Tag: G. Love + Special Sauce

Well into their third decade, G. Love and Special Sauce still sound like they are in no particular hurry to get there.

If a mermaid learned to play surf guitar, she could give Olivia Jean some exciting competition, at least for a little while.

They had been shot at. They had avoided countless booby traps. They had been served tiny delicate cups of the most aromatic and poisonous espresso. All of these events were framed as interrupted cribbage games. Maybe they played too much. The phlebotomist ruminated on this as they locked up their two-wheel drive all-terrain motorbikes across the street from Kirov Park. The Transnistrian passports had been excruciatingly expensive, but the ergonomist insisted it was justified, for complicated political reasons. The pieces rattled against the cribbage board and the very dangerous little notebook in the messenger bag as they strolled through the trail, looking for a man holding two empty water bottles.

The topologist carefully unfolded the graph depicting prime number frequencies. Across the scrub, the baker was returning from the Unimog, having concluded the search, and from the looks of their empty hands, unsuccessfully. They must have left it in the cab back in Calabar. Wonderful. Together, they considered the placement of the carved stone monoliths before them, their geometric arrangement random to the average visitor, but a clear reflection of order to the ancient people of Alok Ikom, and apparently, also related to the graph before them, with cataclysmic mathematical consequences.

The thin Nebraska ice crackled ominously as one of the occupants of the well-appointed tent leaned back on their recliner. They peered at their line, descending into the near-freezing water and vibrating sympathetically to the sounds of the radio. The other ice-fisher threw a log on the fire, pausing in recognition at the song before smiling and turning it up.

Exene Cervenka fronting Los Straitjackets is a powerful combination.

It's a steamy Florida night, and it marks the debut of Julius C. Lacking on the airwaves of WFIT, a university radio station in Melbourne, Florida. The random nature of the playlist is born of a catastrophic home furnishing disaster that hopelessly jumbled the contents of the vaunted Lacking Selection, the music library which Julius has been aggregating for the last twenty years. The process of its re-cataloging and collation, which promises to last decades, will henceforth be known as The Lacking Organization. Let it begin.