Gheorghle: The Dumbest Quiz Game

Several of your favorite Gheorghies (and Dave) are in a group chat solely dedicated to sharing daily results of various online quiz games we complete. We do the Wordle, the Worldle, Connections, The New York Times mini crossword, Bandle, and Framed nearly every day. Some folks add the Quordle and Strands. It's a lot. 

We're also continually scouring the interwebs for new games to play. I do Immaculate Grid for baseball, even though most days it reminds me how much I've forgotten about trivia I once knew about ballplayers. Dooger shared some really dumb one about checking boxes the other day. There will be more.

In addition to participating in brain gaming, I'm quite prone to expressing myself in absurdly random ways when I'm alone. Sometimes just in my head, and sometimes aloud. Today, we're combining the two things for your amusement and participation.

In the spirit of collective mental exercise combined with whimsy, I'm pleased today to introduce The Gheorghle. The concept is simple. I list a handful of thoughts that pop into my head or things that come out of my mouth, and you have to guess the context. Points are given completely subjectively by me for accuracy and comedic value, not necessarily in that order. I'll reveal the actual inspirations for the phrases at some point, via some means.

Herewith The Gheorghle #1:

1. Fuck, Fergie Jenkins is Canadian!

2. Merde

3. Golf balls!

4. PEPE LE PEW!

5. Who are these new frens?

Answer in the comments. Or in the group chat. And enjoy!

New Recurring Bit, Because I Ran Out of Gas: The Sports Illustrated Covers

Much has been made of the impending (and moronically inevitable) demise of the greatest sports magazine of our time, Sports Illustrated. After Authentic Brands denuded the once must-read publication and announced it was planning to go all-digital, Minute Media stepped in recently with plans to continue publishing on a monthly basis. It is, to state the obvious, not what it once was. 

When I heard the initial news that the once-great SI was going out of print, I made a stupid and futile decision, like we're meant to. I decided to write a post naming the best covers in the magazine's history. That was in January.

I got all the way through 1979 before running out of gas, and so that's where this first edition ends. And so I present to you G:TB's definitive list of the best Sports Illustrated covers from 1954 to January 1979. 

Swimsuit issues are an entirely separate category, but if we were to include them, we'd go with Elle.

In general, there's a bias towards action shots for me, though as you'll see, I make an exception or two for striking imagery of fascinating people. Import matters, but in general, this list is about the pictures more than it is about the newsworthiness.

Here we go, in chronological order:

The first one, August 15, 1954, featured Milwaukee Braves' slugger Eddie Mathews. It's a classic.

In February 1958, SI dropped a peach of an image of Villanova high jumper Phil Reavis.

January 22, 1968, Jerry Kramer carrying Vince Lombardi off the field after the Packers won Super Bowl II.

Great shot of a seminal moment in college hoops history from March 28, 1966.

From January 25, 1971 - this one's got import and a cool image.

The iconic Jim Kiick and Larry Csonka from August 7, 1972.

Classic, from February 27, 1978.

This one from January 8, 1979 is personally significant - these were formative years for your boy. Gut check is still a phrase with weight in Alabama.

Notify, Vol. VIII

Rob recently checked in on the WFCSAGS recurring feature and provided an update. Not sure Zman can with WCSAGD, other than to keep saying "Nobody's bought one yet!"

Well, here's an update nobody even asked for -- the Notify News! Welcome back to the Notify show, the one where we highlight songs not on Spotify!

And here's the latest, including which songs we highlighted that are now available on Spotify after all. [If you think I'm implying with such a post as this that the G:TB Notify posts have influenced the powers that be at Spotify, well, yes, yes I am.]

Here are the songs that I brought to that platform for you:

• De La Soul, "Eye Know"
• Toad the Wet Sprocket, "Rock and Roll All Nite"
• Garth Brooks, "Hard Luck Woman"
• Klark Kent, "Away from Home"
• All of Neil Young!
• CSNY, "Woodstock"
• Joni Mitchell, "Big Yellow Taxi"
• Nils Lofgren: "Keith Don't Go," "Bullets Fever," and "Jhoon Rhee Ad"
• The Blues Brothers, "Shake a Tail Feather"
• The Smithereens, "In a Lonely Place"
• The Dream Academy, "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want [instrumental]"

Z Specials

• The Beatnuts, "Off the Books" (on compilation and Big Pun album)
• Nina Simone, "Gin House Blues [live]"
• The Pharcyde, "I'm That Type of N****"

The rest, for which we remain ever vigilant:

• Brian Wilson, "Brian Wilson"
• Stevie Wonder vs The Clash, "Casbah Uptight"
• UB40, "One in Ten"
• CvB, "Laundromat"
• Arcade Fire, "Guns of Brixton [live at BBC Culture Show]"
• The Clash, "Listen"
• Aztec Camera, "Jump"
• CvB, "Eye of Fatima"
• Strontium 90, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic"
• The Police, "Nothing Achieving"
• Dropkick Murphys, "Guns of Brixton [live]"
• Wyclef Jean, "Electric City"
• Pizzicato 5, "Twiggy Twiggy"
• Danger Mpouse, "What More Can I Say"
• The Clash, "(In the) Pouring Rain"
• Cracker, "Been Around the World"
• Total Coelo. "I Eat Cannibals [original]"
• Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, "Prime Mover"
• The Walkmen, "Greasy Saint"
• Ray LaMontagne, "Crazy"
• Father John Misty, "The Suburbs"
• Bruce Greenwood & Circle the Wagons, "2 Ft. O' Butt Crack"

Okay, there's the recap. But what about some new Not-ifies?

Fair enough. 

Who doesn't love Ween?? Well, I don't right now, since they cancelled the show that was playing around here this weekend. But then again, it was for Deaner's mental health, and I'm for that. We waited out Gener, we'll wait for his buddy. 

Here are a couple of lost tracks.

Here's a tune they wrote when Captain Trips died.

And another for an All-Star pitcher's cousin. Love this one.

Speaking of dying, the Margaritaville Man died last year, and here's an old tune he did that appeared on the Urban Cowboy soundtrack.

