Saturday, January 14, 2006

Anderson Plays Chicken With KY

Latest news on Pamela Anderson (yes, there is actually "news" on Pamela Anderson) has her in Kentucky leading a protest against the state. Seems she's demanding they remove a bust of Harlan Sanders -- that's The Colonel to you and me -- from the State Capitol Building on the grounds that his company did a lot of vicious things to chickens -- beyond the usual decapitation, of course.

Apparently this included spitting tobacco juice in their eyes. Let's just... ponder that a moment. Or not.

Now I have no idea what that's all about or why they'd do a thing like that, though I wouldn't be surprised to find out it's true just because this is indeed a weird world we're living in, but I can't stop giggling long enough to draw up a protest sign and get on a plane to join the gang. It's just that the target is a bust. Did someone decide that Pamela Anderson was the obvious spokeswoman when "busts" were involved? (Product recognition, perhaps?) And if Kentucky demands that Ms. Anderson remove HER bust, can she wiggle out of it by pointing out that last time she did that it ended up on E-Bay and the whole thing was an emotionally draining nightmare?

Okay, no fair. It's not like she just jumped on the protest wagon for publicity. She cares about this, she cares about animal rights in general, and she's not afraid to go after a big company or even a state, which is admirable. Frankly, I have no great love for Kentucky Fried Chicken, or KFC as it is now known. When I was a kid and my mom was bringing home drive-thru food, I used to practically chant "not Kentucky Fried Chicken! Anything but Kentucky Fried Chicken" until she got home, usually with a bucket of that rock-hard, inedible crap. The rolls were good, but they were really only tiny versions of something you could get at the grocery store, so big deal. We wanted burgers and fries, not tobacco-flavored, chicken-shaped fossils. Remember when they came up with "Extra-Crispy?" I remember thinking that they probably came up with that name after weeks of brainstorming, having started with "Less-Penetrable."

All that aside, she's doing something important. If it's true that Sanders fostered those practices in his organization, from tobacco in the eye to actually ripping the heads off live chickens instead of the fast chop, then he was a creep and he shouldn't be worshipped. The bust should come down and it probably won't. This is Kentucky. This is the very, very South. No woman is going to tell them what to do, especially a porn star, which is her net worth there. The Colonel, on the other hand, is as synonymous with Kentucky as a Mint Julep. For better or for worse.

Friday, January 13, 2006

There's a distinct echo in here.

This has been a tidy field for a long time, huh? Debris-free. You could eat off the floor, it's so spotless. The demands of running a magazine made it impossible to find a spare moment to do the kinds of things I started this blog in order to do.

Not a problem anymore. Cosmik Debris Magazine sleeps with the fishes. After ten and a half years of wonderful times and great memories, we had to put it down. It never suspected a thing. Told it we were going camping, took it up in the mountains and when it leaned over the stream for a drink.... two quick, merciful shots to the index and it was done. It was... There wasn't... I really can't talk about it anymore.

The final issue and several years worth of back issues are still available at

Now that it's gone, I have nothing to do. It's a little unnerving, after all those years of constant writing. Then I remembered... Thank God I have a blog. Of course, it took me several days to remember my username and password, but I'm here.

I'm gonna dust. Posting begins soon. Get ready to slap me around with witty comebacks, please. I'll order pizza.


Friday, August 19, 2005

The Debris Field looks mighty clean

Yes, it's slow as molassas here at the moment, but that's because Cosmik Debris Magazine is way, way behind schedule and it's consuming all my time. As soon as that's online, there'll be more to do here, so keep checking back, please. THANKYA everso.


Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Whattaya want on yer tombstone?

Just a little truth, please.

We've all heard the story of the Earps and Clantons and that fateful day in Tombstone, AZ, when tensions overflowed, along with Clanton (and Clayborn) blood in what has become known as the Gunfight At OK Corral. It's a famous story. Hollywood's covered it more than once. Surely you've seen an example or two.

