I guess I’m what, an eighth of the way in and I still haven’t mentioned Hawkwind or Diana Krall or Tina Turner or the Spawn Sacs, right? Oh well. Who knows how long before this train derails. Today we hit 500 which means nothing really other than I might be on more frequent sabbaticals from here on out, which is cool because you can just continue imagining that somewhere else, I’m also committing the same violent transgressions against the English Language and Her Grammar and Spellings. I like pork chops by the way. #Chuleta Oh, I’ll also be very busy making those tapes for our four contest winners since the equipment will be back from the shop this week!!!

How long before this little pony crashes sideways into that tree? That tree that’s always been there and this little pony don’t see coming? How long before do ya think? And I says thank ya. But really. Let’s find us another hobby. Another venture. Let’s throw the towel in. Let’s pretend we care. Let’s ignore the blade as it slips reddened out of the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings. Let’s see if the little pony avoids the tree, but bucks the rider into a ditch.

Orioles, Pansy Division, Flatus, and C + C Music Factory behind the curtain …

Part the eighteenth is not the sordid tale that would take you galloping through some maiden’s maidenhood, nope, it’s actually quite boring. You should probably skip over it and head back to John Spain’s memoirs of life as a WVUM alterno-muzak jockey. There’s lurid stuff in there too. Late night cocaine binges, unprotected sex with hookers of questionable age, wild theories concerning French poesy of the late nineteenth century, dark rooms/alleys, soft penile touches; in short, everything you would need for a solid yarn of the Pynchon middle canon. In other words, a much better read than this shameless tromp through the erogenous zones of the English Language and Her Grammar and Spellings. Don’t bitch later like I didn’t warn you. Cuz I did, cuh, I did.

ATR, Promise Ring, Mastodon and Aztec Camera beyond the jump …

Here we are with Part the Seventeenth rearing its ugly head in our (well, rather, your) direction and all the tautologies of the past stand true in defiance of better judgments, e-mails, threats and attempted trébuchets. Do we soldier on? Sure, why not. At this point all four of you look forward to my less than clever musical musings. Plus, we break the Holy 400 today, whatever that means. But I do know what it means for the English Language and her Spellings and Grammars. It means I don’t give a flying good goddamn of a coasting fuck on roller-skates. I wonder if there’s a direct correlation between financial stability and being a complete music loser/dork? Are these things even related? Shit, now I’m babbling and getting personal, something I promised I’d never do within these digital pages…

Run D.M.C., Wanda Jackson, and Ol’ Blue Eyes beyond the jump –

Here we are at the Via Crucis of good intentions. Remember last year when we held a contest for a mix-tape from my heart to your ears? Remember that? Remember the instructions? How if you posted to Facebook and became post number 127 you’d get one? Seemed like a good idea right? Save you the trouble of “downloading” music and owning something that will probably disintegrate in a couple of years but that would have some kind of cool little handmade package to show the kids eventually? Yup, it seemed like a good idea to us too.

Well, it’s been a while my sweet chickens and dearest fools of the parade, but with reason. Now, dispensing with the cutesy introductions that usually preempt these proceedings, many things have happened in the weeks since we saw each other last, but one thing remains true and solid within these digital pages: my deadly incursions into the sacred realms of the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings continues unabated by reminder e-mails and occasional real-life skirmishes with people in the word biz. But I say unto them and you my sweet chickens and most dearest and appreciated fools of the parade, could I possibly give a bucket of rocks kicked over of a flying fuck when my THL sheriffs encourage my excessive excess? Nope, I didn’t think so… we soldier on to the day 4000 becomes a reality, or I perish in a hail of recorded materials!

Bad Religion, Mark and the Mysterians, and more after the jump

This Sunday, March 11, will see the gathering of several of Miami’s best jazz musicians, who will lead workshops and end the day with a group performance in the afternoon. The day is part of Tito Puente Jr., will lead the music workshops, produced by KCC Productions, on timbales. Tito is on a passionate mission, nurturing the musical legacy left by his father. Crowds lured to a venue by the father are returning to see the son — and to once again participate in the high voltage celebration that takes place on stage.

Read on to learn more about the performers/instructors who will be there!