Here's one that didn't even have a presence online until a month ago. An old tune by old VU-er John Cale, somewhere in the late 1970's. 

And there there's this. 1983's sophomoric, misogynistic, ludicrous, and mildly amusing Jerky Boys precursor, "Cooky Puss!" All hail Carvel ice cream. This ain't no Fudgie the Whale. 

That's all for Notify this go-around!

BUT... that's not all for Cooky Puss!  Stay tuned for Part II of the Cooky Puss saga!! It's fascinating!!

It's News to Me [***NEW RECURRING BIT ALERT!***]

I know a lot of things. Mostly inconsequential and esoteric things, but a lot of things nonetheless. But as Bill James tells us, the world is a billion times more complicated than our minds, and so there's a universe of stuff out there that someone knows, but that I don't.

Case in point, the origin story of Old Bay Seasoning.

Gustav Brunn was a successful spicemonger (we should use 'monger' for more things: zman is a lawmonger, for example) in Wertheim, Germany in the late 1930s. On Kristallnacht, he was one of 30,000 Jewish men who were captured by the Nazis and taken to the notorious Buchenwald concentration camp. At this point in history, the Nazis had yet to initiate their ghastly final solution, and men of means were often able to purchase their freedom. Brunn's family paid a lawyer 10,000 Deutschmarks to secure his release.

Brunn and his family left immediately for the United States and settled in Baltimore. He emigrated with very little, but he was adamant that he take his hand-crank spice grinder on the trans-Atlantic journey.

Unable to secure funding from banks to start a new business because he was Jewish (and after getting fired from McCormick for the same reason), Brunn got an assist from Katz American, a Jewish-owned competitor in the spice game. Katz loaned him the seed capital necessary to start Baltimore Spice Company, which in 1940 developed a seafood spice to pair with the crabs coming into town at the Wholesale Fish Market, which was immediately across the street from Brunn's business.

The rest, as they say, is history, save for one ironic coda. Brunn's business and McCormick feuded for years as the latter marketed a seafood seasoning in a suspiciously yellow tin. In 1990, five years after Brunn passed, the company sold the recipe for Old Bay to McCormick. Those dicks. 

Some of you may know this story, but it was news to me. 

New Feature Destined Never to Recur

My wife hipped me to this band over the weekend. Fairly straightforward modern alt-rock sound. Singer's got pretty good pipes that sound...familiar. 

Without employing the Ghoogles, see if you can guess that singer's lineage. Submit your answers in the comments. And if you know already, shut your piehole.

The Elegy for a Dive Series, Pt. 3

Dusting off this recurring segment which actually recurs, a couple of years later. Thanks to OBX Dave for contributing the elegy for one of his College Park haunts. To the rest of you . . . sod off.

The "Elegy for a Dive" Series

Wherein we pay tribute to dingy bars of yesteryear which served us well on many long-forgotten nights of revelry-cum-debauchery.  Three at a time, like shots of Jäger.

The Texas-Wisconsin Border Café
Richmond, VA
Closed 1999

Ah, the Tex-Wis. The cream of the crop in dive bars in The Fan in the 90's. Lone Star beer in the bottle, widow-maker chili in the bowl. Badger-State-born VCU Arts school profs (later a Dean) and Texan named Donna built a place where you could get Tex-Mex plus brats and cheese and all the cheap swill you could guzzle, Animal heads and license plates adorned the walls, and they had bands quite a bit. It was written that "The Texas-Wisconsin Border Cafe’s divey, eccentric nature attracted everyone from musicians to judges, and rockabilly and blues bands, including Drive-By Truckers, played for cash and unlimited PBR."

We used to go in there for the cheap suds and the chicken-fried steak.  The place was often packed, always loud, and you could count on getting yelled at by the waitresses. Our buddy Coby was a budding attorney then, and this was his dive of choice. He's a partner with a large national firm now, and he'd give quite a bit to have this gem still nestled in the edge of the Fan. 

So sad, the Texas-Wis
A place that we all miss
Though our arteries do not
With Rolling Rock on tap
Lord, I hated that crap
Especially served hot

Whitlow's on Wilson
Arlington, VA
Closed 2021

WOW! That's what the mugs they'd give you used to say. Whitlow's-On-Wilson. This staple of the Clarendon neighborhood of Arlington was a good little family bar . . . that kept buying up parts of the block and expanding until it was a big one. It was a strange combo of seeming a half-step up from our greasy spoon super-dives but never really classy in the least. It was a plain old neighborhood bar. And often packed to the gills.

Rob and I spent a good amount of time there. We shot lousy stick and talked to a (very) few females with lousier shtick. Our Cowboy barkeep Manny quit the 'boy in the early 2000's and defected to Whitlow's, where our fraternity brother Jay's fiancée was already catching shifts. Hence, our increased attendance there. Thursday nights were Mug Nights, $5 for the mug and $2 refills on the cheap stuff all night. 

Whitlow's was never one of my favorite DC area bars, but it was always solid, and it was always there. Any people I'd meet who lived up that way in the 17 years since I vacated the area would always have been Whitlow's drinkers at some point. It was a mainstay . . . or at least it was until a year ago.

So sad, my Whitlow's mug
And the beer that I would chug
Gone for evermore
I'll miss the drunk times spent
But I shall not lament
That long line out the door

The Weeping Radish Brewery
Manteo, NC Grandy, NC
Closed 2022

Okay, okay. So the Radish was never a dive per se. It was a brewery, and it was a German restaurant, and it happened to have a little barroom. That little room was our dive, a hideaway in which you could congregate a group of knuckleheads once a year to drink between 1 and 3 liters of rather strong German beer, throw darts, play Ms. Pac-Man, gather in a circle for a xenophobic drinking game, and ultimately fall down and get pinned under a tiny cup of horseradish made of lead. You know, the usual kind of joint.