Turns out it's crap. Whoda thunkit? Well, we should have, since the number one rule of truth is this:


Write that down, repeat it as many times as it takes to memorize it, then have it tattooed on each arm. Hollywood can't tell the truth about anything. Hand them the most amazing true story in history and watch as they change the characters, the locations and events, and then add two or three song & dance numbers just for fun.

But it's a little more disturbing than usual when you find out something that's taught in school is a Hollywood lie. Such is the case with Tombstone's famous gunfight.

Oh, there was a gunfight, alright. Happened in 1881, and the story even names the right people. But it happened on the street that ran behind the OK Corral, not in the Corral. In a recent article, the New York Times reported that Tombstone is in danger of losing its Historical Landmark designation because most of the original buildings are gone (including the corral, as if that matters now... the dirty rotten #$&#!@s), and because the faked-old buildings aren't necessarily accurate representations of the originals. (Apparently, there are festive colors in use that weren't available on the great frontier, for starters.) Not to mention the Disney/Hollywood attractions some of the townsfolk have installed in place of true historic sights to see. But how, exactly, did the Corral get into the story? According to the town museum manager, Hollis Cook, It's down the Hollywood. Again.
Indeed, Mr. Cook said, the shootout actually took place behind the corral in a vacant lot and on Fremont Street, but Hollywood thought "O.K. Corral" was sexier. "It sold a hell of a lot more tickets than 'Gunfight on Fremont Street,' " he said.

What I want to know is how my teachers -- and probably yours -- got hold of the information in any form that made it teachable. Did it ever actually enter textbooks? Is it there now? What's true and what's crap?
Well, for starters, don't immediately believe what you see in Tombstone itself. There's some BS'ing going on. For a classic example, try the gun shop.
George Spangenberg sold weapons to both Wyatt Earp and the gang he faced at the O.K. Corral. Today visitors can see the G. F. Spangenberg gun shop - "Est. 1880," according to its sign - standing on Fourth Street. Well, actually, the shop was established only 16 years ago to cater to tourists and has no connection to the gunsmith whose name it borrowed.

"We don't say it's the same shop," said Jim Newbauer, a manager of the store, which is across the street from where the original stood. Nor does the shop go out of its way to say it isn't.

So some people suss it out, some people take you at face value, trusting that your National Landmark must be for real, are taken in. They teach their kids the things they learn when they come through this town. Or you teach their kids when they come through themselves. Some authenticity couldn't hurt, could it? Don't you think people would like to know what really happened there? So they didn't really fight in the corral... It's STILL about Doc Holliday, Wyatt and Virgil Earp and Kurt Russell and a famous gunfight.

Um, there WAS a gunfight... right?

So why not give the tourists reality, no matter what that reality is?
"They don't particularly want dusty, dried-up history," said Donna Winn, manager of a tourist attraction called Ghosts and Legends. "They want to be entertained."

Actors and stuntmen stage several gunfights a day, including one at the O.K. Corral (which also features a re-enactment by mechanized statues). But Ghosts and Legends, which opened in January on historic Allen Street, is yet a step closer to Disneyland, a haunted house of sorts with skeletons, a computer-animated ghost of Doc Holliday narrating history and special effects like a sharp blast of air when a gun is fired.

Ghosts and Legends. Great. Well at least there are a few pieces of the past still standing, and I'm sure the past isn't disrespected in those places. In THOSE places, I'm sure history is properly preserved.
The Crystal Palace saloon, whose first floor dates to the 1880's, has a faithfully reconstructed bar. But it also has a crude second-floor facade of offices, like one for Virgil E. Earp, marshal. (His middle name was Walter.)