Part the fifteenth is a chockfull of international wonders, British punk rock and as close to a confession on masturbation as we’ll get for a while. Read on, make notes of the transgressions against the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings. I also posit against jazz fusion, but then again, wouldn’t you?

Onwards you Black Emperors! Part the thirteenth is upon us and your humble narrator continues the Canadian vibe in the opening vignettes and goes into unrelated rambles concerning the evil heroin, albums that need to die, and the usual verbiage of violent volleys against the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings. This one does not end well.

301. SNFU — IF YOU SWEAR, YOU’LL CATCH NO FISH. I remember being in Canada in 1994 and getting a lot of Canadian TV under my belt during the slow afternoons of my two-week stay and seeing these fuckers’ videos on all the time on what was it? Much Music or More Music? Something Canadian and polite. Lots of skating involved. I dubbed this tape from a friend in school when I got back. Cool stuff. Fun trip.

302. THE DIODES — TIRED OF WAKING UP TIRED: THE BEST OF THE DIODES. Seriously, who isn’t? But in favor of finding a specific album, this “best of” collection has all the hits you need without the geenky über-New Wavey stuff that might make you cringe. Often looked over, you might enjoy it.

This is Part Twelve. This part is not one of the lost tribes of Israel. This part has many parts of disco and disco-ness. If that offends you, move right along. The assaults on grammar and spelling continue. It will make you reticent to the proclivities of your heart. But we also hit 300 entries in this part, which is cool for the ladies because it will remind them of the super-buff dudes from that horrible movie about the 300 Spartans and the Battle of Thermopylae. I promise no history anecdotes here. Just my humble narration and whimsical eye.

276. HIS HERO IS GONE — THE DEAD OF NIGHT IN EIGHT MOVEMENTS. This is a great 7” that I actually wore down considerably. Traded it away lest I finished the job. Great fucking dirty smelling crusty hardcore from these backwoods lumberjacks. Soulful, desperate, hinging on next month’s welfare check. Even a little niggerish at times for good measure… but always dirty. I recently got a slightly less used copy.

277. RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS — THE UPLIFT MOFO PARTY PLAN. Aside from having Flea, this album also boasts the background vocals by Mr. Angelo “Motherfucking Fishbone” Moore. It is arguably RHCP’s best album tied with Mother’s Milk (which loses a bit of charm with overproduction). It is a party record. It is fun. And believe me, with a “themed” entry I have planned for this, it is not all accolades for these guys.

Pry the veined leaves from the
sea, their focus unmitigated by
cyan-tinged promises of subterfuge,
obfuscation, derailment and

the tender lament of
topiaries long forgotten and
cast into the shadows of an
ugly and slow descent.

Now is the moment of reflection,
now the sky can kiss the wet hand
in a subtle manner,
noted for its depth of congenial

gravity, its lack of emotive
harrumph a coiled seahorse’s tail,
a way to drift listless,
wrecked and comatose.

On the eleventh second of the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of this eleventh year of the millennium, your humble narrator and somewhat passable scribe will contemplate the business end of a handgun as it will be held by the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings and all of these little transgressions that I have brought to all you seven of my readers will finally be given the swift justice only she can muster. Hopefully I can finish this by then, because after that, I will no longer be.

251. AIR SUPPLY — THE ONE THAT YOU LOVE. Goofy bright, cheery photog of the air balloon on the cover (no pun intended, I’m sure), this album reminds me of the music my mother played in the house when I was a toddler and it reminds me of my love for her and her psychotic cleaning binges in the wee hours of the morning. The late ’70s/early ’80s were bizarre times. But I love my mother.

252. RUFUS THOMAS — THAT WOMAN IS POISON! This is latter days Rufus, but it still is straight up blues! You’ll remember him from “Walking the Dog” but this album was my first taste. Solid shit baby.

Part the tenth, wherein our humble narrator and questionable scribe makes forays into the low moments of his life, reveals the hurtful purges of his heart, loses charisma through his transgressions against the English Language and Her Grammars and Spellings, fights many urges to incorporate Burt Bacharach into the mix, fondly remembers a swimmer’s body, and ends with the exaltation of narcotics in powder form. Another good day in the office, another good day for our hero to become less and less.