Dave, rob, and others spent the summer of '91 in Nags Head, and they came back with stories about this microbrewery (North Carolina's oldest, 1986) with super strong beer, and you drink a big mug of it and get hammered. Real juvenile stuff. So then we graduated from college and got jobs and girlfriends and came down for a summer vacation with friends . . . and drank big mugs of the super strong beer and got hammered. Dave like the Blach Radish blend, while Rob and I enjoyed the Fest. Lesser palates would get the Corolla Gold. Evan asked for PBR every year.

Oh, the stories. Many too esoteric to enjoy, but just know that the 12-24 of us would leave the comfy confines of the Martha Wood deck mid-sunny afternoon -- after drinking for hours -- to drive over the bridge into Manteo, annex the barroom, and drink a couple of beers before returning home. Wrecked. On those special occasions, we wouldn't go straight home, as the go-karts were en route, but we wised up after a handful near-incarceration/death experiences. One year, we traipsed in to hear the bartender say, "Oh, lord, has it been a year already?" It was a ritual.

Sometime around the turn of the millennium, about the same time that a sect within the OBFT crowd called Brothers Against the Radish (BAR) won favor and negated our annual death sojourn, the Weeping Radish moved out of Manteo and full-time into its farmhouse on the mainland in Grandy. We never went. And this article I read yesterday indicates that the Radish is closing its doors for good. Fare ye well, Radish Weepers, and keep 'er between the lines on the way home.

The Radish packed a punch
One time rob e'en lost his lunch
Liter mug in hand
The tale we'd later tell
We told the Radish, go to hell
We were actually banned

Remedial Listening & a Lenten Commitment

Well, we missed Dave's birthday last year . . .but we missed Mardi Gras this year! Poo-yee-yi!

How many of you gheorghies have been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans? I myself hit "Carnival" twice, both in the mid-90's when I wore a much younger man's beads. The Quarter is everything it's hyped to be on such occasions, but Uptown is splendid. Lovely parties and parades. Someday I shall return.

You know who didn't miss the Gras this year? Shorty. New tune out for Fat Tuesday.

I hope Ash Wednesday treated you all well, and that those of you Catholics, Episcopalians, and other faiths that observe Lent are now adhering your commitments to give something up for 40 days and nights.

As for me? Well, I've been kind of lazy about it for a long time, but my folks and my daughters give something up for Lent every year. Some time ago, someone told me that there's as much value in adding something good to your daily repertoire as there is in eliminating something not so good. So... for Lent, I dedicate myself to calling a friend I haven't talked to in a while once a day until Easter.

We'll see if I can remember this. Maybe don't sit by your phones waiting.

The Gheorghe Vhault

Listen, the world needs content, now more than ever. And here at GTB, I intend to provide you that content, even if it's something we've already posted before, by someone either than me. I've decided we'll call these flashback filler posts The Gheorghe Vault.

With baseball on our minds, at least until the season ends abruptly in a week because 69% of the players have the rona, a long ago post from Whitney came to mind. It was classic GTB - I had half an idea, did nothing with it in drafts for weeks, and then one day Whit unleashed the tour de force below. What I just realized in thinking I was cute with this "Gheorghe Vhault" idea is I resurfaced this post four years ago because I enjoyed it so much. Let's ignore that fact completely (much as Ronald Dion DeSantis ignores logic and science on an hourly basis) and enjoy GTB's Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster:

I think I promised this post to Rob a year ago, but with the sports world being a dead zone for the last few days, I finally got around to it (with some-- all the-- help from Whitney). After sifting through this, you all might agree I (Whit) should've kept it on the shelf for another year...

It's that time of year again. The dust has settled on another Major League Baseball All-Star Game, meaning the appropriate media outlets can swiftly turn their focus onto the next such endeavor. And year after year, that endeavor is this fan favorite. Get ready for . . .

G:TB's 2007 Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster

Lineup:

The Cookie Crook, Cookie Crisp, CF - Your light-hitting, speedy lead-off batter if there ever was one. The speed of Vince Coleman, but unfortunately the same degree of character as well. Much like we saw when Tyson lost Cus D'Amato, The Crook suffered greatly after the demise of Cookie Jarvis, but he's still a force to be reckoned with in centerfield. . . and anywhere near a bowl of cookies that somehow, beyond all comprehension, masquerades itself as cereal.

L.C. "Lucky" Leprechaun, Lucky Charms, RF - Not as legendary as the MLB version of "The Mick," Lucky's nonetheless a Cereal League force with the lumber and the amber, roaming right field and pub floors of Dorchester with equal frequency. (And it's rarely milk in that bowl.) He loves to play up the Irish thing with the fans, though insiders know his last name is actually Kowalczyk. From the Charms' 2007 Media Guide: "Turn-ons include green clovers and the hit-and run; turn-offs include the designated hitter and 'those f%#@ing brats who're always after me lucky charms'." Fast fact: Lucky's been ejected from three All-Star Games in his career.

Sugar Bear (a.k.a. Super Bear), Super Sugar Crisp (a.k.a. Golden Crisp), LF - The beefy slugger has long been accused of illegal supplements, and his oft-uttered motto "Can't get enough of that Super Sugar Crisp" may speak to his addiction to the stuff. Palling around with Starsky & Hutch's guy Huggy Bear and Fletch's buddy Gummy Bear doesn't help his image any. The power this All-Star brings to the table does impress, of course, but the Rock Raines-like name changes only serve to confuse and cast Sugar Bear in a shadier light. True Fact: "Sugar Bear has been voiced by Gerry Matthews since 1963." True Fact 2: "Last winter Gary Matthews Jr. was accused of ordering/using Human Growth Hormone." Coincidence?

Tony the Tiger, Frosted Flakes, 1B - The big-bat, fading glove Tony is a first-ballot Hall of Famer, make no mistake. Though his bellowing voice and rah-rah "gr-r-r-reat" attitude has earned him something of a reputation as a clubhouse blowhard over the years, he's still beloved by his legion of fans. He's a DH-in-training, but for now Tony's the cornerstone of the franchise and even the league. His club the Frosted Flakes (or as they're known in the UK, the Frosties) has fallen into mid-major status, but he'll be remembered long after they bury that red bandanna behind Kellogg's HQ.