That's just great. Scratch Tombstone from my list of must-see destinations. That's okay, it just means I go on next years trip this year instead. That's going to be a blast. I'm going on a Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid vacation. Gonna hit all those historic spots, like where they jumped off the cliff into the river, swearing all the way down, and where Butch rode the bicycle with Etta on the handlebars, and where they looked down at the posse and said "Who ARE those guys?" Yes sir. Gonna soak up some real history.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

The Battle For Algiers

I stayed home to watch this movie today, and have consumed it and its companion documentaries. This is what our media refuses to report in Iraq -- this is what International films about Iraq will be like, the movies our children will be watching and wondering why. For anyone who has not already given this film the attention, The Battle For Algiers is a masterpiece, the finest thing I've seen from Criterion Collection.

New to the Debris Field

I've never contributed articles to a web log before, and thinking about contributing to The Debris Field is like my first trip to an abandoned Army fort in the upper left hand corner of the country called Fort Casey. Walking through unlit catacombs, never quite sure where to turn (or in this case, type) next. I hope that DJ and company will help all of us direct traffic to this site and I look forward to experiencing new writing. Sort of a virtual writing and idea laboratory in real time.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

**g.r.o.u.n.d. c.o.n.t.r.o.l.**

Trying to work this morning, tapping away on the latest play, and the news of Plame is such that I can't find my center. Has anyone else experienced this? Has anyone else felt themselves so knee deep in the mire? Has anyone felt the downward pull of this so profound that your source of light dims with its ever opening storyline?

Friday, July 15, 2005

Varsity Black & Blues

Who among us doesn't have a horror story or two about a little league coach? Doesn't matter if you're male or female, tall or short, young or old. It doesn't matter if you played like Mays, and it doesn't matter if, as a baseball player, you were a hell of a science fair competitor. Most of us have dealt with the insanity of some overzealous baseball freak who fancies himself the reincarnation of Casey Stengal, or at least watched others deal with him. Even at the T-Ball level.

Yes, the T-Ball level. That's where coach Mark R. Downs, Jr., of Dunsbar, Pennsylvania plied his trade, coaching a rag-tag bunch of 8 year olds toward greatness and glory... and the title.

Wait, no, that's not right. He just coached 8 year olds swinging at a stationary baseball sitting on a post in front of them. It's how you prepare kids for little league, and it's supposed to be fun. But apparently Downs managed to turn even this assignment into fantasy baseball when he paid one of his players to injure another player so he couldn't play and bring down the quality of the lineup. According to a report on Sports Illustrated's web site,, Downs...

"...allegedly paid one of his players $25 to hurt an 8-year-old mentally disabled teammate so he wouldn't have to put the boy in the game, police said Friday.

Mark R. Downs Jr., 27, of Dunbar, is accused of offering one of his players the money to hit the boy in the head with a baseball, police said. Witnesses told police Downs didn't want the boy to play in the game because of his disability.

Police said the boy was hit in the head and in the groin with a baseball just before a game, and didn't play, police said.

Just how evil do you have to be to do something like that? It's not just the major news stories like this that make me wonder why there isn't extensive psychological testing required of anyone applying to coach children. Just go to a few games at your local field and in no time at all you'll find yourself cringing at the behavior of a coach. This far over the top? Not likely, but careful screening for the more common "Stengal Syndrome" would probably catch a creep like this guy. You've gotta love the understatement by the police officer in the case, by the way.

"The coach was very competitive," state police Trooper Thomas B. Broadwater said. "He wanted to win."

Downs has an unpublished telephone number and couldn't immediately be reached for comment Friday.

I'm pretty sure that's 666. And I didn't even need a phonebook for that.

Here's the kicker. If convicted, the mandatory penalty within the T-Ball league is a year-long ban from coaching. Call me a reactionary if you must, but if I had the job of coming up with mandatory punishments for the league, mine would be much simpler. Mine would be a blanket law stating that anyone convicted of any sort of abuse of their position as a coach would never, ever be allowed to look at the kids again, let alone coach them.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

something i'm writing

don't know why i'm writing this viciously long thing, but Deej asked for something personal.

