the lonliest road/western hospitality

Sometimes things don't live up to their names, but that's not the case with "The Lonliest Road in America." I figured that in this age of Internets and Walmarts and strip malls, that there weren't many places in the country that were untouched by the swift hand of progress.

I'm big enough to admit when I'm wrong.

I pulled into a town called Fallon in western Nevada. It contained--from what I could tell--nothing but fast food restaurant that looked as if they were built just an hour ago. One of which was a KFC/Long John Silver combo that employed around 10 kids, half of whom were sitting in the dining room area bored out of their minds. They each sat in different booths creating the illusion that the restaurant was busy. I had a $5 gift certificate to KFC, so I got a two-piece with some corn and the worst potato salad ever (I only took a bite). The young woman beind the counter was very pleasant and confused by the gift certificate. After about five minutes and consulting two other employees, everything was set and my order was entered into The Matrix.

I had just about over a quarter tank of gas in the car, so I asked her if she knew how far away the next town was. After all, if I was about to embark upon the Lonliest Road in America, running out of gas would create a certain amount of distress. She asked which direction, and when I answered, "East," she started as if to say something, paused, smiled and said, "Oh, I have no idea."

That was enough for me to opt for gassing up in Fallon. I pulled into a Native American-themed MegaGas stop on the edge of town, just a stones throw from Fallon's biggest attraction: a cemetary. And then I hit the road.

Within a few miles, the strip mall town had faded into obscurity, the speed limit on the two-lane highway inflated to a whopping 70mph, and I was quite literally in the middle of fucking nowhere. But I'd found a pretty sweet classic rock station on the radio, the sun was setting over the high desert and everything seemed right with the world.

But then it got darker. The scan function on my car's stereo ran through the FM dial without settling on a single station and I was stuck listening to Helloween's "Keeper of the Seven Keys" over and over again because it's on the CD that's stuck in the radio. Wildlife lurked in every corner, mostly of the benign type, and by benign, I mean dead. I was actually surprised there wasn't more roadkill strewn about this ghostly Autobahn. The few cars on the road zipped by me doing 75 as if I was in neutral and wildlife warning signs included cows, deers and Horned Gods. However, most of the carcasses were just unidentifiable forms of rodent matter.

I did see a few living beasties. One rabbit thought it would be a good idea to launch itself at my rear tire (luckily its aim was off), and outside the town of Austin, climbing to the top of a summit, I encountered two deers in the middle of the road. Since I was only doing 35 at the time, I was able to slow down to a stop. One of the deers quickly slinked into the surrounding brush, but the other dawdled on the road for a little while and walked along side of me as a I rolled to a stop before it darted away.

The bugs weren't so lucky. As my high beams shone across the dark, high desert night, hordes of flying insects swarmed toward the sweet embrace of death. But I pressed on, plowing through the bottom rung of the food chain, because I needed to get to Ely, which as I found out this evening is pronounced E-lee and not E-lie.

The first leg of the trip ended around midnight local time, and I'm currently holed up in the Historic Hotel Nevada, which has also played host to the likes of Mickey Rooney, whose suite is just a few doors down from mine. When I got my room, they handed me a heavy brass key and a coupon to a free drink at the dive bar across the street. When I went to redeem my prize, the bartender filled up a 10 oz. mug. I figured I'd have another, but when I asked her if the place took plastic, she said that it did, but the machine was acting all hokey and she wasn't sure if it would work. She then asked me what I wanted and said she'd fix it for me free of charge, so I got a Jim Beam on the rocks. When I was done, I said good night, and she came out from behind the bar, shook my hand and said, "Hey, enjoy your stay in Eeeleee." When I got back to my hotel/gambling hall, I redeemed my other ticket for a free margarita, and won $6 on the video poker machine built into the bar top. Enjoyment guaranteed.

Best Lonely Road Sing-a-long: "Here I Go Again" by White Snake, which came on as soon as I left Fallon.

Trip Rule #1: If Tom Petty comes on the radio, you must listen to it. One drink must be taken for every instance of "Free Fallin'" (I heard it twice).