Dig'em, Kellogg's Smacks (formerly Sugar Smacks, Honey Smacks, etc.), SS - What a great little guy. The heart and soul of any team he plays on, including the All-Star team. The Smacks' franchise (another, like the Anaheim/Los Angeles, California Angels of Anaheim/Los Angeles, California, whose owners have felt the need to repeatedly change names with the times), was in turmoil for a very long time at this position. It's not unlike the New York Yankees of the 80's and 90's, who suffered through Opening Day shortstops Roy Smalley, Tim Foli, Bobby Meacham, Wayne Tolleson, Rafael Santana, Alvaro Espinoza, Randy Velarde, Spike Owen (Big Stein was so jealous of the '86 Series, he nabbed both batless shortstops), Mike Gallego, and Tony Fernandez to finally get to Derek Jeter. The Smacks club waded through the following dreck as mascots before Dig 'Em came on the scene in 1972: various clowns, including Cliffy the Clown; a seal named Smaxey dressed in a sailor suit; Quick Draw McGraw; The Smackin' Bandit, a half-mule, half-kangaroo who kissed everyone in sight; The Smackin' Brothers, two boys dressed in boxing shorts and boxing gloves; an American Indian Chief on a horse. Dig 'Em put them on the map with his power stroke, slick fielding, base-stealing, and enormous sneakers. He's the coolest of the mascots -- perhaps the anti-Tony -- and we dig 'im.

Cap'n Crunch, 3B - Ah, the old Cap'n. Came on the scene in 1963 and is still ranked the fans' #1 favorite. Horatio Magellan Crunch, Jr. (real name) has enjoyed a Ripken-like streak of consistency, not to be undone by his advanced age, that Crunchberry Beast sidetrack, or by kids scraping the roofs of their mouths with his unsogged cereal. If his bat has slowed, we can't tell. His is a storied career with many ups (World Series of Cereal rings, promoted to Admiral briefly) and a few downs (disappeared in 1985 & 1999; Crunch franchise held "Where's the Cap'n?" promo but actually couldn't find him -- he was in a closet on his ship). The Cap'n has a dedicated fan base, almost creepily so. But he's a cornerstone of this roster, to be sure. (Am I the only idiot who didn't realize the cereal is little treasure chests? I never got that.)

Toucan Sam, Fruit Loops, C - Sam's another All-Star stalwart, and he'll be manning the dish for the Cerealites this year in the Midbreakfast Classic. He can wing it, so baserunners will certainly be taking heed as they have all season. Meanwhile, his solid if unspectacular bat complements his veteran approach to the game, the "follow your nose" method. (Sam was also reputed to be in the Cocoa Puff crowd for such a slogan, but it was later dismissed as rumor.) Did You Know?: Toucan Sam originally had a much larger beak and a Carmen Miranda-esque fruit-hat. His subsequent beak-job and ditching of the hat were presumably to be so he could don the catcher's mask.

BuzzBee, Honey Nut Cheerios, 2B - A little younger than some of his peers on this All-Star roster, but he's become a star in his own right. Many "Cheerios Classic" fans were reluctant to adopt the little slap hitter and glove man, but Buzz somehow managed to bridge the gap between the sugared franchises with their animated mascots and the health cereals with beaming parents and grinning adolescents. Is he fun to party with? Hell, no. Does he belong on this team? You bet.


Pitchers:

Sonny, Cocoa Puffs, SP - It's easy to sit back and marvel about what a career Sonny might've had if it weren't for his troubles with sugary substance abuse, but just as with Steve Howe, all that powder derailed a promising future. Such a fireballer being drafted by the "Coca Puffs" was the kiss of death, but Sonny has persevered tirelessly, as evidenced by his All-Star selection. Beloved by the fans, everyone wants to give him that 50th "second chance." Here's hoping he can hold it together and not go cuckoo this time.

Trix Rabbit, Trix, SP - The classic junk cereal pitcher in the style of Gaylord Perry, Eddie Harris, and Boo-Berry. Much like Cocoa Puff Sonny, Joaquin Andujar, and the Quik Bunny, the silly rabbit has had trouble keeping his composure on the field over the years, but his deceptive style leaves many swinging at air. Another in a long line of rabid animals who steal sugared cereals from children, the Trix rabbit franchised himself with arguably the catchiest of catch phrases, one quipped by dorky execs and pirated by Deadheads.

Count Chocula, RP - Every ballclub has one these days, the reliever from a foreign land with a wicked slider and a few cultural quirks. They just don't happen to have one as effective as the Count. He also has the heart-touching story: he passed up an opportunity back home for a solid career of achieving supernatural powers by sinking his fangs into the jugulars of his fellow citizens, consuming their blood, and turning them into similarly undead and horrific creatures, giving it all up to play baseball in the Cereal Leagues. He still gets teased for his accent and lumped in with those stiffs Boo-Berry and Yummy Mummy, but he presses on, having turned into a more-than-reliable closer. He still gets mocked by his peers back home for "going the breakfast route" when he's supposed to shy away from sunrises. And he still gets threatened by the religious right for his habit of pointing at the ground and thanking Satan every time he strikes out a batter, but he's just happy to be doing what he loves night in and night out. And playing baseball.

Bench:

Snap, Crackle, & Pop, Rice Krispies, IF/OF - These jacks of all trades, masters of none, weren't voted in, they were selected by the manager. The fans have never truly responded to this trio, but their peers seem to have even less respect. "The Hanson Brothers they ain't," quipped one All-Star who asked to remain anonymous. Another added, "Snap has no arm and Pop has no power -- they should be called the Misnomers." A third chimed in: "And Crackle . . . I mean, who the hell is Crackle, anyway?" They remind a few onlookers of the 2007 New York Yankees bench, and the word "light" seems to go hand in hand with any mention of them. But . . . the manager wanted them on the club. Crackle just left rehab (again), so they'll be reunited again at General Mills Park for the All-Star Game. Get fired up.Manager:

Wendell, Cinnamon Toast Crunch - The skipper of Cereal Cup champs CTC, Wendell's kindly old man exterior belies an irascible curmudgeon in the clubhouse. A few ground rules when interviewing Wendell: 1.) Don't ask him about his penchant for the quick hook. 2.) Don't say anything even hinting at Cinnamon Toast Crunch being an "expansion franchise." 3.) And by God, do not ask him about including Snap, Crackle & Pop on this roster. There's a reason the other bakers don't speak in the commercials. Wendell's an old school manager on a new school club. You saw how well that worked in Tampa with Lou, right?

