How beautifully perfectly ironic it is to get your ass kicked by your own damn livelihood. I mean, all day hanging in the 'hood with the big dogs, all night floundering around South Beach, no problems really, no injuries certainly, finally to the safety of home, where I walk into the dark living room, stumble or slip on a pile of CDs I left on the floor. I remember the corner of the stereo rack entering my cheek A it felt just like one time when I was a teenager and some guy sucker punched me in the jaw, he had a class ring on his finger and the shot purpled the whole side of my head and closed my eye for two days. I don't recall if I stabbed him or what, but I know he was left for dead. But this night, a Saturday or two ago, I came to staring at my ceiling, supine, my face covered with blood. I went to wipe it off with my left arm, which didn't work, so I used my right, then passed out for a few hours. The next day there was a nice spider-web cut on my jaw, which felt like it was broken, the whole jawbone ached, and there's a huge lump above my temple and my left arm was bruised and bumped up, and a contusion behind my left ear, and now I have the perfect excuse A brain damage.
Sure, my stereo can get away with that, but these punks on South Beach with their velvet ropes blocking public sidewalks.... Actually, some respect to Velvet. I was with Large, my geedo friend (it's offensive to call people Guidos, Italian or not, especially if it ain't their name) who's about to disappear into the Midwest so it doesn't matter what happens here now. We confront the Velvet rope geedo, and he's polite, says I can't come in only because of the club's dress code. My Geedo blows my cover, dresses the guy down Gotti-like, but the door dude says he knows I'm Baker, and I'm welcome at the club A but the dress code. I'm cool with that. But the rest of you Poseur Row geedos with stanchions A "walk around" A bullshit. I'm coming through. Watch out. Arm yourselves. Heavily. I have an excuse.
Kilmo and the Killers are killing again, with shows tonight (Thursday) and Saturday at Bushwackers in Fort Lauderdale (561-4444, don't hesitate to call because the people who answer the phone are smart and helpful and probably wouldn't know a velvet rope from a geedo).
I couldn't go, 'cause, you know, I was working, but several spies called to report that the FtN, Nil Lara, Arlan Feiles concert at the Colony paid off big. Sold out A no, more, they actually had to turn people away. They say Arlan mixed audio tapes between his songs, and it was cool, and FtN rocked hard and true, and Nil had an actual organ grinder with monkey on stage. There better be a next time.
The New Music Seminar welcomes (by April 15, when the mail is slow, right) your submissions of a sample CD or high-quality tape, press pack, complete contact info, and twenty dollars for consideration of inclusion in the July 19-23 event in New Yawk. Write to New Music Seminar, 632 Broadway, New Yawk, NY, 10012.
Enjoying not surprising but surely amazing success with their CD A New Hope, Amboog-a-lard breaks up the Cellblock tonight Thursday).
A brief and unemotional disclaimer: the "Best of Miami" edition was a team effort all around (that's why the items are unsigned, I guess) so send your thanks and gripes to the paper, not to me. Your gripes about this alleged column, however, should be directed as usual.
Congrats to the music editor at Phoenix New Times, Peter Gilstrap, upon his marriage to the lovely Bettie (they did the deed at SxSW, if that makes it even cooler).
No fooling, just fooling around, when the Baboons bring their "Infamous Elvis" affair to Squeeze tomorrow (Friday). Everyone will dress as a different Elvis, many Elvis tunes will be played, honor will be paid to the thin Elvis and fat Elvis, and I'll be there as dead Elvis just dug up. "We're promising it will be infamous," say the 'boons. On Sunday at the same venue, Wide Open Mike continues to mix the music and musicians of Broward and Dade counties in a cooperative and friendly way. Soon Rat will be there to sit in with Zen Dog.
Bob Bonnen's open mike moves to Captain Jimmy's, a beer bar and sub shop at 12992 SW 89th Ave., where the music will pour every Wednesday night at 7:00. Call 233-0617.
The March issue of Spotlight is out, with Mary Karlzen on the cover. Local bands: Send 'em your stuff, you don't get no press if you don't send the stuff.
Butthorn of the week: Oscar winner Tom Hanks. Apologists say that speech of his wasn't a career-ender, how can winning an Academy Award be a career-ender? The speech, man, the speech. I mean, anybody heard from Sally Field lately? And Springsteen got an Oscar? For the worst song he's ever been within ten miles of. Dude, let me spell it out for you: r-e-t-i-r-e. Enjoy Beverly Hills, your kids, Pats, whatever. But your rock and roll career is dead, pal. Boy does my head hurt.
The media circus: More photographs by Bunny Yeager will appear in the May issue of Playboy, a mag that gets mentioned way too much in this space, but you know we love Bunny.
Bonus: From a recent Miami Herald story: "The caption described his as an outstanding member of the community."
Pet corner: New Times's Maureen Bohannon says her "Classified" section has a special in "Pets for Sale" A five lines for two weeks for five dollars (but lost-and-founds are free). Take advantage, but be careful! Scumsucking subcontractors (and freelance subhumans) of animal-research labs aren't above reading ads, accepting or even purchasing pets, and turning them over to institutions of higher torture. If you're selling or giving away an animal, tell the person that you'll be by to visit in two months. If the pet is not there, tell the people you'll call Baker, who'll call a geedo and have them disappeared to the Midwest.
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