The Occasional Blog of Jonah Weiland

During my senior year of high school I found myself over at Coach Huntington’s house one afternoon helping him load up his truck. There was a girl’s softball tournament the following weekend and it was a camp out thing, so there were many supplies needed for this trip. Mr. Huntington’s brother Roland was in town, too, and was helping us out load softball and camping gear into the back of Mr. H’s truck. Mr. Huntington never did anything without music on and this was no exception. The song “Do It Till Your Satisfied” by BT Express was playing on the car radio in the background as we loaded up the back of the truck. Roland struck up some conversation.

“Hey G,” that’s what Roland called his brother, short for Gilbert, the name no one ever called him.

Roland asked, “Hey G, what do you think of the band Boston?

Mr. H responded, “Boston?”

“Yeah, you know, Boston,” said Roland. “You know, ‘More than a Feeling,’ ‘Peace of Mind,’ ‘Don’t Look Back.’ You know, Boston.”

“Boston? Boston? Motherfucker, you is not a pasty white motherfucker. Why the motherfuck are you listening to Boston? What, let me guess, you listen to Chicago, Kansas, Alabama and Huey Lewis, too?”

Roland responded defensively, “How the fuck did Huey Lewis get on that list? He ain’t no location, he’s just a man.”

“Fuck you! Stop trying to switch the subject away from what a nerdy cracker you clearly are,” shot back Mr. Huntington. “Take out Chicago and put that snowflake Bruce Hornsby in if you must.”

“Man, I don’t listen to none of them cats,” said Roland. “I just happen to like Boston. Cmon, yo, you know, (sings) ‘More than a feeeeeelin’, more than a feeeeelin’…”

“No, I don’t know that cuz it’s crappy cracker music.”

“Wait a second, how do you know about all them white bands?”

Mr. Huntington shot back, “I keep up on it all so that I know there’s shit out there that no self-respecting black man should be listening to.”

“What, so there’s not a one white band out there that’s worth anything?”

“I’m not saying that, motherfucker. Rolling Stones. The Beatles. Fucking Elvis.”

Roland responded in agreement, “Fucking Elvis.”

“That’s right. I’m just saying Boston ain’t cool to be listenin’ to. Boston is a cracker band. Those other bands I mentioned, they all got inspiration from the great R&B acts, so they’re cool. You gotta know the difference between cracker music and white music.”

“What about Country,” asked Roland.

“We don’t talk about Country. Except Johnny Cash. Don’t talk no gruff ’bout Johnny Cash.”

Roland responded, “You with that fucking Johnny Cash. Like that boy ain’t white.”

“Brother, Johnny Cash alone could kick the collective asses of the members of Boston,” said Mr. Huntington. “That’s what a bad motherfucker he is. Stop talking smack.”

Roland asked one final question, “Well, what do you think of Steve Winwood?”

At that moment Mr. Huntington pulled Roland off the back of his truck, threw him on the ground and kicked him repeatedly while saying, “Roland, tell me you’ll no longer listen to Boston or Steve Winwood or any other cracker ass band you own the LP of and I’ll stop.”

“Fuck you,” uttered Roland, trying to fight back without much luck.

The beating went on for a good half hour until Roland agreed to go with both of us back to his home and let us witness him destroy every questionable album he owned. The amount of music destroyed that day was legendary– Kenny Logins, Glenn Fry, Bob Seger, Brian Adams, Peter Cetera– all of it destroyed. It truly was the day the (cracker) music died.

It’s been a while since I shared anything Mr. Huntington related, so I figure now is as good a time as any.

In addition to his being the P.E. Teacher and coach of many of my High School sporting activities, he supplemented his income by working securirty at clubs on the weekend (BTW, he did this despite the fact he was an exceptionally wealthy man, but more on that another time). Mr. Huntington worked the door of many a club and rarely found himself in a fight. At 6′3â€?, 300 lbs, this African American gentleman was incredibly imposing and no one wanted to throw with him. If someone starting acting up like a fool, he’d just walked over to them, wrap one arm around the guy and move his mouth closely to his ear and whispr in the deepest voice he could muster, “If you don’t bring it down, motherfucker, you’re going underground.â€? That worked for many years, but when kids started bringing knives with them to clubs, he called it quits.