Why I Do This, Part 1

Back in the day, before I ever concieved what media was, before I ever considered such a thing as a recording budget, definitely long before I ever set foot in an airport, I knew I wanted to play improvised music.

One of the first people whose music I’d heard and loved as a child was John Hartford. My parents had one of his records, and -- between his appearences on the Smothers Brothers’ and Glen Campbell’s shows -- he was on TV pretty frequently. My first purchase of a record with my own money (five bucks I got when I turned four) was the album with “Gentle On My Mind”, Earthwords And Music. Still have it. Autographed.

But the Hartford album that “snapped the bough” (his expression) for me was Aereo Plain, which he cut in 1971 for Warner Brothers. The record features John on vocals and banjo (and some guitar), Vassar Clements on fiddle and viola, Tut Taylor on dobro, Norman Blake on guitar, and Randy Scruggs on bass. I loved every note of every song. It was ostensibly a bluegrass album, but it wasn’t “Foggy Mountain Breakdown”. It was bluegrass that knew from Rubber Soul.

As I wrote this, Vassar Clements is undergoing chemotherapy, and the fourth anniversary of John’s passing went by recently.

I think Vassar’s and Tut’s playing on that record sparked me as much as John’s. The way everyone bounced off one another was a miracle to me. I could hear the response and reaction between the players. I was only eleven years old when I encountered that record, but I knew what time it was from the opening notes of side one. I understood immediately what was going on in that record the same way some kids see a basketball game and figure out why it works. I was never athletic enough to do basketball. Good thing I had long fingers from an early age and could finger that D chord.

A guy who lived up the street from my family, Dave Richter, was a 23 year old Deadhead with a wife, two kids (whose names -- Melissa and Duane -- belied a love for the Allman Brothers, which he immparted to me), and a killing record collection, including a complete set of Hartford albums, as well as David Bromberg, Vassar Clements, Joni Mitchell, Dave Van Ronk, the Highwood String Band, Merle Haggard, and all kinds of great stuff. Also during this time, I -- ahem -- liberated a copy of Pete Seeger’s book The Incompleat Folksinger. Between Dave’s unselfishness about making me cassettes of his records and the Seeger book, I got a great basic education.

Because of my interest in “newgrass” -- Hartford, Bromberg, Old And In The Way, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s Will The Circle Be Unbroken -- I was drawn to the local folk coffeehouse scene, which was accessable because it was all ages and generally near public transit.

This put me in regular touch with live music for the first time in my life, and I was hooked. It also placed me inside a community of musicians who were all older than me and very willing to share and teach and hand down all the chords, licks, and tunes they knew. I learned about Rev Gary Davis, Doc Watson, Martin Carthy, John Prine, Woody Guthrie, and more. I learned all those classic Tom Paxton songs that everyone played, learned a lot of Dylan, and acquired a little repertiore of my own -- about 40% Hartford, a couple Gary Davis, “Paradise” by John Prine, and a few other things I cribbed together. I signed up for every open stage and did my ten minutes and looked forward to the day when my voice would break and I could sing just like David Bromberg, whose punchlines I stole outright in my own little open stage performances.

None of my records back were by new rock’n’roll bands. I hated the rock of the seventies pretty much. All that remote prog crap I hated. All that despicable corpo shit. God, did Styx suck or what? Thank God for black music, otherwise all of radio would have sucked except for Dr Demento.

Elvis died in August ‘77. Groucho Marx died the same week.

But right around the time I turned twelve, I saw something in a music magazine about this new group from England that grossing out and offending everyone, who turned out to be the Sex Pistols. I looked through different magazines and saw something about a band from New York called the Ramones. They sounded like they were worth knowing about, and I sought out and bought the single of “Sheena Is A Punk Rocker” and things were never the same.

