The Long Gobble Gobble

Just so you know, they’re making changes to my blog, ultimately to make it work better, but they can’t make the changes all at once, so things may look funky for a stretch here. I hope you still read it.

Now, Thanksgiving …

Have you ever wanted to have relations with canned cranberry sauce? I have, though I’ve never consummate. So I understand that, for many people — men and women both — having sex with cranberry sauce is actually easier and more gratifying than eating it. Luckily for us, there is equally nasty local music in the form of Street Jizz, a side project started by members of the Ssion. Download the band’s theme song from its MySpace page and get busy with some cylindrical berry product.

Oh, you’d rather fuck a pie? So unoriginal.

Seriously, though, this weekend looks as though it will have some fun offerings. I’m going to miss my family as they turkey it up down in Texas while I remain here, but I’ll see all of ’em at Christmas. In fact, I’m looking forward to spending this weekend with my beautiful baby, Kansas City.

Now, I’ve had a MySpace profile up for a while, maybe a year, but until I met Kansas City a few weeks ago, I never thought I’d find anyone to have a meaningful relationship with on the dratted “social networking” site.

Digression: MySpace has replaced some of the more essential forms of human interaction (from the personal e-mail to actually going out with people) by enabling a new form: the Hey-I-Saw-U-Last-Night-But-Was-2-Chickenshit-2-Talk-2-U-So-Here’s-A-Message -2-Your-Public-Internet-Profile-U-R-Hot-BTW. That there’s a really good way to ensure that you will never make out with, go on a date with or even so much as actually meet the person in question. So go ahead, include your cell-phone number, dumbass. Of course she’ll call. Especially if you post that as a comment rather than sending a private message.

Though I complain, I, too, have been MySpace’s fool on a couple of occasions. Unexpected errors, indeed. My mistake was … well, let’s say it was this: not finding a woman as wise and forgiving as Kansas City. She knows I cover her music scene, and she appreciates it. So to requite her affection, I am going to go out and rock and party and get rat-arsed all weekend, perhaps having a gay fling with Lawrence at some point just to remind me where my heart really lies.

I’m excited to get to go to this year’s Thanksgiving Breakfast Dance over in KCK, tomorrow morning from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Mad Southern soul man Marvin Sease and local cat D.C. Bellamy, among others, will play. Though I may be one of two white people in my age group there, I will endeavor to follow the command implicit in Bellamy’s new CD, Give Some Body to Somebody. Because this year, we are thankful for two things above most all else: sex and the Gospel.

Thanksgiving night brings power-pop kings (and Social Distortion/Supersuckers tourmates) Blackpool Lights to the Record Bar, along with a band called Making Movies. The Lights have a new guitarist, Chris Tolle of the Belles, who has replaced the recently departed Thom Hoskins, who’s focusing back on his awesome alt-country band, Buffalo Saints (’bout bloody time!).

Friday, I’m thinking of making the DJ rounds — first, the Beat Drop with Kiko De Gallo and newcomer-making-a-wave Ian Frost at Jilly’s, then, over at Skybox, Ben Fuller and Senor Oz, the latter being an old friend who’s briefly back in town from San Fran.

Also that night, there’s a safe bet for a good time at the Brick with the Bleeding Hands and Super Black Market — a bill of Southern soul-rock and searing, thunderous punk. Sounds good to me.

That should be enough to get you going. As always, there’s beacoup listings in the back of the nearest Pitch. Or ask any cool-looking person you see on the street or aisles of the grocery store.

Or just MySpace them when you get home.