[insert song title referring to california here]

I feel that I've done all I can in California, because on Friday, I learned how to Frisbee golf (or disc golf, or, as I like to call it, Frolf, which sounds sort of sounds like a hobbit). You wind through the forest and drink beer (or smoke weed if you're so inclined) and toss discs at little poles with baskets on them. Exactly the sort of things hobbits would do. It was a blast, even though it was really hot. Like really hot.

Last night was my last night in the state as a resident, though I've kinda been homeless for the past week or so. We went to some oonch oonch yuppie party at a local hotel. We had $400 in free booze. I got obliterated. The bartender had spectacular cleavage, and there was a bongo player and a fashion show. I missed the fire dancers in lieu of getting booze, but the go-go dancers were tearing it up inside. Well, one was; she really knew how to shake it. The other one was kind of bland. Thumbs down, go-go girl. Anyway, the good thing about drinking Jameson all night (and I mean all night) is that I never wake up with a hangover, though sometimes it makes me act and speak in a way that's unbecoming of an upstanding gentleman. I think I did OK last night. I looked that bartender in the eye and everything.

Thanks for seven good years, California.

the polyphonic spree on lithium

Other than not going to Comic-Con this year like I wanted to, I also didn't get to go to Lollapalooza like I wanted to, and, predictably, I missed out. I hardly ever hear Nirvana covers, and I think this is the only one I've ever heard that's any good. You can really hear how beautiful the melody is when it's played on pianos and sousaphones and whatever else the Polyphonic Spree plays...Plus Tim DeLaughter just puts so much heart into it. What you can't see, unfortunately, is the crowd losing their shit. Oh well, maybe next time, right?

Here's a better sounding version from the El Rey in Los Angeles from July.



And while we're at it, Tim DeLaughter with his old band Tripping Daisy from Trees in Dallas, TX, way back in the day, filmed by Texas filmmaker Jeff Liles.



I hope to post something more substantial soon, but I've been actually working at work and I don't have the WEBS at home still. I sit and stare out my window a lot, but I can't see anything because the TV's in the way.

off the grid

I'm not dead. I've moved somewhat off the grid, meaning that I am now living in a studio apartment without cable or the Internets. I have rabbit ears and comic books and Battlestar Galactica on DVD. It's really fucking good, and that's got almost nothing to do with this or this. But they both help.

Yesterday I was at a Jack in the Box, here in downtown just half a block from my office. I stopped there to grab a quick bite to eat before heading over to see Queens of the Stone Age (they rocked). Unfortunately, the concept of fast food seems to have escaped this town's understanding. It's shitty burgers at low prices served up sorta warm and really quick. I should have my burger before I finish picking up the change.

Now, I'm a patient person, but it was just taking forever. I was sitting at a vaguely clean booth with two flies flailing through their final death throes on the table. I didn't say anything. I don't like to get uppity with people handling my food, and it turns my stomach when someone talks down to a waiter/waitress/server. I've stopped being friends with people because of it.

I just sat it out. At the tables behind me was a Christian men's group talking about the scriptures. I wasn't really paying attention, but only because they seemed to be speaking in some kind of code. I wish I could remember the word the leader kept using. Proclivity? It's lost to me. I figured I had to be in the know. I had to be born again. Or initiated. Or something. I see the group in there all the time, and I always wondered why they chose to meet in a Jack in the Box. I would've at least sprung for a Carl's Jr.

Eventually, my name was called, and I retrieved my tray of food: a Sourdough Jack and a small curly fries. It's about as good as it sounds.

I finished up at the same time as the men's group. While I was at the garbage can dumping the paper wrappers, the leader came up to me and introduced himself. His name was John. He said the group met there every Tuesday. He kept looking at my shirt--for a local metal band--that had a minotaur on it. He asked me if I had a relationship with God. I told him I did "in my own way." When I said it, I felt like a douchebag. A simple yes or no would've sufficed. I just thought a definite answer one way or the other would've led into a deeper conversation, and I really just wanted to get drunk and see a rock show, and I was lucky enough to do both. I've become increasingly proficient at giving answers that aren't answers. It sounds like it could be an answer, but it's so open-ended and esoteric that it doesn't really say anything. It seemed like a good enough response, though, because all he said in response was, "I understand." I'm glad one of us did.

our friend, meg white

I've spent just about all the work long day listening to the new White Stripes album, Icky Thump, and except for one song, I'm thoroughly pleased. Elephant ruled, the one after that I was pretty eh about, but this one may even be better with than the former, which kinda caused me to fall in love with The White Stripes, and also, Meg, who has been bestowed with the best ta-tas in rock.