Aside from my love for folk music, Dr Demento, and the soul music on the radio, I loved oldies. I trashpicked tons of old singles around the neighborhood. The mother of a schoolmate from first grade had every Elvis album, and Elvis clubbed me like a baby seal. Even his crappiest movie songs have a bit of magic to them. When I was eight, my grandmother took me to see him live. Saturday, June 23, 1974, 3 PM, at the Spectrum, Philadelphia. That was the experience that shut me off from anything other than music.

John Hartford and Aereo Plain gave me ideas for my maps (thanks Uncle Dylan). The immediacy of of the folk scene in Philly gave me an aesthetic. The corpo-prog bullshit music of the period -- “Dust In The Wind” my ass -- violated everything I believed in. I got a paper route and started buying a lot of records.

Punk rock was the godsend I needed. It tied together my love for folk music and early rock’n’roll. The spirit of protest and community that Pete Seeger personified met the loud rebel bomb that was early rock’n’roll. The Ramones, Pistols, Clash, Richard Hell, Jam, Gen X -- it was the new folk music to me. It was immediate and wasn’t afraid to get angry. I didn’t see it as being away from folk music at all. I looked at sommething like “Anarchy In The UK” as the new “I Ain’t Marching Anymore “ material. The coffeehouse guys who clung to Tom Paxton and Bill Staines didn’t exactly follow me to that conclusion.

(I still hold that punk rock and hip hop should be part of every folk festival, but we’ll save that for some other screed.)

By the time I was 15, I had joined a new wave band, and the other guys in the group were all 21or just over 21. The lead singer, John Torres, was a natural born salesman and always talked my way into the bars I was clearly too young to be in. One show he got me into was the Slits at Emerald City, Halloween 1980. They were dark and intense and rhythmic and churning.

Before too long, I was kind of a club kid, going regularly to shows at Omni’s and the East Side Club, which were Philly’s two main clubs. If someone a little bigger than those clubs could handle came through, they’d either play something like an all ages show at the Elks Center (16th and Fitzwater) or the Ripley Music Hall on South Street, where they carded for real. If you were underage, you really needed heavy paper -- either amazing I.D. or a backstage crew pass.

The punk scene in Philly was amazing on any nuumber of levels. We had great bands. We had a lot of motivated self-starters who found ways to put on shows. We had better-than-usual fanzines, especially Steve Fritz’ mag Terminal, which was really welll-written and had terrific original photos. And we had great punk rock radio, between Lee Paris on WXPN and a slew of punk shows on WKDU. Between the East Side, Omni’s (before it burned down), and the Elks Center shows, it was all that and more. Plus, our proximity to NYC made Philly an essential stop for everybody who toured the Northeastern Corridor. I saw everyone and then I saw everyone I missed the first time they came through.

Somewhere in 1981, I was at Gola Electronics, a record store at 10th and Chestnut.

(For those of you who missed the era in Philly : Third St Jazz was the most well-stocked record store, Gola -- which burned down -- was cheaper and had a deep new indie/punk selection, and Sound of Market, which was also cheaper and had a deep rhythm’n’blues stock, plus the biggest selection of reggae. Armand’s Sound Odyessy in Cherry Hill Mall and Record Museum in Deptford Mall were also great sources for import singles. Then there was Booktrader, whose used record store was manned by Bob Dickie and Jacy Webster of King Of Siam, and those guys really shaped a lot of my taste.)

Rick, the guy who sold me my records at Gola, took out this album with a big clenched face on it.

“You need this.”

Back then, we didn’t have internet, and the fanzines weren’t even done on a computer. Desktop publishing was primitive, and fanzines weren’t always really timely. Nobody had cell phones, so the bands were often interviewed while they were touring their album, which meant the press often came a month or two after the show. So the record store guys were a powerful source of information. They knew you, what you bought. Rick knew I bought all the rockabilly stuff on Rollin’ Rock I could find.