So there you have your 2007 Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster. Enjoy the festivities, all the hoop-la, and be content in the knowledge that world today is a better place than it was 20 or 30 years ago, if only for the fact that the rash of thievish, insane animals, badly-dressed, freakish creatures, and/or B-grade horror movie clichés burglarizing our kitchens and stealing our children's breakfasts seems to have passed. Pleasant dreams, and a very happy tomorrow morning.

The Elegy for a Dive Series, Pt. 2 (A Dave Fairbank Joint)

Rendezvous Inn
College Park, Md.
Closed 1996

At its heart, the Rendezvous Inn was a dive. A popular dive, but still a dive. It promised nothing more than cheap beer to college kids with little money. It was a social hive with alcohol, and while at the University of Maryland I spent an unhealthy amount of time there.

The ‘Vous, as it was known, was located just off the southeastern edge of campus, at the corner of Route 1 and Knox Road, a nondescript block building with windows on one side. It was a no-frills, rectangular space that held 500-600 people, with the bar in the middle of the room, a jukebox in front and booths against the walls. The drinking age in Maryland was 18 when I went to school and wasn’t raised to 21 until 1982.

The smell was the first thing that hit you when you entered, an unmistakable wave of stale beer and bodily fluids that permeated the floor, the seats, the walls, the ceiling, everything. In cold weather, the smell of damp wool and heavy clothing mixed with beer created its own unique aroma.

Patrons often had a separate pair of “’Vous shoes” because the terracotta floor routinely had a film of beer that ruined regular shoes. If someone vomited, it was standard practice to rinse the area with beer or water and continue drinking.

As one alumna told the school newspaper, the Diamondback: “Envision everything like black wood and sticky. Like no joke, the tables were sticky, the floors were sticky, the bar was sticky, everything was sticky with beer because (there) was just constantly beer thrown all over the floor. It was gross, it was absolutely gross, but that was where we’d go.”

Bathrooms were downstairs and best approached with a HAZMAT suit and flamethrower. Urinals in the men’s room were routinely broken or absent, leaving guys to simply pee into holes in the wall. Management wised up and installed a stainless steel trough that was no less disgusting but far more durable.

The ‘Vous opened as early as 8 a.m. on snow days, and there was a saying: Two to two at the ‘Vous. Plenty of people on Fridays arrived at 2 p.m. and stayed until closing at 2 a.m. As I recall, pitchers were $1.75 during Happy Hour, and they might have doubled during regular hours. The owner said in one story that they went through 200 kegs and 2,000 cases of beer per week.

Of course, behavior and hygiene were questionable. People regularly poured beer into and drank out of each other’s shoes. There was something called a butt pour. Someone would drop their pants and bend forward. A pitcher was poured over his or her butt, with empty cups underneath to catch the spillage, which was then consumed. Occasionally, guys would engage in a beer slide if the floor was particularly slick and filmy. They’d take off their shirts, and sometimes their pants, and folks would clear a path. They’d get a short running start and dive and slide on their chests, to see how far they could go.

My dad met me at the ‘Vous one evening during my senior year. Said he wanted to see the place I’d mentioned and so many other College Park denizens talked about. We went in and secured a booth. As the evening progressed, friends trickled in after class, study sessions, bong hits, whatever. When they approached the booth, I said, I’d like you to meet my dad. They laughed. You see, it wasn’t unusual for older gents to wander in and find a seat at the bar for a few beers among the kids. Students often struck up conversations with them, and they became one more drinking buddy for the evening.

Anyway, they laughed and I said, no, really, this is my dad. He pulled out his driver’s license to prove it. Much cheering and applause. He hung with us for the next couple of hours, buying pitchers and telling stories and being the center of attention. He reveled in it. I’m certain he should not have driven home that night. But it being the late ‘70s-early ‘80s, and it not being his first rodeo, he made it safely.

The ‘Vous closed its 37-year-run in Dec. 1996, as Route 1 and areas around campus developed, and kids began to gravitate toward cleaner, more upscale bars and eateries. That it lasted as long as it did is a marvel. Sort of.

Raise a glass, make a toast

Cheers! Kanpai! Slainte! Prost!

A watering hole with filth and germs

Lifted spirits and dismissed gloom

And possessed the power to affirm

It’s not where you drink, but with whom

The Elegy for a Dive Series, Pt. 1

Peter Meinke is from Mountain Lakes, NJ. He is an author, a professor, a Florida resident, and an American poet of some acclaim. According to Wikipedia, from 2003 through 2005, he held the Darden Chair in Creative Writing at Old Dominion University here in Norfolk.

In 1983, he composed "Elegy for a Diver," a piece oft-referenced online, which begins:

Jacknife swandive gainer twist
High off the board you’d pierce the sky
And split the apple of the devil sun
And spit in the sun’s fierce eye.
When you were young you never missed,
Archer-diver who flew too high
So everything later became undone.

Lovely and blue, as Ryan Adams would say.

The elegy, as most of you probably remember from English class and Dave could possibly tell you, is a poetic lament for the dead. Surely you recall Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" or Walt Whitman's "O Captain! My Captain!" for my buddy Abe.

Fans of the underrated 1994 classic Four Weddings and a Funeral undoubtedly remember this dusted-off elegy in the film's saddest moment.

Anyway...

I come here not to bury you with English Lit, but to praise long-lost loves. Like an elegy.  Understand, good people, that:

"For modern and contemporary poets, the elegy is a poem that deals with the subjects of death or mortality, but has no set form, meter, or rhyme scheme."

