I Don't Need No Doctorate

If somebody asked me to define the Rock and Roll Spirit of 1970s (something I just coined, I think), I would use this video as Exhibit A.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZMmV6xXYFw

Humble Pie playing "I Don't Need No Doctor". The song oozes fucking Rock. Let's start with the title which proudly flaunts its non-grammar in your face. I don't need no doctor? Brilliant. Everybody used the double negative in their songs at this time. And why? Because they fucking could. If nothing else, it sounded better. I mean, take the alternative: "I Do Not Need A Doctor." That sounds like a Sesame Street tune. I Don't Need No Doctor sounds like something a Hell bound trucker clutching the wheel of a runaway 18 wheeler engulfed in flames would say.

Second, the song has no premise and little message. The fact that he "don't need no doctor" just proves he (Steve Marriot, specifically) is a fucking bad ass-- in a Rock kind of way.

Third, the proud opening of "I don't need no fucking doctor", like the infamous "It's time to kick out the jams motherfuckers!" is a brilliant piece of stagemanship, throwing the audience off and kicking it into high gear. Follow it up with some teeth gnashing power chords, a face melting guitar solo, a grooving break-it-down, and a series of false endings, and you've got yourself a Heavy Metal song that had class. None of that black leather, goblins, and cannibal bullshit that came out 10 years later. This has sex. That was shit.

Fourth, consider the history. Steve Mariott was in the Small Faces (which, after Mariott's departure, later became one of my favorite bands, The Faces). The Small Faces recorded such poopers as "Itchycoo Park". Check it out:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJzcF0v1eOE

Yeah, there's Mariott front and center singing "feed the ducks with a bun" in proper Mod wear, complete with dinky guitars and childish harmonies. Then he grew up, grew out his hair, and learned how to rock. Good on 'em.

So grab your guitar and harmonica, your bottle of Jack, and your best mates, and when they tell you that you need to seek medical help-- you know what to say.

"I Hate Pikies" - Gorgeous George

It was a dreadfully slow day at work. So slow that most of us humble employees simply stood around making small talk, sipped hot water and lemon, invented entertaining dances, or occasionally checked to see if any of the smattering of customers in the restaurant needed a wet nap or two.

Behind the bar, one of the managers and myself struck up a lively conversation about a topic I know so little about, but thanks to Guy Ritchie, I have a general idea: Gyppos.

You know, gypsies, Irish travellers, tinkers, knackers, or simply, deliciously, "fuckin' pikies."

To say I was tickled by this conversation is an understatement. I was overjoyed. I was giddy. I was fascinated-- but the kind of fascinated that makes me dance up and down on my tippy toes (an odd idiosyncrasy, I know). Here's what I learned from my coworkers:

-Gyppos live in caravans in motor parks on land that they often, surprisingly, own. Their semi-nomadic culture and the land they live on is protected by the government (much like Native Americans in the US), and if they decide to come into your town, you better be sure they are not moving out until they decide to. The cops won't ask them to leave. The mayor won't either. Fucking Superman would put on his horn rim glasses and try to cover up the giant S on his chest. All because everybody is too afraid to talk to them and possibly to try and move them. Logic, force, law, etc. all have no jurisdiction when it comes to pikies. They do as they please.

-All fucking pikies are criminals. "It's just a fact, mate."

-Gyppos shit in the open.

-You can't understand a word they say.

-They have bare-knuckle boxing leagues where it is often the objective to physically scar your opponent for the rest of their lives-- not to speak of beating the piss out of them.

The most priceless quote that sent me into a childish fit of laughter comes from a good buddy of mine, "My Dad tells me he had to fight five gyppos for the love of my mum."

I couldn't stop asking questions. What do they look like? What do they eat? Do they have jobs? Have you ever met one? Can they serve in the military? (Immediately Frank Herbert, author of the Dune series, jumped into my mind. If these guys are as tough as they say they are, man, can't they be crafted into the deadliest, most bloodthirsty supersoldier squadron ever to defend the fucking British Isles? Fuck! They are already nomadic. Afghanistan would be a friggin Sunday retreat for these guys! True, I don't think Osama would accept a bare knuckle challenge for a broken caravan, but it's worth a goddamn try!)

I wasn't so interested in the answers to my questions as I was in the reactions of those I spoke to. I wanted them to keep talking, to keep describing, to keep telling stories, because everybody that I spoke to had the same reactions, best summarized by "fuckin' pikies." Nobody said, "Oh yes, I once met a darling gyppo. He saved me mum from a tree." Or, "Gyppos? Splendid chaps they are! I once knew a gyppo who gave out candy to disabled children in Uganda on Christmas during a typhus outbreak."

Instead, it was "Gyppos? I fucking hate gyppos. They eat their own shit and drink the blood of Christian children."

