Episode Ten: Time with Friends (Going Places)...

A lighter show with co-host Noah Houghtaling - an episode about music, and a little look behind the mental lives of your resident Podcasters.  Please let us know what you think!

Thanks for listening,
Your Host







And here's the Coda! Johnny C. stops by the show to talk about his musical side projects.

Cheers,
Your Host

We Gather Together to Pawn Our Crap Unto Others...

Normally, the last Saturday of September is Hulmeville Day - a three town wide flea market where you can buy everything from children's clothing to military grade civilian vehicles.  But, as we're currently still experiencing a slow motion monsoon, it's been pushed back into October, which suits me fine, as we're still checking the "to-be-sold" piles for mildew and water damage.

There's also a looming "problem" to our yearly undertaking - the "our" here being the family McGovern as opposed to the town at large - namely, we're running out of crap.   It's been five years of heavy lifting, but we're damn near out of furniture, the book selection has gone from twenty crates of books (per year) to ten (beginning last year).  Most of the tech got sold off last year to strange people in white vans who had a lot of twenties and flannel.  Most of the clothing goes to the shelters.

Still, though, that's our look out.

There's still the normal insanity of "things lodged under the couch since 1974," humidifiers shaped like the ranch from "Dallas", decommissioned jeeps from the Korean war that still have the bracers for mounted ordinance, and sword canes (yes, I bought one, don't act like you wouldn't have done the same).  There's miniature ponies walking around firehouses, and the smell of bar-b-q everywhere (even in the port-a-johns...which is an interesting experience that I won't go into further).

It has become a minor fixture for folks across bucks county, parts of middle-south Jersey.  It clogs the streets of the town, rips the carefully manicured lawns of suburbia, and pastes the rest with tables and blankets and shit that hasn't seen any sort of light since the first Regan administration.

There's more to this than bargain hunting.  If there wasn't, I don't think it would be nearly as large as it has become.  Part of it, I suppose, is the normal suburban habit of knowing people two houses down and that's really it - the porch lights go on, maybe they see the others in church or passing by during power-walks/jogs/bike-rides.  Now, though, we get to see them, and see what they've had buried in their basements and attics.  It supplies both the need for gossip and the need for community, working like a block party/Spring cleaning.

So we deal with the questions about what is and isn't for sale, hagglers, and that one neighbor dressed in army fatigues that smell like Schnapps.

Which, on the whole, is better than how I normally spend my Saturday mornings.

Forget It, Sean, It's Fishtown...

I'm come to the conclusion that in every city there is a residential section that cabs avoid for for a special reason. It's not robbery at gun point, or that the residents usually leave smears or puddles of biology on the seats - no, it's because their sense of direction fails them there. Internal compasses no longer point to true north, as though there is a UFO eternally hovering over the row homes and brownstones. Even GPSes throw up their electronic hands, and navigator starts saying things like "Might as well turn left".

Fishtown is such a location.

Recently, Fishtown has become a hotbed for hipster activity, a haven for vintage clothing, vinyl records, and fairly descent if hard to pronounce beer. My friends, the DZs live there, and every other month or so I find myself getting off at the Gerard exit and sinking low into my chair to navigate to their home. ND - my "sister" - is a speech therapist for the elderly, refereed to by her patiences as Dr. Nicolai. MZ works as a contractor for the government. We've plans to go to Neko Case's concert next month, and the whole block party thing was a last second invite - and ended up being the only one with guts enough to mosey into Fishtown.

This time it was for a block party. Now, the only times I've ever seen a block party was in "Dave Chapelle's Block Party," and "Judge Dread," so I was expecting either a great time, or horrid, mindless violence while people with speech impediments make grandiose claims about their role in society and ruin a fairly cinematic line of comics. Wasn't too far off, as it turns out.

MZ met me at the door, helping me with the case of beer, before we were joined by ND, the lady of the house. There is the normal chit chat as ND pours us lemonade vodka (the secret: no water) before we go out to brave the heat. Water is pouring down the sides of the street, and the cars used to corden off the party portion of the block were constantly in danger of being t-boned by passing traffic who seemed confused by three cars parked diagonally to keep them away, and the tents were peopled by the good folk of Fishtown sinking quickly into an inebriated haze.