Well then. Smell the smell-egy. The lame lament. Enjoy my bloggy version of what is another recurring segment destined not to recur:

The "Elegy for a Dive" Series

Wherein we pay tribute to dingy bars of yesteryear which served us well on many long-forgotten nights of revelry-cum-debauchery.  Three at a time, like shots of Jäger.

The Village Idiot
New York, NY
Closed 2004

First in Greenwich Village, obviously, but then in the Meatpacking District.  I was introduced to this joint a couple of decades ago by Dave's professor buddies, a crew of elders who'd perform their own elegiac tribute to a fallen comrade with a bar crawl down Broadway. Like all the way down Broadway and then some, ending in Battery Park. Along the way, the Idiot was a stop. Oh, my.

PBR in the can before it returned to glory. 70's porn on the TV in the corner of the bar. Smoke in the air before it got banned -- a death knell for the Village Idiot, since it smelled of upchuck. My dad once pleaded with my sister not to let me go there, as he'd read a review that called it a "vomitorium." Sorry, Dad. Leave your credit cards at home. Leave your bra in the rafters. For several years, this was home whenever I was in NYC. May my friend the Idiot rest in peace, as they'll say when I'm gone.

Lord, what a pity it
Is to hear the Idiot
Is finally closing her doors
Wretched refuse cast asunder
That pungent Pabst chunder
Lost for evermore.

The Dixie Grill
Washington, DC
Closed 1996

I moved to DC in the fall of 1993 and took a job that paid $11.53 an hour. I had it made. Three of us split rent of $1000 (somehow Rob got the big room), and we ate cheaply, (more than) occasionally splurging on Cowboy Cafe burgers or Lost Dog sandwiches.  For beers, we drank Natty Lights at home with Sega, Beavis, and Butt-Head, and when we went out we looked for deals. And then we stumbled upon an extraordinary one.  The Dixie Grill, 10th and F across from the Ford's Theatre (you know, where what happened gave Walt Whitman an elegy to write).

Pitchers of Pabst, before its return to commercial success (recurring theme) were $4.In DC! That's what pitchers at the College Delly had been when we started college. (Dean jacked up prices to $4.50 and beyond after that.) They had crappy pool tables, dirtbag decor, country music, and those cheap suds. And drunk people, naturally. More than one among our enthusiastic group of Dixie Grill fans went home with a bad idea and a good story. Well, some months later, prices got shifted, PBR turned to something even swillier, and it just faded out of our rotation. A couple of years later, it was gone. But for a brief instant, it was too good to be true, and we were all over it.

Lord, what a travesty
A place with zero majesty
Has ceased to open its taps
Hard not to think of Lincoln
At Dixie with $4 drinkin'
Still, I won't miss the craps

The Atlantis
Nags Head, NC
Closed 1996

The very first Outer Banks Fishing Trip was in 1994. 17 jackelopes from various points elsewhere
descended on a stretch of beachy community that I had known growing up; that many of us had visited for Beach Weeks; and that Dave, Rob, and others had called home one dingy college summer. The locale is blissful anyway. Pack in our merry band of misfits, and it's unbeatable. Add in some rock and roll music in a beachfront dive bar, and you truly have yourself somethin' special. The Atlantis.

This article appeared last weekend, and it's what prompted this post. A grimy music venue that hosted the likes of Dave Matthews Band, Widespread Panic, and yes, Blue Oyster Cult, were among the acts that played there. I usually made it there for lesser-knowns like the All Mighty Senators, Awareness Art Ensemble, maybe the Poetics or Connells. Much was consumed there, and the stories flowed like wine. The OBFT II tale is one for the ages, best resurrected over a cold one on the deck. I'm not sure I'll come across another joint quite like the Atlantis. Lo, she is missed.

Lord, what a tale of woe
The Atlantis, not here no mo'
Beach life's become more dismal
The ladies, lewd but leggy
My rap, over low-fi reggae
Was even more abysmal


So begins this segment. Reflect with me, shed a tear, share a story, crack a beer. I fear we are going to lose a few more of my favorites this year.

Clarence Is A Punk Rocker (Part 1 of 5)

I don't know if it'll make any change, but I figured it's time for me to start posting some music stuff again.

Last time around, I offered up 25 vintage 1980’s rap classics. This time I’ll throw out a five part-series of one of my favorite genres: the widely encompassing label known as punk. For what it’s worth, I love punk rock in all its form, really good and totally crappy.

If, as Harlan Howard surmised, country music is simply “three chords and the truth,” punk rock might be two chords and a sneer. Punk, after all, was and is much more about the attitude than the musicality. (“When I saw the Pistols, I suddenly realized that I wasn’t alone in the fact that I couldn’t play too well.” – Joe Strummer) In most cases in rock history, style over substance has made for utterly shite tunes . . . Somehow in this case that ridiculous formula worked masterfully in many cases, with the dirty little secret being that a lot of these guys were/became pretty damn skilled.

Here’s a layman’s recipe for punk rock music. Chuck in equal parts:

Driving guitars
Vitriolic disdain
Defiantly simplistic lyrics
Defiantly simplistic chords
Atonal singing
Nothing pretty at all costs
Short songs, some times startlingly so
A horribly menacing sound
Content that equates a middle finger or two
Your natural accent . . . or a bizarrely affected accent
Social message
Or antisocial message
Or anarchic message
Or peaceful message
Or no message
Or whatever the hell you want

Mix together and remember one thing more than the rest:

If it’s worth playing, it’s worth playing loud

The first segment of this playlist series is punk’s heyday, the 1970’s. I have intentionally left out three of the stalwarts of the genre, as they deserve individual playlists of their own. You’ll know of whom I speak right away.

1-2-3-4 . . .

