The Core Belief

A hearty L’Shona Tova to everyone on this Rosh Hashanah 5771!

May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.

Alex Zola

Sleaze Culture

There isn’t much in the way of sincere weirdness to be found in the Valley of the Sun. The past 25 years have made the Phoenix metro area one of the fastest growing in the US. As the suburbs grew, so did the antiseptic version of small town America found on every cul de sac in every pre-programmed Pulte subdivision.

If you want to people watching in this burg you have to go to the malls– where everyone seems to dress alike, act alike, and is either talking on their cell phone or texting their BFF. Of course, they are doing these things while walking in packs of two or three. If I were an alien just out of the Roswell clink, I’d run and get a cell phone, put it to my ear, walk up to someone and start talking to the phone in order to communicate.

There is no differentiation here, which is weird in and of itself but certainly doesn’t rise to the level of weirdness. The CVS at the corner of Camelback and 16^th Street is working slowly to change that.

It’s the kind of place, on the surface, a New Yorker can appreciate: a cathedral to convenience. The remarkably nice crew that works the corporate version of a $5 and $10 pretends not to notice me in fluorescent lit the linoleum palace three or four times a day. However, closer inspection reveals the lack of certain important items – brooms, toilet brushes, mops. Cheap gin, bad Chardonnay, Cheez-its and generic suntan lotion are what you can expect to find. Those items and whatever drug your doctor decides to prescribe for you over medication is back in the drive thru pharmacy.

Of course, the Tweakers (a different winner daily) are outside next to mineral water vending machine (a quarter for a gallon!), slightly off to the right of the in door. They know better than to walk any further than the invisible boundary formed by he CVS’s parking lot stretching out 200 feet to the east and 100 feet to the north. This is the far western edge of the upscale Biltmore District of Phoenix. Nancy Reagan’s mother lived way and the Bushes golf with Sen. McCain a ¼ mile away. The Meth heads understand the unspoken code of the Phoenix PD: walk 202 feet east and go cold turkey in Tent City working on a chain gang in pink PJ’s under the supervision of Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Tent City also doubles as the Gestapo Finishing School for the Maricopa County Constabulary.

Yesterday’s Tweaker was a skinny woman who pushed a pillow underneath her tight filthy beige/white t-shirt in an effort to look pregnant. Although the corner of the browning pillow hung out from the corners of her skinny jeans, people gave her food, change and words of guidance on her diet while with child. I wasn’t the only one who watched in awe as she raked in her booty; the cops came over from the local Chipotle to bear witness to this tableau.

When I closed my eyes, I could almost see 10^th Avenue in 1993…almost. But in the Valley of the Sun, one has to take the weirdness wherever you can find it.

The First Essential Scary Truth

One of the joys of the Social Networking is the sheer number of different people you meet. In my few years blogging on Facebook, OpenSalon.com and here on the Zola System have brought me into contact with old friends from high school, college and the old neighborhood in Bloomfield Hills. New friends from all over the world and various parts of the country I’ve never seen. The most gratifying connections I have made are with some of the people who turned me on to become a writer in the first place.

Legendary underground comic icon Skip Williamson has been a guest blogger for the Zola System. Former Husker Du bass player Greg Norton commented on My Fear of Flying post and I was walking on a cloud for days. Well gang, today’s guest blogger has made me giddy for the last week.

Fellow Detroiter Dennis “Machine Gun” Thompson, drummer for the MC5 (and one of the greatest rock and roll drummers of ALL time), has graciously submitted his list for his favorite 15 Songs in 15 Minutes. The Detroit born and based MC5 were one of the bands, along with the Velvet Underground and the Stooges, who created what we now call punk rock.

When I discovered the VU, Stooges and Thompson and his band mates, it was like discovering intelligent life in the universe. I would have just gone to Michigan and then Law School (not that there’s anything wrong with that) had I not heard ‘Shakin’ Street,’ ‘American Ruse,’ ‘Kick Out the Jams’ ‘Motor City is Burning,’ ‘Looking at You’ et al.

So ladies and gentlemen, without further overt gushing, I give you Dennis “Machine Gun” Thompson’s list.

Enjoy!

God Save The Queen Sex Pistols

Jumpin Jack Flash The Stones

Should I Stay or Should I Go Clash

Spirits in the Material World Police

I’m Free The Who

Pump it Up Elvis Costello

Panic in Detroit Bowie

Axis Bold as Love Hendrix

Song 2 Blur

Afro Blue Coltrane

Shinjitu Elvin Jones

1969 Stooges

Jaded Green Day

Have a Little Faith The Bellrays

Boom Boom John Lee Hooker

The Core Belief

The Detroit Tigers 2010 season has been for naught; specifically the second half of the season. After battling to 10 games above .500 hundred the day before the All-Star Break, the boys promptly went on a massive losing streak the day regular play resumed. On this date their record that stands at 65-68, 3 games below the Mendoza Line.

