All I want is my liver all polluted with Remy

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Am currently trying to scarf down the remnants of Friday night's dinner at Goa because it was there in the fridge and because I am broke. The food there is surprisingly good and they $3 Imperial pints at the bar during happy hour.

That I consumed three of these pints will come as no surprise to anyone who has ordered the Chicken Phaal.

No idea why I attempted to eat the leftovers of said chicken today, sans the soothing Newcastle. I'm crying at my desk right now. Clearly I am lacking a fundamental logic component to my brain. Or (perhaps more likely) it's my Scottish frugality overriding the sheer inedibility of the leftovers.

So this weekend my father and my friend S's father were in town. I dragged them to the WFMU record fair. "What freaks!" they both cried, which is rich coming from antiques dealers. Anyhow.

So here's what I got: a 60s garage girl-group comp that I may or may not already own, The Sympathetic Sounds of Detroit, just to show that there is no love lost between me an that fair city (even given my recent musical misadventures AND having to miss the Dirtbombs on Saturday night in order to go see Robert Earl Keen with my father and [apparently] every Sigma Alpha Epsilon brother and/or Texas A&M alum in the tristate area), a Blasters LP, a Canadian Tribute to Nashville, and a couple of gems from the good folks at Hyped2Death, including a hot-off-the-presses Steve Treatment double CD.

I figured I was done, seeing as I'd spent every last dollar and my eyes were glazing over. Plus having to escort my father, who was openly mocking the other attendees the entire time, was rather draining. Though secretly enjoyable.

But then I came across a Marlin Wallace display and I stopped. The guy manning the table (and boy was he manning it! A good 6'2, shaved head, and Ed-Gein-not-Shannon-Hoon-style overalls) came over and pitched the story to me. Some background: Marlin Wallace is like country music's Jandek, except more talented. And more insane. He spent 20 years as a hobo, fought in Vietnam, and paddled down the Amazon alone in a canoe. The man has a lot to say. You can hear one of his tunes here. (And yeah, I find the marketing of crazy people as entertainment as distasteful as the rest of you soulless humanoids, but I was sold when I said, "Can you tell me what he sounds like?" and the guy replied, "Johnny Cash meets Captain Beefheart and Roky Erikson." Well alright.)

And *then* we were done. Back to the car, where S's dad presented me with a jar of peach moonshine from the Blue Ridge Mountains. Yay!

(Did not see any of the usual suspects, btw. They were probably crouched down low, pawing thru dusty crates, looking for Small Faces white labels, and thus obscured by the milling neckbearded masses.)