1. The Adverts, “Gary Gilmore’s Eyes” 
Gary Gilmore was one of the most interesting murderers of all time, immortalized by Tommy Lee Jones, Norman Mailer, and The Adverts. Gilmore donated his eyes to science. Some poor sucker got them. Yikes.
1977

2. Tom Robinson Band, “2-4-6-8 Motorway” 
Dave likes songs that count or say the days of the week (a la “Police on My Back”), and this one does the evens and odds for him. Enjoy, D. Pave.
1977

3. Sham 69, “If the Kids Are United” 
Punk anthem. Shouted, not sung.
1978

4. The Undertones, “Teenage Kicks” 
This song was known for a couple of things – Feargal Sharkey and his mates were 19-year-olds from Northern Ireland who shot to fame and never really matched it, and famed British DJ John Peel fell head over heels in love with this tune like none before or since. Hype aside, it’s pretty damn good.
1978

5. Richard Hell and the Voidoids, “Blank Generation” 
While Billy Idol’s Generation X would see their name plagiarized by lazy twentysomethings in flannel resembling Rob and me in the 1990’s, the blank generation was its punk predecessor. Other than Jello Biafra, John Doe, and Death, Richard Hell is arguably the best punk name.
1977

6. The Only Ones, “Another Girl, Another Planet” 
Covered by The Replacements (sloppily) and Blink 182 (crappily), the original one-hitter is one of the great songs of the era.
1978


7. The Damned, “New Rose” 
The Damned did everything first and got nearly zero credit, aside from Bob Marley’s song “Punky Reggae Party.” Damned if you do...
1976

8. The Modern Lovers, “Pablo Picasso” 
So good, so punk attitude. You know Jonathan Richman from There’s Something About Mary, but long before, he explained the quintessential difference between guys like you and guys like Pablo Picasso. He never got called asshole.  Not like you.
1976

9. Wreckless Eric, “Whole Wide World” 
A little-seen film (that I heartily enjoy) called Stranger Than Fiction resuscitated this tune a few years back, but it’s another off-kilter song worth hearing or trying to play.
1977

10. X-Ray Spex, “Oh Bondage Up Yours!” 
If you think the title or the shouted lyrics are punk, they pale in comparison to whatever the hell that ridiculous instrumentation that comes in about the :20 mark. (Bad sax?) Random Idiots-esque, and somehow they made it popular.
1977

11. Alternative TV, “Action Time Vision”
Lousy band name, lousy song name, but a rock song worth turning up.
1978

12. Blondie, “Hanging on the Telephone”
Debbie Harry, Chris Stein, and Co. went fairly pop before too long, but this is by far my favorite of their early efforts. And she was super-hot, for those that have only seen the latter-day beefy Blondie.
1978

13. The Jam, “Eton Rifles”
Beyond the Pistols and The Clash, you’d probably list The Jam as the next most prolific punk-origined band. Either “In the City” or this one as top early number.
1978

14. Magazine, “Shot By Both Sides”
Good and sinister. Lively punk.
1978

15. Television, “Marquee Moon” 
Not terribly punk – the weak singing excepted, but it’s good guitar rock by rebellious bastards with some random cross to bear. Two chords, my ass, I can’t play it.
1977

16. The Ruts, “Babylon’s Burning”
With anxiety. Appropriately wicked.
1979

17. Stiff Little Fingers, “Alternative Ulster” 
Made me consult an atlas. And write “Alternative Norfolk,” which never made the charts.
1979

18. The Members, “The Sounds of the Suburbs” 
The ultimate pain-in-the-ass middle class kid’s rejection of his surroundings. This is the sound.
1979

19. 999, “Homicide” 
In punk songwriting, a one-word chorus is just fine, if that word is “homicide.”
1978

20. The Skids, “The Saints Are Coming”
Given a rebirth by Green Day and Bono on MNF when the Superdome reopened after Katrina, the original featured later Big Countryman Stuart Adamson. Good shit.
1978

. . . and now my 5 favorite punk songs of the 1970’s (not performed by The Clash, Ramones, or Sex Pistols)

21. The Buzzcocks, “Ever Fallen In Love” 
Part of what's great about punk rock – just when you start to have it pegged, you’re wrong. Frenzied, guitar driven lover’s lament. The answer is yes.
1978

22. Dead Kennedys, “California Über Alles” 
Easily one of my favorite punk acts for its humor-drenched fantastic rock songs. This should be the Cali state song.
1979

23. Wire, “Mannequin”
This is a real rock song, and a great one, while . . .
1977

24. Wire, “I Am the Fly”
. . . this is one of the most menacing songs ever recorded. It exists basically to torment, and is therefore exquisite. The repetition, aggravating sounds, and degenerate lyrics make it almost the perfect punk song. Second only to . . .
1978

25. Black Flag, “Wasted”
Pre-Henry Rollins. 52 seconds. Simple. Rocking. So great. This should be the first song every fledgling band learns. And it won’t take long. Did I mention 52 seconds?
1978

Enjoy.  More to come.

Who rode it better?

zman:

or the Teej:

Alliteration Wednesdays: Woeful Winless Washington Wizards

They lost again last night, those Wizards of F(un) Street. A 92-76 defeat at the hands of the Charlotte Bobcats, a team that just last year compiled the worst winning percentage in league history. The loss drops this year's version of Les Boulez to 0-6, meaning Randy Wittman's club is steamrolling towards the franchise-worst mark of 0-8 to begin last season (yes, with the suited man above in charge).

Desultory starts to a season are a bit of a Wizards tradition. In addition to the 2011-12 asshattery that saw 0-8 become 1-12 on the way to 20-46, the 2008-09 club began the year 0-5/1-10, and the 2007-08 team also kicked off a season 0-5. This team likes to build a foundation for a season...on quicksand. If Ernie Grunfeld were to hire a new contractor to build a Verizon Center parking lot extension, it would probably be the same folks who helped Jefferson Starship whip together an entire city on simply rock and roll.