226. AVULSION / LACERATION — SPLIT 7”. Avulsion takes their time, but Laceration rips through their side like their hair is on fire. My fave is Laceration’s “Rambo.” So Rambo, take a fucking hike!!!

227. SEEIN’ RED — MARINUS. One of hardcore’s oldest and truest veterans. Fucking awesome rage contained on 7 inches of wax is really something… really good release and a nice starter for you. On Ebullition Records.

228. SUICIDE COMMANDOS — MAKE A RECORD. The reason why Minneapolis, Minnesota is on the musical map of the underground. This was their only record but it is available compiled into a discography of sorts. If you can find this (since I no longer have mine), we should talk. We should really, really talk. Crucial and necessary.

I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I refuse to shave.
My shoes are soft
but my step is strong,
strong and loud
and heard by philanthropists
and lovers of poetry alike.
I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I have a fox in my backyard.
My bestiary is rounded out by
weird little dogs who
disobey my command
and find sustenance in scraps
of discarded poesy.
My whiskey is good
and I share it after a few drams
have raged through me.
I am P. Scott Cunningham
and I give South Florida
her golfing sun,
the fish nibble on my spent flesh
and Lebron follows my tweets.
Clothes look good on me.
Soft plain white T’s and khakis
accentuate the gruff
of my xistera launching pelotas
with murderous intention
into the neon Miami skyline.

Part the ninth, where our humble narrator commits acts punishable by death upon the English Language and her Grammars and Spellings, overuses the pathetic and pedantic contraction of “kind of,” declares his love for Martha Reeves and her fantastic Vandellas and follows it with a few entries concerning homosexuals in hardcore/punk bands. Burt Bacharach makes a few cameos. All is well in the kingdom.

201. MARTHA AND THE VANDELLAS — WATCHOUT! C’mon, how can you not love Martha and the Vandellas? These gals could really belt it out! This compilation of tracks has their best one ever, I don’t care how much you like to dance on the streets and shit, but “Jimmy Mack” is where it’s at! Hell yeah Martha Reeves! I fucking love Martha Reeves!

202. BIG BOYS — LULLABIES HELP THE BRAIN GROW. Sad shame that Randy “Biscuit” Turner passed a couple of years ago, but the Big Boys, along with the Dicks and MDC put the punk rock stamp on the great state of Texas. Albeit a gay one, but hey, queercore’s alright if you like saxophones, right? Good album. Good humor or is it a good hummer?

203. PANSY DIVISION — FOR THOSE ABOUT TO SUCK COCK. Pansy Division, talk about your funny gay dudes. This 7” (no pun) is for recognition that I always get a kick out of their album art and it all started when I first saw this one. Gay guys have a sense of fashion AND humor. Wow. Fabulous.

P. Scott Cunningham’s wife is a figment of his imagination,
or rather, the affirmation of a small,
well-paid cadre of people who attest her reality.
I’ve never met her because she supposedly travels a lot.

He’s rabid over Wade County and the LeBron fiasco,
he’s a typical whiteboy that way,
hoop dreams and double-dribbles that translate into
Facebook picture posts that betray fanboy sensibilities.

P. Scott’s generous when he’s thick in the drink;
lets you wander his tropical estate unattended
to help yourself to unpronounceable single malts he received
as wedding gifts that are cleverly hidden in his kitchen.

Part the Eighth in which our lonesome hero confronts international punk rock demons, some easy listening, joins in a social call to early ’90’s crossover, and makes revelations about Cher and his sexual fantasies.

176. FRANK SINATRA — COME FLY WITH ME. Aside from his awesome cover of “Brazil,” the cover of this album always intrigued me… is Frank piloting the craft? He looks sauced. Or is he inviting to ride along? At his expense? Ahh… the mysteries of easy listening.

177. CAETANO VELOSO — QUALQUER COISA. Brazil’s master musical poet and tropicalista. Delicious album and always a reminder of how limited my Portuguese is… it would be a little more enjoyable that way.

178. THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW — SOUNDTRACK. I enjoyed the tunes from this production like anybody else back in my secondary school days. What I didn’t enjoy was having to be Eddie all the time cuz I had a leather jacket. Fun times with Tatiana at the old Riviera theatre.