---

Gyppos are like dragons (or, for a better visual, ogres). Fantastical creatures who live far away, living their violent lives according to their own rules, beyond the reach (and hope) of civilization. Nobody really personally knows a single gyppo, but everybody has a story. There are sightings, and even a few relics. And once in a blue moon, they come thundering down from the hills in their cacophonous caravans of death, and the common, decent village folk flee in terror, trying to save the goat herds and their youngest daughters from rape and slaughter, respectively. Inevitably, a kid of 2 years is unintentionally left behind and raped mercilessly in the village square. Her sorrowful bleats could be heard for miles.

---

And thus, gyppos. A mysterious peoples of unknown origin and uncertain future. But one thing is certain. When you go home tonight, lock your doors, hide your liquor, and check under the bed, because you might be unlucky enough to discover your worst enemy-- our own ignorance.

Epic.

One of the most iconic moments in Rock history happens at 7:50 in this video. It is epic and the fucking stuff Rock is made of.

The Who- Won't Get Fooled Again
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rp6-wG5LLqE

Prayer

It is no secret that I am a godless heathen, but, I am always on the lookout for explanations to the contrary and today I may have thought of one all by myself. While sitting down at my café and eating a plate of chicken jalafrezi, I randomly noted how even I, a person who does not believe in God or a higher power, will in times of trouble or strife seemingly “pray” and “wish” for safety and salvation. Who am I praying to? Why am I praying? I am contradicting my own beliefs, or non-beliefs.

My question is, is “prayer”--which I will define as talking to somebody who is not there physically (chatting with imaginary friends is a form of prayer, no?)—a learned activity? Do I start talking to nobody because I learned, or was forced, to do that in Church on Sundays? If the idea of God was not introduced to me at a young age, would I ever turn to a form of prayer in times of trouble? This is starting to sound like a Simon and Garfunkel song.

Since I “pray” at times, does that prove I actually believe in a God? Is this the biological way of proving there is a God, when my impulses trump my reason?

No. I think I am just panicking at these times and my inner child expresses itself against my will. Harsh.

Glimpse of Love

I walked outside just a few moments ago to head to my favorite local Italian restaurant for dinner. The roasted quail is fantastic. I stepped outside into the tundric cold and cursed myself for not bringing my scarf, but trudged on anyway as I certainly wasn't about to go back up three flights of stairs. I'm cold now and might as well face the consequences. Trying to build up some muscular heat, I take off at a jaunty canter heading north and pass the cafe where I eat breakfast nearly every day. In an idle sort of way, I looked into the large windows that face the street, expecting to see some chairs stacked on top of cleared tables.
Instead, I saw the husband and wife owners, who spend the entire day from 7am to 4pm behind the grill making the cafe's food and greeting each visitor who enters, sitting at a small table in the empty restaurant, together, eating and laughing over dinner.
That's love.

Faint Hearted? Skip this Post.

I had one of my reoccurring dreams last night. I must admit, I have a repertoire of about four or five dreams that pop up into the ol' noggin every couple of months or so. Most are not fit to put down in writing (at least not in this venue [I could make a sizable sum of money in certain circles by recording those other dreams]). The one from last night, however, is my least favorite and most frequent. What I find strange is that there is never any lead-in to the dream and there is rarely a conclusion. It is just one scene. If you are squeamish, maybe skip this:

I pull multiple long strands of hair out of my throat through my mouth. Usually there is one strand in my throat and I am able to grab hold of it by putting my fingers in my mouth. Then I tug on it, trying not to gag (which I do) but there is resistance as if it was caught on something. I pull and pull and it eventually loosens up, coming out slowly with me applying consistent force, usually (this is gross) with some kind of gunk clinging to the end. After I pull the first strand out of my throat, there is another to takes its place and the process starts over again.

I'm gagging right now.

Last night there was a sort of pseudo-conclusion which I have never experienced before. I pulled on the last strand of stuck hair and while pulling it out of my mouth, a metallic type contraption came out with it. I don't quite know how to describe it. It sort of looked like a retainer (you know, what you wear after getting your braces off), but it was a copperish steel and full of holes-- much like a sieve. The final strand of hair was attached to this device and as I pulled it from my throat, I saw this thing emerge. I kind of just re-swallowed it, for fear that I would break the copper-steel metallic device that happily resides in my esophagus. I don't think I could find a replacement on eBay.

After unsuccessfully searching on the internet for some kind of explanation, I have settled on my own homebrewed conclusion: Alien space probes. Considering the oft-reported alternative method of entry, I'll consider myself lucky.

Stand By Me

I got the chills and a burning desire to jump on a stage after watching this video.

I present U2 and Bruce Springsteen doing "Stand By Me".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHNbvIplvVQ&feature=related