regret not sicking a fire extinguisher on you when the opportunity presented itself. You shall not get away with that thick ugliness again if I have a say in it. And I hope Billy is there too.

The Liverpool Reporter gave us a little ink:

http://www.southportreporter.com/389/389-12.shtml
So very much looking forward to this trip. Steve Schneider on guitar, Will Strickland on drums, Russ Pickett on bass. What more could I ask for?

Radio Basingstoke, located in Basingstoke UK, has seen fit to pick up our tune 'Baby You Could Make Me Famous' for Astrid's Unsigned Show. Check out www.radiobasingstoke.co.uk for additional info and more cool music. And while you're there, why not request some more of us? Astrid's a cool lass.

Well, damn if this isn't the most exciting thang ever. The Highway Robbers have once again been selected to play at William Shatner's annual charity auction in Los Angeles, and this year we'll be warming up the stage for the one and only Willie Nelson. It's at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center on April 25th at 5:00pm and it's open to the public. If you're in town, do drop by. Hell, ride a horse on in if you can. Plenty of places to park it I'm sure.

I'm happy to report that The English Beat is alive and well. I literally stumbled upon them at the Belly Up Tavern here in my hometown of Solana Beach last night. $20 to see the English Beat? HELL yes! What a show. They had me skanking up a storm, and with all the lovely imagery that brings to mind I bid you bon nuit.

Here I am in Park City, Yootah, struggling to breathe, holed up in a palatial condo more or less handed to me when Larry Bagby and I played at Sundance earlier this year, mulling over the show we had in Las Vegas the other day. Decent show, lousy sound, drummer barricaded behind one of those ridiculous plexiglass barriers so no one could hear a thing he did.

Larry somehow got his hands on this piano player, and within minutes he redefined the word 'douchebaggery' for me. Bless him for that.

When Billy, Scotty and I did 'Lalapalooka' for Comedy Central many moons ago, it was the keyboard guy that caused the problems; "I'm not eating that! Why can't we get some real food?" Fucknut.

When I roadied for The Tubes, it was the two keyboard players who sent the soundchecks into a flaming nosedive because they couldn't agree on the square footage of the stage. A fixed value, not open to interpretation. A non-variable. The arguments over absolutely nothing in that band were truly awe-inspiring. Fee Waybill is indeed a very patient man.

While recording Emily Hickey's first album, the keys dude would get an hour into it and then start whining about how much he hated recording and how tired he was.

But this guy the other day, whose name shall remain something I'll reveal in my memoirs, took the biscuit. Decent player, and that's where the accolades end. Stupid stage banter, coked out of his skull, pestering every cabby in town for a free ride, irretrievably and unforgivably racist, and, well, just a WOW with the ladies.

Douchebag. I'm glad that word has come back. It's the perfect insult, because it doesn't really mean anything at all. You're really just calling someone a hot water bottle. So I have no problem calling this guy, whose name shall remain known only to him and to the millions I'll share it with one day, the greatest douchebag I've ever met. And he was a complete fucking asshole to boot. There might have been some kind of OCD/ADD/ritalin action going on there too. But as a very wise friend once said, mental illness is really no excuse for idiotic behavior.

Keys people, don't be a douchebag. Nor be ye an asshole. It reflects poorly on us primadonna guitar hoseheads who think we need you.

I'm going to be an uncle again, and my nephew Oscar has made his feelings clear on the subject:

My brother Carl: “Oscar, do you want a brother or a sister?”
Oscar: “I want a guitar. A red one.”

Kid's doomed already, and he's only three.

Holy bovine.

Not one single picture I took came out. I guess I forgot to hit the magic button. But...

It's one thing to be backstage at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass while Alison Krauss and Robert Plant are on stage. Thanks JL, and also for giving AK a backstage pass so she could do some homework. I think I saw her pigtails spinning around her head with excitement.

Alison Krauss is just incredible. Her voice is, well, perfect.

But wow. Robert Plant. Jeezus. There he is. Mere yards away, the man who...

And y'know, the less said by me about him the better. We all know who he is and what he's done. I'm sick of redundant hyperbole, especially my own. He's a god, a legend, he looks it, done.

But it's really neat to have the backstage playing field violently leveled when I look to my right to find I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with a behatted Elvis Costello, watching the show. I said 'Hi,' he said 'Ello,' and we repeated that three times back and forth.

When Robert Plant is on stage, the rest of the world is happily roped into being a fan and rabid admirer, even Elvis. And thankfully me too, stupidly starstruck, which rarely happens. Just amazing.

It is my sincere hope that 300 years from now The Yes Album is still celebrated.