So I plunked down my $5.29 for the record with the face on it: The Blasters. On the subway home, I opened it and read the lyrics on the innersleeve. The words to “No Other Girl”, the second tune on the record, spoke to me like no other lyrics I’d ever heard since “First Girl I Loved” off Aereo Plain. Merle Haggard and John Prine so far came closest, but this Dave Alvin guy knew the world of a crappy factory town like nobody I’d ever encountered. There I was, in Audubon, NJ, where everyone’s dad but mine worked at RCA or Campbell Soup. My own father’s glamour profession was bus driver.

Audubon was a bedroom community of Philadelphia. When I was going to school there, it was blue collar lower middle class. Everything sucked. Everything looked washed out, like it had been left out all summer. It was a place designed to crush ambition before your feet hit the floor upon waking.

Dave Alvin’s songs addressed the inevitable disappointment the working class was facing. It had just become the Reagan Era, and we were at the dawn of a Whole New Winter in America. Addressing the upcoming joylessness of the time was probably a good idea.

The Blasters were the greatest band of my generation. Henry Rollins was right: they were too much talent for one stage to contain. Phil Alvin’s voice was clear and forceful. Dave Alvin’s guitar was sparse and full of the kind of energy that connected Chuck Berry to the Ramones. Gene Taylor’s piano playing was full of Pete Johnson and Jimmy Yancey. The saxophone section of Lee Allen (who played on the Little Richard and Fats Domino hits) and Steve Berlin was sharp, and both guys took great solos. And the bass/drums team of Bill Bateman and Johnny Bazz was just vicious good. And they had better songs than anyone. Even their cover tunes outclassed everybody else.

The Blasters gave sense to my entire musical education up to that point. They were impacted by blues, country, folk, old rhythm’n’blues, and all the other stuff I loved and was raised on. But they were definitely taking all that music through punk rock. I saw more of what I wanted to “be when I grew up” in Dave Alvin than in anyone else at the time.

I was also a huge fan of X and Wall of Voodoo. But the band that most affected me in the wake of the Blasters was the Minutemen, who were from San Pedro.

Although the Blasters, X, Voodoo, and other bands I liked had improvised solos, but the interaction factor was not quite on the Aereo Plain level. Then someone played me the Minutemen, probably Buzz Or Howl Under Influence Of Heat, and I was pretty blown away by them. They had the funk quotient of the English bands I most liked at that time, Gang of 4 and Pop Group mainly. But their politics were most like mine. And d boon (their frontman) was intense. And the bass/drums hook-up Mike Watt and George Hurley had was like nothing in punk rock up to that time. They were the Steve Swallow and Pete LaRoca of punk rock. They had a funk approach to jazz interaction, and boon’s guitar playing was right in there. How he could sing over top of what he was playing still kills me.

Around 1982, I noticed something different starting to happen in “our” club, the East Side. Major label bands -- like Duran Duran and the Stray Cats -- were starting to do gigs there. The audience was full of guys who worked for major labels and big commercial radio. The same cocksuckers who wouldn’t program the Ramones were infiltrating. And the music was starting to get weaker. More synth bands started popping up. The hardcore punk scene got less attractive as it got more violent, and a lot of us started drifting away from that. The Philly Elks banned punk shows after the Fear gig where some boneheads decided it would be fun to rip out urinals. Trash a bank if you got real balls for real.

Between hardcore violence and crappy synth bands, I faded out. I started going to see more of the older guys, like James Brown, Wilson Pickett, and whichever Philly soul guys played down at the riverfront. I got hired by a wedding band, and I spent a lot of time sitting in my room waiting for some music that was going to finally give me the voice people’s music gave Pete Seeger, that roots music gave Dave Alvin. I even returned a bit to the folk scene.

Fortunately, a guy with a Mose Allison album was just a few feet away, looking to corrupt me to the next degree.

