Who would name a professional sports franchise after a building material? Well, a team in something called the Alliance of American Football would … and has. The Birmingham Iron. What’s next, the Petersburg Plastic? Duluth Drywalls, Wyoming Wood, the fuckin’ Butte Bricks? So dumb, but then again the whole idea of a pro football league that’s not spelled N-F-L is a lesson in dumbness.
Yesterday marked the passing of sixty years since Buddy Holly and his rock & roll brothers perished on a desolate field in Iowa. In altogether less important news, the LA Rams laid down on a field of their own on Sunday a turn of events that would be tragic if not for the fact that, in the twenty-some-odd years since the Rams abandoned the city, most of LA had long ago found other football teams to follow.
There was a funky market in a California beach town. You could buy snacks, knick-knacks, a decent bottle of wine. In time they added a damn good meat market and fresh produce and odds and ends that met the vibe of people who had just stepped off the sand. In essence, this little corner establishment was a “gourmet market” thirty years before there was such a thing. Time marched on, things changed.