Once MZ's parents arrive, I sneak over to a non-party section behind a florist for a cigarette. After helping two of the cars park, I ended up helping the band (they're having a band?) unload their gear, and one of the girls asks if I know the guys or I'm doing it "Out of the goodness of my own heart", and then smiles when I say "Uh...I was...you know. I was just there." Once everything is out of the trunks, I bail, know that any continuation would result in my breaking something beyond repair. Returning to the tent, ND laughs. "Leave it to you to wander around the corner and end up joining a band!" We dance a little to the greatest hits of the 1950's while the band set up, and after an hour the band kicks off. The "Goodness of my heart" girl begins singing, and the the covers start flying. MD's father and I sit in our chairs, rocking out and I sign along, keeping my volume low, except when they go into Modern English "I'll Stop the World (and Melt With You)" - the only 80's hit I've never gotten tired of, and doubt I ever will. Once the band ends, the singer ("Horrible", as the band's name is Horrible and the Cupcakes) runs over and give me a hug. It was her second performance, and she wanted to thank me for having fun. I told her she did great and she gave me another hug before returning to breaking down the set-up

The DZs try to convince me to give her my phone number, but I think I understand it. She's going through an adrenaline shutdown, a performer's blessing once all of the fear is gone, and the lights are finally off.

I remain in the tent for another two hours before the gun fire got a bit too close to the street (I wish I was making that up) and then, hugging my friends, went back to Penndel. I was closing the car door when TWVO (I'm trying to figure out a better way to name them, as their initials tend to get a bit strange) invited me out to the diner. I looked to the dark windows of the house, and then back to car. "Five minutes," I said.

To Rule Mankind and Make The World Obey...

I don't watch TV, really. Most of the shows I like get canceled early into their run, and I have a deep distrust of commercials, do to my fear that my last dying thoughts will be the jingle for "Chicken Tonight". This is a bit rough when trying to make conversation. I can deal with "have you ever seen" well enough, but "did you catch" is just a prelude to a 'no'.

The only thing that has saved me from total television hermitage has been the DVD seasons. No commercial breaks, no hoping in vein for your favorite rerun, just your TV Shows when you want to watch them. MST3K has another box set out next month. I've now seen every episode of "Kolchack: The Night Stalker" and the ill-advised reboot. And then there's HBO.

My exposure to HBO in my youth was limited to my parents occasionally reminding me they had it before I was born - the point being that they could afford it before they had me. So I had figured that I had ruined everything or it had been one bloody expensive channel.

To this day, I'm not sure which was the case...what was I talking about? Right! HBO!

Brilliant channel, really - they tend to get out of the shows way and let their creators tell their story and then stop. No dragging it out for nine unfunny seasons of "comedy" or dull, lifeless drama (so long as you don't count the middle seasons of most long run series). And I'm slowly catching up on the marvels they have done up for themselves. Having gone through "The Wire" (one season too long, but a great ending), I have started in on "Rome".

I've only seen a few episodes here and there, and thanks to the influence of my brother, I had a good enough understanding of the history of Rome to bound from episode on to five and not be too far off in guessing the year it takes place in.

Which is all well and good, but now that I'm neck deep in season one, I must say I've missed a bloody lot. Everything about the series is perfect, like "I, Claudius" having a lucid moment during a meth binge. And it has Ian McNeice, one of my favorite character actors (seriously, no one oozes austerity and decay like Ian McNeice). There's only two seasons, though.

Amazing show.

Names Are Like Shark Fins...

The following is meant as observation only - the events depicted did not lessen the overall lovely time I had.

While attending Nicole & Mark's house warming party this past weekend, I came to the conclusion that people named Justin(e) and I will just never get along. Before I had about a 50% chance of getting along with them - but recent years have proven that my track record with those names has just plummeted into the negatives. There seems to be a distinct personality clash - between my own moodiness (which I will explain in a moment) and their...I don't know, a part of me wants to call it reserved nature, another part of me wants to say "pretentiousness without the grasping qualities that might make them great". But that latter definition also requires some explanation - so let's start with that.

