Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor
Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.
Impatient Democratic detractors felt vindicated last week when the President finally snatched and then ate a baby at an Air Force Base in Germany.There was an action/drama/comedy – an adramedy, if you will, on TV in Canada when I was growing up called The Beachcombers. The late Bruno Gerussi headed up the cast of the popular show whose 19-year and 324 episode lifespan became the longest in Canadian television history. Here is a quick synopsis of the show: “The adventures of a professional lumber salvager and his friends in Gibson, British Columbia, Canada.” How they managed to stretch that premise for 2 decades, I’ll never know. No, wait. I remember now: “The format focused on physical action–boat chases, storms, rising tides, various rites of passage, a long-distance swim, taming a wild dog, a vision quest, but violence was largely confined to experiences with physical objects which break up or blow up or somehow threaten the characters.” Awesome. And for my Canadian friends who haven’t seen a photo of Relic in a while, enjoy.
OK – That was quite the tangent. Regardless, PITF reader and fellow Tiernan’s refugee Greg sent me this photo from his camera phone last night. It’s a very low-budget poster for the upcoming Frank Black show at The Beachcomber bar in Wellfleet. Many of my friends have been talking about this, and it’s probably already sold out. Still, I’m going to give it a go and see if I can get down there. Who’s with me? I saw Frank Black at a tiny bar in London, Ontario in 1996 and it was one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m a goin’.
And let’s talk about this poster for a second. It’s Frank Black, not your buddy from college who’s a stockbroker during the week. What’s with the student council 8×11 ‘poster’? Vote for Allison. The handwriting looks like the author was riding in the back of a biplane distributing these from the sky like communist propaganda leaflets. And maybe use a photo that doesn’t make him look like Peter Lorre with dysentery next time. Greg, where the heck did you see this?
When will it sink in? Like a shot of Jameson’s topped with Bailey’s into a 2/3 pint of Guinness, I keep waiting for the other car bomb to drop. At least we have our memories – 6 years and hundreds of laughs, songs, fights. And hours before Liam, Susan and company turned out the light and set the alarm for the very last time, we had one last hurrah in the old place. Now you may think I’m being overdramatic – but anyone who knows me also knows I’m handling this remarkably well. With the exception of the whole “climb into a bell tower with a high powered WWII bolt-action rifle” thing that happened on Saturday, of course.
I remember the first time I ever entered Tiernan’s – it was St. Patrick’s Day 2000 and I had just been offered a great new job. My soon-to-be CEO, a friend of the owners, snuck me in through the kitchen door as a thrall of people waited outside to get in. So basically, the first time I ever drank there I was already a VIP. A great day in every way, shape and waitress – and from the giddy-up I was hooked. I also remember the day that company folded, a year later, and I again walked into the pub only this time not quite so jovial. Having already heard the news, owner Liam looked at the bartender and said “Dave Pye does not pay for drinks in this bar tonight!” What a guy. What a place.
Then there was the time I brought my father there, and without hesitation Susan paid for our lunch and made me look like a king when I went for my wallet. Then they presented my Dad with a shirt, hat and one of Liam‘s CDs which he wore/listened to for the rest of the day. She would also do that sort of thing when she knew I was bringing clients and friends there, all in the best interests of (I’m assuming) one of her favorite regulars. That’s what makes a great pub, that’s what I miss most about UK English/Irish bars and that’s why I’m likely bell-tower-bound at least once more before all the spit and sawdust has cleared.
See the full gallery from Friday night here. There are so many other great/horrifying stories from the wreckage – The post-St.Patrick’s Day parties, the celebs who dropped in, my silly benders and the subsequent damage, waterfights, Christmas stockings, booth conversations, New Year’s Eves… And the people I will sorely miss from down through the years – Freddy, Kenny, Brian, Pistol Pete Massa, Kim, Greg, Emily, Joanna, Linda, Edwina, Nick and the Wyndham crew, all the Gemmers, Davy Jones, Steve, Martine, Johnny Mac, Danny x2, Brownie and of course Susan and Liam themselves. Thanks for a great ride, everyone. Feel free to leave your memories in the comments below. It’s time to take the side door out to Franklin Street and get some Gatorade on the way home. Turn out the light and set the alarm. I’m too shitfaced and sad to remember the code.
This blog has been sitting neglected for the past week like a red-headed stepchild. And I’m sorry, baby. Of course I still love you. Even though I was stupid enough to create you in Blogger two years ago instead of Wordpress. Even though I use you to annoy people, find homes for roaches and tell far too many dead prostitute jokes. You’re my one and only, and I love your little blue, green and orange ass. No I don’t think you’re a baboon. You’re putting words in my mouth now, baby. Shhhhhh.
No you did NOT see me at the movies last week with Squidoo. That is so over. What do I have to do to prove it to you? Add another bad radio program to the sidebar? How about another guestmap, would you like that? More news about my leaky roof? I’ve got it – another piece about how rainy it is this summer? A picture of my cat? How about another joke about how I’m going to die alone beside a trunk of DVD porn? I haven’t used that one in a while. What’s it going to take?
And… SCENE. This week PITF turns two years old. To help you fathom how unlikely it is for a blog to ever turn two years old, that’s 14 in dog years, – and about 672 in blog years. I’d be giving myself a pat on the back, if I weren’t already giving myself a pat on the back. In honor of this miraculous occasion, I will be updating the “classics” list on the left hand side for the first time in forever to encourage a little nostalgia. Which is a little like inducing vomit, only less potentially damaging to the esophagus.