The last thing my fellow Tiger fans and I want to do is switch our attention to the perennially lousy Lions. This would usually be our sorry lot in the fall however a story of Hollywood proportions is growing in Comerica Park. Unfortunately it doesn’t involve an historic comeback by the boys, they’re 12 games out of first with 29 left to play for G-d sakes. No, this story is of dreams fulfilled though it took many years and it involves a career minor league catcher with the odd baseball moniker of Maxim St. Pierre.

St. Pierre has spent 14 years in the Detroit Tigers minor leagues (recently) bouncing back and forth between Triple A Toledo and Double A Eire and finally got his call to have (at least) his cup of coffee in the major leagues.

According to the Detroit News

All the challenges of the past were worth it for Max St. Pierre.

• Being a 10-year-old loving the game, but “not making contact for the first year I played,” he said.

• The language barrier, about which he once said, “The pitchers thought I was dumb because of my (French-Canadian) accent. I couldn’t communicate with them.”

• His one year (2007) outside the Tigers organization — when the Brewers gave some thought to turning him into a pitcher.

• The portions of seven seasons he spent at Double A Erie. And again last year when he went backward — from Triple to Double A.

They all became worth it when St. Pierre found out Tuesday that after 14 years in the minors he was finally being called up to the big leagues.

On Wednesday in the Tigers clubhouse at Target Field, the “chill bumps” as he called them had disappeared but not the excitement.

“The bumps lasted an hour, though,” he said.

When asked if he’d ever known anyone who spent more time in the minors before getting to the majors, manager Jim Leyland said, “Yeah, me. Eighteen years.”

And when Leyland finally got to the majors, it was as a coach, not a player — about which Leyland said this year that he’d trade his entire managing year for a day in the majors as a player.

“If I was going to play,” he said Wednesday. “Not if I was going to sit. Max will play. He will get into a game, I assure you.”

It didn’t happen Wednesday, but St. Pierre, who insists there is a hyphen not a period in his last name, said he slept just an hour because “I didn’t want to miss my flight.”

“But I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

The newest Tiger said the closest he ever came to calling it quits was last year when he was returned to Double A.

“I was doing real well, and thinking I might get a chance, but I broke my hand after that.”

It wasn’t a fun time for him. This is, though.

The money’s better. The food and hotels are, too. But his quest to get to the majors hasn’t been about any of that.

“It’s always been about the dream, and wanting to get there,” the 30-year-old catcher said. “I want everybody back home to know I made it.”

They do. But the dream hasn’t come completely true yet.

“It will come true when I get a hit,” he said.

Since I read about Maxim St. Pierre’s winding 14-year route to Comerica Park, I find myself scouring the box scores before and after each game looking to see if St. Pierre has been inserted in to the lineup. Pride of the Yankees it ain’t but a feel good story for a fan base and city in desperate need it surely is.

Go Max!

The First Essential Scary Truth

Today’s guest blogger is my dear friend, fellow writer and jeweler extraordinaire Liz Emrich. She is stepping up the turntable and giving us her favorite 15 albums (this week) in 15 minutes. (Check out her posts on Open Salon.com, some of my favorite stuff in the blogosphere.)

Enjoy!

The Afghan Whigs – Gentlemen

Bob Marley – Legend

The Geraldine Fibbers – Lost Somewhere Between the Earth and my Home

Jawbox – Jawbox

Joe Jackson – Look Sharp

The Kinks – One for the Road

Lauryn Hill – The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill

Mary Lou Lord – Got no Shadow

Old 97’s – Too Far to Care

Whiskeytown – Stranger’s Almanac

Wire Train – No Soul No Strain

Too Much Joy – Mutiny

Tori Amos – Little Earthquakes

U2 –Achtung Baby

The Who – Who’s Next

See one of your favorites here? Send me a list of your favorite 15 albums and I’ll be happy to them! Kiko Jones, Jim Horn and Liz Emrich are on the record.  Will you be next?

The Con

The week has begun with not one but two celebrity criminal mishaps: Roger Clemens was arraigned in federal court and pleaded not guilty to Perjury. Paris Hilton denied the cocaine found in her purse during a routine traffic stop in Las Vegas late Friday night was actually hers. Because I am feeling all generous when it comes to giving advice, I’d like to see if some words of wisdom can help my celebrity brother and sister.

Roger, change the fucking plea to guilty. The feds have more than enough evidence to convict INCLUDING a syringe with a steroid and your DNA from the man who injected you. Do not muck with the G, my friend. They take that to heart and tend to fuck those who do muck with them right up the ass with no KY. For examples, see Capone, Alphonse. If you choose to continue down this path, beware accountants working for acronyms.