For the most part, I'm cool with pretentious artists. I'll let a musician, painter, writer, director, whatever, slide by with complaints about modern life, a consensus world view, the soul crushing blandness of the everyday - if they are trying to depict not just those problems, but why they are problems and the potential for better. That's the "grasping quality" I actually like about those nigh-on insufferable people, and view it as fuel for their work while making bits written about them impossibly boring. Even if I do not share their views, or hope for different solutions, I can still enjoy their work and have respect for them even if they aren't my cuppa.

When the pretension falls from critics, however, that's when I begin to have a problem. This happens every now and then, and for me, it usually takes the form of Rex Reed, film critic for the New York Observer, and is probably best put into view by his take on the movies of 2008. His top film? The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Mine: The Dark Knight. While I don't think either will age that well (for as great a character as the Joker is, his plan doesn't hold up to repeat viewings), I doubt I'll ever watch Button again. I didn't like it that much when it was Forrest Gump, and while the digital effects are astounding, I could feel indifference settling into my bones. My enjoyment of something equally stupid and smart (serious, the Joker's plan does not hold up to repeat viewings) versus something that in my view brought little new to an already overloaded table and failed to get a "huh" out of me.

Now that I've set this up, it seems as though I'm about the thrash the Justin(e)s of the world - not yet. All the pieces must be put into their starting positions.

My own moodiness is not in the "always sullen" vein it once was. It's no reached a level where people think I'm bi-polar...is the triggering mechanism were a light switch in a room where an unpopular kid is trying to throw a rave (quiet, I had a lonely childhood). For the most part, I have a leash on it, and can choose varying degrees of either depending upon company, but for the most part my public persona is either one of detached observation or grabbing life by the hand and running through the sprinklers. I can see where either would rankle others, hence my willingness to alter.

There are some, though, for whom there is no pleasing. First impressions are important, I know, just as every impression after that - but I only really get good around number seven. Pat of this is because I've moved beyond fretting over looking like a fool. I'm a writer who can't spell - a story teller who always prefers the spoken word to writing - if I wasn't okay with making a fool out of myself, how the hell could I cope with others pointing it out?

Which is why I tend to avoid parties - it's all new people, which I like. But it's meeting new people, which is down right bowel shaking for me. It's when I think detached observation is called for, but nothing kills a party atmosphere faster than someone standing in the corner with a facial expression you'd warn the stewardess about during the per-flight explanation of emergency exits. Also, I have a fear of getting sick and a taste for steampunk, so my methods of avoiding spreading airborne toxins is slightly less than subtle. But, in doing my best to entertain and be entertained by the lovely people I met, I kept hearing remarks from a fellow who just seemed to be...adverse to me. "That's a lot of energy," he'd say during one of my rants. When Stephen M. and I reunited for the first time in five years, and continued our flickering friendly combat of pop-cultural commentary, there was a muttered "Jesus, now there's two of them" - he being already versed in Stephen's antics and taste, which are kindred to my own when surrounded by the mostly urbane sensibilities that the party engendered.

Once the party died down, and we were left with the last stragglers, the hosts, and the last of the beer, Justin appeared ready to puke - this isn't hyperbole, he had been pounding drinks throughout the day and into the current wee small hour of the morning - while the rambunctious of us grilled one another on matters like State Capitals and and the map of Canada. When the time came to leave, I shook hands with those who remained, and Justin said good bye with a "Sean, it was a shame I had to meet you". Nicole apologized for him, but the comment was accepted without rancor (intended or not - the fellow was drunk). There's just some people you will never mesh with, and that's part of life. What can you do?

I'm fine playing the part of the fool, and laughing while others laugh at/with me because, fuck it, I think it's funny, too. Others don't, or can't and it's fine - because that's them, and they probably won't change so it's not worth bitching about unless you can make it entertaining, as I hope this has been to some extent.

And I'll be running into him again at a clam bake in July! When I start re-enacting scenes from the Muppet Show with crabs, I think he might deck me. So, at least I know what's coming. You gotta give me that.