Saturday 6/1/24
Will Middlebrooks is a brutal listen on Red Sox games. Tanner Houck has been superb this season, though. Deserves full marks.
I'm motivated right now. These pages are going to be awash in blood. Like you could swim in it.
Ran 5000 stairs yesterday and did 100 push-ups. 100 more push-ups today, walked five miles, and did five circuits inside of the Bunker Hill Monument.
I've said this before, but in watching The Rifleman today, I found myself thinking, "They call him the Rifleman, what did you think was going to happen if you fucked with him?"
Listened to what may be the most intense episode of Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar, one of the five-parters. I'll talk about it later.
It bothers me that the version of the Yardbirds' 1968 Anderson Theatre gig that was reissued a few years ago cuts out some of the between-song commentary by Keith Relf. He tells you about guitar tunings before "Drinking Muddy Water" on the original Live Yardbirds Featuring Jimmy Page and has a great line regarding "how sounds are got." This needed to be excised? Why? In a similar vein, the version of Dylan's 1964 Halloween Philharmonic Hall show that's on Amazon omits the entire part where he has to ask the audience how "I Don't Believe You (She Acts Like We've Never Met)" starts.
All of the these shitty pieces about the Rolling Stones right now that are just like the shitty pieces the last time the Stones toured and the ones the time before and the time before. There's this formula all of these lying hacks use. They stick one or two adjectives in front of each song. You know what I'm talking about. So fucking robotic and vacuous. I know where every kind of word is going to fall way before I get there. As for the inevitable claims about the Stones: They're more dangerous than ever! They're sending a message to the youngsters! They sound the best they have since 1972! Fucking stop it. You suck at what you do and you're fooling no one. Cull. We need a cull. Who can write? Can anyone write? Anyone out there in the world? Because no matter what I'm reading, all I see is the same shit.
Read Victor Roman's "Four Wooden Stakes," a rather pedestrian vampire tale from 1925.
I started writing another book.
Wrote Mosaic about their upcoming Bobby Hutcherson set.
Sent along a message to my buddy about the little ghost girl. I said that I was walking by the old school the other night when I heard the piteous moans of the little ghost girl--these things always start the same way--so I stopped and asked, "What's wrong, little ghost girl?" She replied, "I just wanted to tell Amelia congratulations on graduating from threes preschool."
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