Paris. You’re claiming the coke wasn’t yours but a friends who actually owned the purse and lent it to you for the evening. Apparently you told this to the cops after they found the drugs and after they arrested you. Sweetie, the excuse is weak. It doesn’t work on Law and Order and it won’t work in real life. Do you remember when you were read the Miranda rights, the thing the cops read to you while handcuffing you? It started with this sentence: you have to right to remain silent. Next time, follow those words to the letter and might not have to go to rehab to avoid jail…again.

More missives tomorrow gang!

The First Essential Scary Truth

Below is a report from the Detroit Free Press on what should have been a routine traffic stop. The police officer who pulled over said automotive violator got a bit more than he bargained while writing this ticket.

ELMWOOD PLACE, Ohio - A police officer who stopped a car because it had illegally tinted windows received a bit of a shock when he looked inside.

Officer Ross Gilbert said the driver, Colondra Hamilton, a 36-year-old Downtown resident, was sitting with her pants unzipped and a sex toy in her lap when he pulled her over Aug. 17.

He said Hamilton told him she was using the toy while watching a sex video on a laptop computer that a passenger in the front seat held up so she could see it.

Gilbert charged her with “driving with inappropriate alertness” and having illegal tinted windows, according to the traffic ticket.

Gilbert admitted he had never encountered a traffic case quite like this one.

“It’s very unusual,” he said. “This is a first for me.”

Hamilton was released on her own recognizance soon after her arrest and is scheduled to be arraigned Tuesday in Hamilton County Municipal Court.

Read more: Police: Driver distracted by sex toy | freep.com | Detroit Free Press http://www.freep.com/article/20100826/NEWS07/100826029/#ixzz0y25qTIaQ

I used to think crime and California made you stupid. It looks like I’ll have to add tinted car windows to the list.

The Street Hustle

One of the casualties of the current economic downturn has been the four-martini lunch. There are those who claim this daily corporate ritual went the way of the dinosaurs when the Go-Go ‘80’s crashed headlong into the Grunge I’m so Depressed 1990’s. I’m here to tell you, it just ain’t true.

As long as the economy was on semi-solid footing, a lunchtime bartender in a busy business district could be assured of making his or her rent inside of a week. The expense accounts are always teaming when the Dow is shooting up and out of sight.

Now, with housing crunch deepening and various experts predicting the ever dreaded ‘double dip recession,’ how is a corporate lackey supposed to tie one on during business hours?

According to UrbanDaddy.com, Cherith Valley Jellies has the solution.

Consider your basic PB&J.

A simple pleasure, impossible to improve on. You’ve got your peanut butter, sure. Your bread. Your jelly. Easy.

Well, forget that jelly. That jelly is old news. That jelly isn’t boozy…

Which brings us to Cherith Valley Jellies, a collection of boozy jelly made from mixed drinks, brandy and wine, available now.

It all begins in a humble garden deep in the heart of Texas, where they pride themselves on doing things the American way—like finding a reason to combine alcohol with anything. There, a team of highly trained, gingham-clad cowgirl-chemists is working solely on your behalf, concocting the ideal way to spice up your next dinner party, peanut-butter sandwich and/or jelly-wrestling party: booze-flavored jelly.

In short, it looks like any other kind of jelly, except instead of being made from your basic strawberries or grapes, it’s been built out of actual, honest Texas medicine (aka booze). So the next time you’re whipping up a PB&J, you can add in a hint of spreadable sangria, red wine or brandy. But before you get carried away, just know that this stuff isn’t powerful enough to lead to a regrettable (if sandwich-filled) morning-after.

Still: don’t eat and drive.

Read more: http://www.urbandaddy.com/ntl/fooddrink/11122/Cherith_Valley_Jellies_Classic_Mixed_Drinks_Now_Spreadable_National_NTL_Product#ixzz0xvVtA1nO

Thus American innovation attempts to put another American tradition out to pasture.  Although I still prefer to actually drink my Manhattan’s.

The First Essential Scary Truth

On Sunday, I accepted Zola System reader Kiko Jones’ challenge to name my favorite 15 albums (this week) in 15 minutes. Today, guest blogger Jim Horn has chosen his favorite 15 in 15. Jim thinks he’s in a pathetic time warp. I wouldn’t go that far. After all, I thought it was 1984 back in June…

Enjoy!

