The above makes no sense without the sound up.
[Tweets from Twitter as if you couldn’t tell, and yes I cheated. Been busy in meatworld.]
Traffic, 1971. We played their albums in college so often that if you held the vinyl to a light you could see through the grooves.
A great cultural icon passed on this week. She possessed one of the greatest voices in the business, singing and performing gospel, blues, R&B, jazz, soul and pop. Multiple generations grew up listening to her recordings, myself included.
What a natural. Only 22 years old in 1964, and she was already amazing. Respect indeed.
R.I.P. Aretha Franklin (1942-2018).
Have a great weekend, folks. See you back here tomorrow.
Stuck in traffic? No prob. “Outta my way, butthead!”
Self explanatory slippery wreckage with an appropriate soundtrack. (Here’s another version with a Canuck/Reggae/Punk soundtrack.)
Is it too early for a Christmas jam? Nah.
Yeah, I didn’t recognize Eric Clapton, but you can’t miss John Popper, and I can’t keep the image of John Belushi out of my head while listening to him.
Sorry about that, but I’ll make up for it. Lookee here:
Mitica scena del film “The Blues Brothers” in cui Jake e Elwood entrano nel ghetto per andare a reclutare Matt Guitar Murphy e Blue Lou Marini. Eccezionali le performance di John Lee Hooker (è proprio lui che canta il suo stesso pezzo Boom Boom Boom) e di Aretha Franklyn, che interpreta la moglie di Matt.
Vi auguriamo un grande fine della settimana, la gente. Ci vediamo di nuovo qui domani per più divertente.
[Found somewhere in here.]
Don’t read too much into this as I’m just messing around with JASC for the helluvit. Meanwhile a little birdy from Los Angeles sent me the following:
So it’s 2:15. The Obama street closures are about to begin, and the airport traffic is expected to be a mess. Should I take the 10 East to the 710 south?
HELL NO. The manic motorhead doesn’t do tens. He does elevens. I’m gonna drive it right down the fetid bloody gaping maw of the 405 South like a boss.
Ignoring the voice of the Waze app bitch, I jam down Centinela past National, past the 90, past Jefferson. I break into the 405 from Howard Hughes Parkway and head for LAX, to face almost certain death.
“Seems the flow is more sluggish than usual,” I think, “but it’s moving.” Then suddenly I see brake lights that stretch from here to San Ysidro. That’s when I make my move. Time for Exit 46.
TO IMPERIAL HIGHWAY – AND BEYOND! *wooooosh*
Everything is going as planned. A mile down the road I jump the unsuspecting 105 East, run the Crenshaw exit lane to the end and merge like a pro. The Gods are surely smiling as I peel off to the Harbor Freeway South, but the patterns aren’t right… something is amiss. Better exit 190th Street for good luck.
Sure enough, the 110 is at a standstill at the 405 interchange. My catlike instincts pay off again as I kick it down Figueroa to the next on ramp and hit it down the Weigh Station Only lane (merge) down the Avalon Boulevard exit only lane (merge) and then suffer a half-mile of stupid until I can veer into the Wilmington on ramp lane. From there it’s a cool breeze. Snaking on and off the 405 exits and entries, I bypass miles of suffering fools moving at 15 mph all the way to Long Beach. To them, I’m an unidentifiable blur of 99/100% pure awesome.
My journey takes less than 90 minutes. Not bad, considering the brutal and bloody odds stacked against me. Now it’s Miller Time, and I tip one to the poor bastards who don’t know the method of the madness. I pity them. I really do.