I don't know why at all, but every now and then I fire up The Yes Album, their third album and Steve Howe's first, and just listen goggle-eared to what's going on. The prog rock foundations were solidified with this album, although maybe the elves didn't really show up and start piddling all over everything for a few years yet. I listened to this album loudly five times a day once upon a time, while enjoying my single in dorm 8, Stevenson, UCSC, 1988. The perfect antidote to Dead bootlegs wheezing their way through my door from down the hall.

So I'm sitting here beating the living crap out of my poor long-suffering dead-stringed Ransom bass, pretending to be Chris Squire, amazed that the lines to 'Perpetual Change' are still under my fingers.

Hark. Hark! What can that dulcet tone be? That soothing somethingness that floats in through my porthole?

A wayward moose with an ingrown hoof?

One of our resident great blue herons with an arrow through its neck?

A passing harbor seal practicing her Tuvan throat singing?

A seagull gargling Alka Seltzer?

Ah. No. Just the neighbor Finkelstein shit kid practicing his new trumpet with the window open. As Bill might say, a worse noise than a cat in a dryer full of rocks.

This is so amazingly wonderful today. Random disjointed thoughts on this very important evening, blow by blow:

He's been on stage for less than a minute. Is that the best they could come up with music-wise as he walked on?

Michelle O. is going to be the greatest First Lady since Jackie. Jill Biden looks very scared.

I think Joe Biden has three too many teeth, right up front there.

Why is Gray Davis on my screen right now? Shouldn't he be wearing a fake beard or a lizard suit or something?

Oooooo there's that tax cut promise again. Scary.

Odd audience shots. What's up with this dude in the banana leaf hat yelling appreciatively at his own elbow?

YIKES! Don't show Jabba The Coloradan again.

I wonder how many Republicans are there in the audience?

Good one. Possibly the most handsome first family ever. But is that the best they could do for the outro song?

I'm not sure if it's just frustration at having nothing remotely interesting to say, or the nagging feeling that comes along every none too often that it's time to go to the dentist. Either way, here's another piece of brilliance from my favorite poet Pam Ayres. Don't forget to floss.

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Oh I Wish I'd Looked After Me Teeth

by Pam Ayres

Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth,
And spotted the perils beneath,
All the toffees I chewed,
And the sweet sticky food,
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

I wish I'd been that much more willin'
When I had more tooth there than fillin'
To pass up gobstoppers,
From respect to me choppers
And to buy something else with me shillin'.

When I think of the lollies I licked,
And the liquorice allsorts I picked,
Sherbet dabs, big and little,
All that hard peanut brittle,
My conscience gets horribly pricked.

My Mother, she told me no end,
"If you got a tooth, you got a friend"
I was young then, and careless,
My toothbrush was hairless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right,
I flashed it about late at night,
But up-and-down brushin'
And pokin' and fussin'
Didn't seem worth the time... I could bite!

If I'd known I was paving the way,
To cavities, caps and decay,
The murder of fiIlin's
Injections and drillin's
I'd have thrown all me sherbet away.

So I lay in the old dentist's chair,
And I gaze up his nose in despair,
And his drill it do whine,
In these molars of mine,
"Two amalgum," he'll say, "for in there."

How I laughed at my Mother's false teeth,
As they foamed in the waters beneath,
But now comes the reckonin'
It's me they are beckonin'
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

International Pop Overthrow is a good thing. Our gig last night was a ton of fun, and it was good to get back on the Rockit Room stage. Charlie Knote, our drummer for the evening, kicked major bootay after one rehearsal mere hours before the show. I hope to have him along for more shows.

Most definitely check out The Bobbleheads, my favorite band from last night. More or less the way it should be. Nice guys, great tunes, and they actually got me out on the dancefloor, behaving like a rabid loon and loving it.

Funny how alot of my favorite bands these days have kind of silly names. Again, the way it should be.

Fun fun FUN Hah!way Robbers show at the Grant and Green tonight. It's now three in the morning, I'm home, my ears are screeching away like a couple angry stub-toed baboons (or like Castafiore in full spate*), and I'm too tired to sleep.

I like to think that after a set and a half of our little songs about booze and girls we kind of set the tone for the evening. After two hours of Robbers tunes one kind of gets the idea already.

So. For future reference, please do not, Mr. Cloth-eared Beerhat, come up to me mid-song and yellingly ask if we know any Rage Against The Machine. We don't, and we won't.

*bonus points for anyone who knows where that's from, because it reeeaally fits right about now.

Ahhhh. Brand new website. It's like buying a cool new pair of shoes or something. Nothing fancy, but exactly as functional as I want. I'm starting over on the blog thing, so if you want to giggle over or make fun of any previous entries let me know.