BEAT FARMERS…TALES OF THE NEW WEST

THE POGUES…GREATEST HITS

ENJOY EVERY SANDWICH…WARREN ZEVON TRIBUTE

THE JAM …SNAP

THE CURE …STANDING ON A BEACH

THE BEATLES…BLUE AND RED ALBUMS

TOM PETTY AND THE HEARTBREAKERS…DAMN THE TORPEDOS

ELVIS COSTELLO… IMPERIAL BEDROOM

REM…MURMUR

SQUEEZE…SINGLES 45 AND UNDER

DEAD PRESIDENTS…SOUNDTRACK

THE RAMONES… LOUDER FASTER

PLIMSOULS…EVERYWHERE AT ONCE

BEACH BOYS…PET SOUNDS

ELTON JOHN…GOODBYE YELLOWBRICK ROAD

PRETTY IN PINK SOUNDTRACK

What are your favorite 15 albums in 15 minutes? Send them to me and I’ll be happy to post them

The First Essential Scary Truth

Two days ago, I was eating with a group of my co-workers. The discussion turned to a recent shoot-out between the Hells Angels and a rival gang. While several of my peers wondered about the various motorcycle gangs and their motivations for getting into a ‘fight’, I added my story about watching the Hells Angels kicking the shit out of the Easter Bunny, a story that never fails to generate massive belly laughs from all those who hear it. I posted the story as a blog July 25, 2008.

It goes something like this:

One Sunday in May found me aimlessly walking the streets of the Lower East Side, nibbling on a knish and sipping on a coffee.   I turned onto Third Street and saw five or six people crowding around a happening of some sort.   Ever curious, I pushed into the middle of the crowd and there was my daily dose of theatre - the Easter bunny was taunting three Hell’s Angels.

Old New York had an element of moving carnival to it.  Whatever day, whatever time, anything could happen.  Some days the best thing you could do for entertainment was just to walk the streets and watch the living theatre as it evolved.  But this odd sort of degenerate behavior in front of me was sure to make the tabloids; if not land you in the Gramercy Funeral Home a few blocks up Second Avenue.

The guy in the Easter bunny suit looked like a pink Bugs Bunny with long ears, a white belly and a little white cotton tail.  He even remembered the black whiskers.  He stood in front of three Hell’s Angels, one about 50, although he looked older with a beard that was nearly white, and two who were younger, in their 20’s.  All three were large, scary individuals who you would cross the street to avoid on any given night.

“F*** you, you pussies!”  The Easter bunny screamed.

The older Hell’s Angel stood in front of his younger friends as if to hold them back.  “Look man, just hop away,” He said.

This went on for a few minutes, the Easter bunny taunted and the Hell’s Angels demurred, issuing the same warning over and over again.  “Look man, just hop away.”

Finally, obviously tired of the side show, the older Hell’s Angel hailed a cab and threw the bunny inside.  I wondered if the Angel’s were under indictment or being watched by some law enforcement agency, as this was a rather reasonable ending for the situation.  No blood or beatings, just a cab ride away from the madness.

The Easter bunny rolled down his window and started laughing.  “I knew you were pussies.  F*** you, you pussies!”

“Ok, that’s it,” the older Angel said.  He grabbed the bunny by his ears and ripped him out of the cab window.  For the next few minutes, the three Angels stomped him mercilessly.  The five of us who were watching stood there with our mouths open, shocked at the utter violence of what we were witnessing.

And the cab waited.

Finally, the Older Hell’s Angel grabbed what was left of the bunny, a twisted mass of pink, white and red, and threw him into the taxi, which sped off.  I couldn’t decide whether the Easter bunny needed an emergency room or the sixth floor at Bellevue.

“Thank G-d there were no f****** kids around.”  One of the Hell’s Angels said as he walked into his clubhouse.

True, but my childhood was irreparably changed.

The laughs I expected to hear never came. They were replaced by a table full of horrified faces and left me wondering if I had somehow screwed up telling this sure thing gut buster. Was it my timing? My delivery? I got my answer seconds later.

“You New Yorkers don’t care about anyone else but yourselves,” one of my co-workers sniffled.

“I thought after that woman was raped in a bar on a pool table New York had a Good Samaritan law,” another said.

The actual crime my co-worker was referring to took place at Big Dan’s Bar in New Bedford, Massachusetts March 6, 1983. However I was heartened that someone I worked with had a sense of history (half the staff of my restaurant didn’t understand why we invaded Afghanistan) even if it came from a so-so 1988 movie starring Jodie Foster and Kelly McGillis.

But I confused by their reaction. Getting in the middle of a Hell’s Angels beat down is a bad idea surely leading to a lengthy hospital stay. I thought I was talking to a group of native Arizonans, a group of heavily armed people in a state that many feel is at the forefront of fascist takeover of the country vis a vie SB 1070 otherwise known as the infamous Immigration Bill.

Perhaps they punter are wrong. Perhaps Arizona is becoming a clone of the People’s Republic of Berkeley.