For Mr. Huntington, working for four or five hours at some big club in Hollywood meant easy money and some amazing sights (“Oh, the booty I saw Saturday night would make your drawers shake like they’s filled with monkey shit on fire!â€?). One thing he observed over and over again was seeing the ladies play the “grubby grabbyâ€? - basically one woman grabing another woman’s breast in public, generally more than once a night. He was amazed at how often it happened and how casual everyone was about it. Oh, he certainly didn’t object in any way, but he found it surprising. And he found it odd that it happened at all, but especially only with women because it would never happen with men. Men simply didn’t pick up each other’s garbage. Sure, maybe a man hug or bump, but never the junk grab. Not even a tweaj of the man titties. And that’s the way it should be.

Of course, Mr. Huntington always said his favorite part of the job was “checking for chiggersâ€? - checking for women “jilling-offâ€? in the bathroom. I’m not kidding! He said it would amaze most people to know how many people, both men and women, that would skip off to the bathroom at some point for a quick trip to the land of good tinglies.

If there was a way I could make money as a “chigger checker,â€? well, I’d specialize.

So, next week I’ll be in the land of Kings & Queens, England. Specifically London. Business takes me there and I’m very much looking forward to this trip. Since visiting the British Isles in May of 2003 I’ve been jonesing to return. It’ll be a short trip, fly in on Wednesday, fly home on Monday, but I have two days or work and two days of fun to look forward to and that doesn’t suck.

Now I just gotta figure out what I want to do while I’m there. Suggestions are encouraged.

I like Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches. A lot. I guess I never lost that part of my childhood, which is fine by me considering the sheer volume we do loose. I particularly like PB&J made with Strawberry preserves.

The other day I found myself in one of my favorite chain of grocery stores, Trader Joe’s. Those of you reading this aware of their greatness understand how it’s actually fun going to the grocery store when it’s TJ’s. So I’m walking the aisles at this store and spy one jar of Trader Joe’s Organic Strawberry Preserves. I realized I was all out of the jellyspreadstuffs, so I figured I’d give this stuff a try. Not because I’m some orgo-eating freakazoid. (And to the freakazoid’s out there, I apologize.) No, it’s just I needed some jellystuffs.

I made a sandwich with this new spread and admit I’m rather disappointed. Preserves are supposed to have bits and pieces and chunks and not be entirely smooth. This TJ’s drizzle was entirely smooth. Almost too much so. It’s so smooth you really can’t get that big a layer of jelly on the bread and that’s unfair. That’s not nice. Frankly, that’s just wrong. The flavor’s also not quite there. It’s not strong enough. It’s kind of watery. That, too, is just wrong.

So, with that in mind, I find myself in a mental state of much weight. I shall not belabor the point, but the injestion of said strawberry slimery can not be recommended. I give you, Trader Joe’s Organic Strawberry Preserves, a straight up C.

At least you were able to wet the bread.

A while ago here on the j-dub I told you all how listening to the music of the band Rare Earth would make you more excellent. Well, tonight I realized there’s a second band that also falls under that category.

Sunday night I finally got the chance to go see a band I’ve been meaning to see again since catching them briefly on New Years Eve. The Toledo Show isn’t an easy band to describe. This band is like something out of a 1920s speakeasy with burlesque dancers, but updated with a contemporary beat and feel. The band is one part music, one part show and one part sex. In fact, the lead singer, Toledo, is the living embodiment of the orgasmic finish of a good night’s worth of sex. It’s not easy describing their sound since it’s so very unique, but I think the best way to put it would be to say it’s like traveling back in time to an era when Jazz thrived as the most popular form of musical entertainment, back when it was still wildly experimental. Throw a bit of extra soul and funk into the mix, then bring it into the 21st century with modern beats and a little bit of DJ magic and you’ve got the Toledo Show.

And as good as the music is, the show itself is just as impressive. Really, Toledo is so cool and so filled with sex appeal that he makes it hard for every other man that walks terra firma. He’s joined by a handful of burlesque dancers who bring the thickness of the sex that permeates Harvelle’s bar in Santa Monica to a palpable level. The back lighting, plentiful smoke (both machine and man made) and an original sense of style (Fedora and all) combine to make a presentation that feels almost like a series of still pictures come alive.