I'm tired of hearing smarmy indie rock nerds scoff at the group because they make simple music and say that Meg's a shitty drummer. First off, it's rock music, and you don't have to be Bernard Purdy to make rock music. It's all in 4-4 time. All you've gotta do is look cool and keep the beat, and she does both of those things just fine. The new album's the rock, so if you're lame enough to think music should be fun, you'll probably like it. If not, put on some more of your boring ass Tortise albums and watch your fingernails grow.

it had to be you

I've been playing this game with myself lately. I ponder whether I should stay up late and do some work at home or just try to get up early and take care of it in the morning. Usually, I opt for trying to get up early. Over the past week, it's worked once. Friday, I was at the office by 9 and finished a story on The Meat Puppets. I wasn't as happy with it as I'd hoped. I kinda wrote it long form and should have been more mindful of my word count. I thought I set the scene pretty well, it just took me a long time to do so. When you've only got 800 words to describe an experience you'll tell your grandkids about, you've got to make them count. You've still also got to make it relevant to others, because no one cares about your sentimental crap. I think I stumbled on that last bit, but I'll have another chance to rewrite it. Today, I brought home a stack of CDs to review, but I'm just going to take care of them in the morning. I decided my evening would be better served with sports and Chinese takeout and my last bottle of Moose Drool. I've gotta run out and buy another six.

When it comes to sports, I'm really loyal and super picky. I haven't been able to get behind another team since I was a New Jersey Devils fan. That was about 18 years ago, and the affair lasted till I moved to California. Now it's just the Mets and the football Giants. For the longest time, I've tried to get into a local team, but to no avail. I tried to half-heartedly cheer for the Sharks, but they're not really local, and I don't know anyone who's into hockey, so that ended that. The A's and the Giants are out, because my heart bleeds Mets; I hate the Raiders and the 49ers can go to hell. The closest team is the Sacramento Kings, who are kinda folk heroes up here, but their fans are so fairweather, and I've never really been much into basketball. However, over the past month or so, I really got into the Golden State Warriors and their unlikely playoff run, which was ended today by the Utah Jazz.

After they upset the Mavericks in round one, I was pretty hooked. Watching the game on TV from the Oracle Arena, where 20,000 fans were standing and screaming and chanting, "Air ball," was a total rush, so I settled into the unfamiliar role of frontrunner, and I enjoyed the ride for as long as it lasted. I mean, with plays like this, I doubt there's any sports fan who wouldn't be stoked.



At I saw the game slipping out of the Warriors' hands, I figured I'd just shrug it off, but I felt that familiar bubbling of frustration--a feeling you grow accustomed to cheering for the New York Mets. I began cursing under my breath, then out loud, and then muttering hateful things at the opposing team. It could have been the heat of the moment, but maybe I've finally found my local team.

i'm alive, if you want to call it that

Over the past month, I've had a host of interesting and wonderful and frightening experiences.