Not to pile on the Wiz, but for lack of a better term, here are some Bullets bullets that encapsulate the 2012-13 season so far:

• Washington is dead last in the league at scoring (86.0 ppg). 29th place (88.0 ppg) is held by Orlando, who traded away superstar Dwight Howard for a bag of pizzeria Combos and a Betamax player.
• The Wiz are dead last in the league in field goal percentage, making just 39.5% of their shots. The are tied for last in three point percentage, at 27.9% (thanks, Sacramento, for joining Washington in the bricklayers union).
• If we can stay on that last stat for a moment, Washington took 31 threes against the Bobcats on Tuesday night...making just five of them. Now, if you were a team that stunk at making three balls, you might think to take less in a game, right? Not these guys - they're third in the league hoisting from behind the three point line, attempting almost 26 threes a game. Gotta admire the sticktuitiveness (I'm looking at you, Trevor Ariza).

Washington takes the floor against Dallas tonight, still desperate for Win #1 this season. The Mavs have won four straight contests with the Wiz. Can Fred Gwynne's squad get it done tonight, or does 0-7 await?

Oh yeah, if you were wondering what injured point guard John wall thinks of all this, I believe this GIF from the gang at Truth About It sums it up perfectly (click the image for full effect):

Gheorghe-pourri Lives

It's baaaaaaaack..."Gheorghe-pourri", the excuse for me to clean up the G:TB editorial drafts. Let's jump right in:

rob:

"untitled"

Something about Pussy Riot and Vladimir Putin's fear thereof

"untitled"

Flat-D Flatulence Deoderizer | ColonialMedical.com http://www.colonialmedical.com/flat-d-flatulence-deoderizer-P-1004.html

Some breaking news from TR, unless he has talked himself down off the ledge:

"Declaring for Fandom Free Agency.  Coming to Terms with My Broken (Sports) Marriage."

It is with a heavy hear that I am officially announcing my break-up from the New York Knicks.  It has been a wonderful ~30 years, but I feel that our relationship is now irrevocably broken, and I must move on.  I would like to thank the 1980's players such as Bernard King, Gerald Wilkins, Marc Jackson and Patrick Ewing who led me to the team, and the warriors who gave this team an image in the early/mid 1990's, including Charles Oakley, John Starks, Pat Rileyand even Xavier McDaniel.  I would also like to thank the players who kept the fire alive in the post-Riley era, which featured ugly (though highly competitive) basketball, notably Larry Johnson, Marcus Camby and Allan Houston.

I have very little to say about this franchise over the last twelve years.  It has been a consistent churn of mid-level talent that bore the stamp of mediocrity imprinted on it by Isiah Thomas.  The team challenged my heart over and over again, and has finally broken it.  I feel nothing for these guys.  A younger, idealistic version of me might still idolize the team and its superstars, but the adult me, with finite free time and finite discretionary income, has decided to take my talents elsewhere.

The constant in the narrative of failure this millenium has been owner Jim Dolan.  I pin the blame for the failure of this marriage squarely on his tubby shoulders.  He has run this franchise like the frenetic spoiled brat he remains in his mid 50's.
s.


I'm pretty sure Rich Danko, Levon Helm and Robbie Robertson are all rolling in their grave over this sacrilege. And Robbie Robertson ain't even dead yet. 

zman wheeling out his hype machine for notoriously humble Kanye West:

"Mighty Healthy G.O.O.D. Music"

Kanye West continues to dominate, this time by borrowing the drum line and a line or two from "Mighty Healthy," one of my favorite Ghostface songs.

There are actually quite a few more items in drafts that need to be cleaned up, but these should suffice for now. Carry on.

The G:TB Parenting Chronicles

We don't often get serious in this space, but on occasion we find it important to change the tone, to put down our noisemakers and silly toys and provide sober commentary on the issues of the day. Many in the G:TB are parents, or will soon be. As ostensibly upstanding members of our various communities, the lessons we impart upon our children are vital, both to their wellbeing and to the ways in which they engage the world.

In this the first installment of our Parenting Chronicles (and given our editorial strategy, I'm quite certain there will be at least 1-3 more installments), we bring you a lesson in fatherly communication. The image below depicts a text exchange I had with my wife just last evening. My wife's texts are in white, mine in blue. Don't let your enjoyment cloud the obvious and important takeaway:

Culture Up Your Ass Wednesday

My daughters are, like many children, really interested in art. I've had lots of conversations with them lately about what constitutes art, especially as technology vastly expands artists' ability to create. My wife is still angry with me for telling the girls about Andres' Serrano's 'Piss Christ', in no small part because my oldest girl brought it up in front of her Sunday School teacher. (At least I've kept Robert Mapplethorpe's later work from their attention. Our church is pretty progressive, but that might raise some eyebrows.)

It was with the perspective of a child, then, that I encountered The Heidelberg Project, a 25 year-old effort that's turned two blocks of inner-city Detroit into a colorful folk art installation. Artist Tyree Guyton, a native of the neighborhood, mixes found objects, sculpture, bright paint, and words to "demonstrate the power of creativity to save lives." In addition to continually adding to the work, Guyton and his team offer tours and work with local children to demonstrate a different vision for their largely blighted community.

The City of Detroit tried twice in the 1990s to destroy the project razing buildings in both cases. And each time, Guyton picked up the pieces and kept at it. Now it's a protected landmark, and one of the city's leading tourist attractions.

In the first installment of another recurring feature destined not to recur, Tyree Guyton is G:TB's first Artist in Virtual Residence. He couldn't join us in person today, but his people did send word that he's humbled and flattered by this prestigious honor. More of his story below.

What the Kids Are Watching

From the creators of Better Know Your Minor League Franchise and Ceai Complet, a brand new Recurring Feature Destined to Stop Recurring.

As we age, some less gracefully than others (the entire G:TB editorial staff is in our thirties - for at least 6 more months), we find ourselves increasingly interested in how younger generations roll. A recognition of our mortality, perhaps, raging against a graying, balding, aching reality. Specifically, though, as it relates to our newest filler feature, we're focusing on a much younger generation.

According to my daughter, this is What the Kids Are Watching (I warn you in advance that this clip is NSFYS (Not Safe For Your Sanity) - if you press play, it will be in your head for the rest of the day, if not longer. Please proceed with caution.):

Life Lessons

Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo (born June 25, 1966) is older than me.