The show is so good the normally stuck up Santa Monica crowd was friendly and energetic. The dancing to the Toledo Show began early as couples enjoyed both the show and each other with great passion. Although, it had an opposite effect for me, I guess. This one very beautiful woman randomly tapped my shoulder to tell me how much she liked my shirt, but I was so mesmerized by the show I kind of blew her off with a dismissive look. She did it again, not catching my first response, but my second reaction wasn’t much better. The music had me at that point. Sorry pretty lady.

After the first part of the show had ended I sat in the booth while my friend Tracy sat on a chair on the aisle side of the table. A man in his late 40s, early 50s approached me, got close to my ear and asked, “Is that woman your lady?” I looked at him, saw that Tracy would have absolutely no interest in this man, so I played the role of cock blocker to deflect the man from Tracy and responded in the affirmative. He said, “Well, you’re a very lucky man. And I’m glad I asked you first because you look big enough to easily kick my ass.” I shook the man’s hand, he was off, and shared the story with Tracy. We had a good laugh. Oh, and I could have kicked his ass, although I wouldn’t have. He should have gone for it. A whole different kind of laugh would have been had.

If you live in Los Angeles, treat yourself on a Sunday night and check out The Toledo Show at Harvelles. I’d recommend getting there around 9:00 to get a good seat up front. It gets crowded quickly and it’s worth being able to see everything. It’s only $7 and well worth it.

I’m currently in the process of shopping for a new car. I forgot just how much I loathe car salesmen. They’re an evil sub-sect of humanity clearly bred in laboratories where probes, pitch forks and bottles of bleach have been inserted into any and all body cavities in an attempt to turn them into the beastly beasts they grow up to be. They’re a detestable sort who will lie, cheat, rape family members and do otherwise unpleasant things in order to make a sale.

Case in point, jagoff Honda dealer salesman. The other night I hit the Honda dealer to take a look at the Honda S2000. I met a guy name Ahuhsudyeutyh or something close to that. I expressed my interest in the S2000 and my wish to test drive and also noted I will not be making my purchase for at least 2 months. No problem, he said. He asked for my drivers license, which I gave him. At the same time he asked for my phone number and without thinking, I gave it to him. It wasn’t until later when I left the dealer that I realized that was a dumb move.

So we test drove the car and I liked it. Ultimately I don’t think I’ll pick it, having been wooed by the Mazda RX-8, but it was a very nice car. Throughout the drive Ahuhsudyeutyh would tell me how popular the car was (considering I rarely see them on the road I found that surprising), how they have a hard time keeping them on the lot and that they practically sell themselves. When I asked if the dealer had any sort of incentives running on the car right now, he said no and once again cited how popular the car bull shit again.

I left the dealer relatively pleased with my experience and talked over my various car considerations with my friend Jacob. I told him of my S2000 experience. He looked up some stats online and discovered that Honda ships about 500 S2000’s to the United States monthly. Compare that to over 20,000 Civic’s shipped to the United States. Popular car my ass.

Yesterday I get a call from Ahuhsudyeutyh to see how I’m doing. I informed him that I’ve test drove three cars so far (RX-8, Mini Cooper S and the S2000), still had three more to go and reminded him I wouldn’t be making my purchase until the end of next month. At that point he put on his “hard sell” salesman hat and reminded me how popular the car is and how it might be difficult for me to get the S2000 that I want if I waited too long. That’s when I put on my “fuck you” customer hat. I told him that taking a hard sell tactic with me wasn’t the right way to go about things with me and second, stop telling me the car is “popular” and “flies off the lot” when I know the sales numbers on this car. At that point he began back tracking, “Oh, no, I mean is car is very popular with people who own. You know, owners love S2000.” They better, or else they’re driving a car they detest. I told him not to call me again and that if I were interested in purchasing the car from him, I’d contact him directly.

Suffice it to say if I were to go for the S2000, which I don’t believe I will, I certainly wouldn’t buy it from Ahuhsudyeutyh, if for no other reason than it’s practically impossible to say his name.