**g.r.o.u.n.d. c.o.n.t.r.o.l.**

a solaris-esque transmission from the erstwhile southern satellite STOP first blog posted STOP is this my future memory? STOP or does the nascent summer sun betray my optimism? STOP is lemonade all i think it is, sans vodka? STOP making sense of tarkovsky is not minimalism STOP

Friday, July 08, 2005

Better Late Than Never

It seems like I'm always late to every game. My favorite television show? West Wing. But I didn't discover it until Bravo started showing it nightly and did their big "Get everyone hooked" marathon, sometime after the third or fourth season. Same with Buffy The Vampire Slayer. And I never saw The Daily Show until long after Jon Stewart took the helm. Music? I'm a rabid reggae fan, but I climbed on board mid-Marley, not during the Studio One heyday. And while I did catch the earliest wave on the WWW, I seem to have missed the first breaks in this Podcast thing.

For those who are even farther behind than I am, a Podcast is the latest way of broadcasting just about anything, from a "radio" show to an album to a rant or whatever turns your crank. The concept is simple. A huge percentage of the population spends a huge percentage of their day strapped to an iPod. Why not pre-record shows and make them downloadable so that people can import them into their iPods to listen to at their convenience? It gives anyone a chance to be a broadcaster, and believe me, just about everyone's giving it a shot. I've been listening to a lot of Podcasts lately, and I've heard some absolute garbage. I've heard people screaming threats over political injustices, muttering nervously about sexual fantasies and even showing off some really horrific singing voices just in case someone from Idol is listening.

On the other hand, I've heard some things in the pretty good-to-great range. Former MTV VeeJay Adam Curry has a half hour Podcast called Adam Curry's Daily Source Code that's well worth listening to. He's entertaining, he's got a free hand to play music he believes in, and he seems genuinely interested in being a pioneer in this field. So much so that he's doing things like taking a laptop out to a meadow overlooking the ocean and recording his show on battery power just to show how portable (and laid back) it can be.

If you wanna hear something very strange yet addicting and funny, check out Keith and the Girl. He's a stand-up comedian, she's his girlfriend, and they live in NYC. They'll talk about anything. One show was dedicated to discussion of Keith's psychotic father and the way he messes with his kids' heads. How is that entertainment, you ask? Good question, and I'm on board, in principle, but it's the way these two talk; the banter, the delivery, the ability to laugh at themselves that makes for a show you find yourself laughing out loud at. And cringing, at times, but if they didn't dance on the edge like that, the highs wouldn't be so high.

If you're feeling like you need to have a good laugh at the current administration before you wind up crying, may I recommend Whack My Bush? The Podcasts are short at approximately five minutes, and some of the jokes fall flat, but they're firing them at you so fast there's bound to be a dud here and there. It's just what it sounds like it is: a send up of the Bushies, with Condi as the task-master who keeps little Georgie on track, Tony Blair as a whimpering little wimp - oh, wait, I guess that one wasn't such a reach - and, my favorite, Donald Rumsfeld portrayed as Yoda. "Mmm... STUPID, he is." Quite a lot of fun, all in all.

Yeah, I'm late as hell getting started, but not as late as I usually am. And what I lack in punctuality I always make up for in obsessive-compulsive devotion, so look for more recommendations as I plow my way through the... um... Podesphere?

Excuse me, I'm new here. What do we call this land o' Podcasts?

Thursday, July 07, 2005

First Post On The Left

There will be more here in a day or so, but I wanted to get an initial post online now. The Debris Field was the name of a section of Cosmik Debris Magazine, an online publication I started in 1995 and we're still doing to this day. The mag itself is mostly about music and politics (decidedly liberal), but The Debris Field was a spot where you could find anything and everything. There might be quotes, jokes, recipes or nasty evidence against some hack politician or school board member. Sometimes there was art, sometimes links to good online radio. It reflected my own short attention span. I miss that section, but it would probably be a much better blog than a magazine section. Something like that should be interactive, don't you think? So that's where we'll try to take it. Hopefully we'll find a niche, but even if it just resonates with a handful of people, that's fine with me, as long as it's good company. See you here.

DJ Johnson
Cosmik Debris Magazine