1. I went to Texas for South by Southwest, the music industry's biggest schmoozefest. I drank a lot and saw a ton of cool bands. I interviewed some of my favorite artists, including the Meat Puppets' Curt Kirkwood, who took me to his house for the interview and we hung out for almost two hours. When we were done, his brother Cris gave me a ride back downtown. It was an amazing experience to hang out and speak with artists who had made such an impact on my life and it was even more amazing that they weren't dicks to me. I also go to see them live for the first time since I'd seen them play a free show for Earth Day at the South Street Seaport in Manhattan. I think I was 14 or 15 years old, and it was the first time I was ever in a mosh pit. They put on a killer show in a medium-sized, packed club in the middle of the day. I drank a bunch of free drinks and stood in awe of Curt's guitar playing. He can just fit so much into a song that doesn't seem like it should be there; somehow, he makes it all work. They played mostly new stuff, and I found myself liking it even more than some of the old stuff, though their version of "Plateau" gave me chills. A couple days later, I got to speak with Paz Lenchantin, who in addition to being amazingly beautiful, is also one of the most talented musicians in rock music. She was extremely nice and open and I got to meet her dog. Later that night, I checked out her band and they put on the best set I saw at the festival. They're called Entrance, and if you get the chance to see them live, you should probably get off your ass and go see them. I also had to stay in a hotel room with about seven other dudes for a week. That sucked. But the BBQ was good.
2. My sister got married. My baby sister. I flew to NYC and attended the wedding in NJ. I was a groomsman and ushered my new sister-in-law down the aisle. I'm stoked that she's apart of the family now because she was really funny and can drink me under the table. It's weird having in-laws, and I'm excited that my family's larger, but I just wish I was closer to everyone to actually enjoy it.
3. I interviewed Tori Amos a couple days ago, and I was really nervous about it. It was just over the phone; in-person probably would have driven me nuts. I'm not as much a fan of her as I used to be, but when I was a big fan, I was completely obsessed. People who'd spoken with her before informed me that she was a great person and a great interview as long as you asked good questions. That little caveat got me working harder than I have in months to make sure everything went well. I read and researched and listened to albums for four days. The interview went off 20 minutes later than scheduled, which in the rock world is pretty much right on time. Tori was funny and friendly and really passionate. I was pretty happy with how things were going, but 12 minutes in, the publicist got on the line and told me that we had to wrap it up. Then Tori said, "No, I want to give him more time," which is the first time any artist had ever done that for me. I was honored. We talked for another 12 minutes before we had to wrap it up. When we were done I thanked her and said I really enjoyed the conversation, because I did. She said to me, "Well, J. You got a lot more out of me than most people, because you're so darn sweet." Swear. I giggled and hung up. Ten minutes later, I got an e-mail from the publicist that read, "Tori absolutely loved you." I added the italics, but you get the picture. I'm pretty fucking awesome.

I've spent a whole lot of time away from home and am slowly coming to grips with the fact that I don't have anywhere to go or any major thing to do for quite some time. I'm pretty bummed about it. It's hard to go through all this crazy activity and then readjust to your regular boring life. It's not helping that the climate at work is getting more and more tumultuous, and I'm not sure where that leaves me. I'm kinda nervous about it, but I've been pretty good about checking all the usual sites for jobs just in case. Nothing's really jumped out at me thus far. In the meantime, I'm trying to treat myself as much as possible, mostly in the food department because the bars are getting pretty boring. I made the best T-bone steak I've ever had on my barbecue, and made killer shrimp fra diavolo for Easter. My roommate chipped in on the latter by making fresh pasta with black pepper mixed into the flour. Afterward, we checked out this Pavement movie and I remembered how awesome I thought they were. I've had these two songs playing in my head ever since. I think it's time for a money-grubbing reunion tour, guys.


Pavement - "Cut Your Hair"


Pavement - "Shady Lane"

domesticated

There was a dusty cobweb hovering over my head as I watched Barbarians II in bed this morning. Yesterday, my roommates' room was open and I saw how nicely neat it was. I switched over to the Food Network and caught Nigella Bites. All of these things (even the barbarians) inspired me to clean my room. I threw out the garbage, riled up the dust, put away the clothes, vacuumed and Febreezed.

It's nice in there now, but I haven't spent much time there since this afternoon. It was the first noticeably nice day of the year. The temperature got somewhere in the 80s, and since we got to turn our clocks ahead one hour a couple weeks early this year, we were afforded an extra hour of warm day time. I really hate having to "spring forward." I'm a night-dweller by design and have never had much use for daylight hours. They're usually associated with working or going to school or running errands or other things I find tedious and unpleasant. Not like night time when I can drink beer or type blogs or go to rock shows.

After cleaning, I took a trip with my roommates to go food shopping. We went to Trader Joe's for sexy stuff (good meat, swank meals in a box, sea salt crystals in a nifty container with a built-in grinder, cold cuts), a local natural food store for tofu (them) and strong beer (me), a decidedly more ghetto supermarket for cheap canned stuff, frozen chimichangas and bulk pasta, and then Target for housewares and the like. I got a colander, AAA batteries, some to-go lunch Tupperware and aluminum foil. When we got home, we unpacked and I made myself grilled turkey breast and artichoke hearts. It was my first meal of the day, and I used too much salt.

My roommates told me about this show they were going to at a cafe around the corner, so I decided to tag along. There were three singer/songwriters playing acoustic and a band that rocked out a bit more. One female performer had an amazing voice that seemed to completely mesmerize the crowd, and the frontman of the band turned out to be an intern at my office who usually plays drums in other people's bands. He played covers of '50s/'60s pop and rock songs and did a version of "Dock of the Bay" with an older black gentleman who had a really soulful voice. A lot of fun for a Sunday night, made better by the pints of Redhook ESB.

When we got back home, it was more beer, snacking from all the food we'd bought and the Food Network. While watching Bobby Flay get in a meat loaf battle, the conversation turned to Ms. Lawson; my roommate heard she had some backlash from feminists regarding her image as a "domestic goddess." I'm all for ambitious, career-driven women. I don't think women belong in the kitchen, but I don't like the view that somehow domestic work is menial. Cooking a meal for myself or others is a hell of a lot more fulfilling than anything I accomplish at my job. Maybe I just need another job. I don't know, but Nigella's got a killer rack.



If you're wondering why things look different around here, it's because I re-did the layout. And I even made that swanky header graphic all by myself in Photoshop. It took me about two hours. And yeah, I know it's super basic looking, but that shit was hard so fuck off. I also resurrected the old "<" icons created by Strange Things' domestic bombshell/makeover artist R. who also did a lot of work on my last Magritte look and never got the credit she deserved because I'm a thoughtless person and a terrible friend who only cares about himself.

leaving to join the carnival

On Sunday, I'm driving to Vegas. It's over 10 hours away. I'm going for work--for a series of fashion trade shows where I will be pimping myself and my magazine. I will have business cards and handshakes at the ready. Maybe finger pistols too, if the mood strikes me.

It'll be my first time in Vegas, which is an exciting and frightening prospect. Considering I'm not very wealthy and am hopelessly addicted to strippers and gambling, I can get myself into a lot of trouble really fast. I told my roommates not to worry, that I would pay the PG&E bill before I left. I'm just hoping I won't have to sell a kidney to pay my next month's rent, or my credit card bills. I only figured on being there a couple days, which would have been manageable, but now it looks like I'll be there the whole week, which seems like more of a test of my moral fiber than a work-related excursion.

Other than sending the magazine and LOST's triumphant (mostly) return (don't ever leave me like that again), the best thing about this week was getting a link to M.I.A.'s new video for "Bird Flu." It's got hand drums and dudes blowing in goat horns and chickens and kid-gibberish, and it's pretty fucking awesome. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a new album this year--and soon--and as long as it's half as good as the last one, I'll be more or less content.

i'm glad i've lived long enough to see the '90s come back

I listen to tons of new and exciting music everyday, but when I want to put on something, to rock out to, I'm usually just listening to my old copy of REM's Monster or Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness or Dinosaur Jr.'s Bug or something else that labels me as a old rock has-been. I'm fine with that. Sometime in 2005, there was something of a "grunge renaissance," at least that's how it was dubbed by people like me (I didn't do so personally), with bands like Giant Drag (awesome) and Nine Black Alps (not nearly as awesome) playing songs with a bit of the grunge aesthetic. People like me (who are well known and way better paid) called it nu-grunge (with an umlaut over the first "u," not to be confused with nu(umlaut)-metal, which was really, really terrible). I was kinda stoked, even though nothing really came of it, and I think I'm the only one who has the Giant Drag album.

Anyway, Silversun Pickups are new and good and take me back to a happier time when I was way more depressed. My co-worker told me that they had a video, which she said was kind okay, but she really liked the song. I looked it up today because I'd rather not work and noticed it had a striking resemblance to the video for "Dirty Boots" by Sonic Youth--and by striking I mean completely identical. Deja vu isn't so bad as long as it's rocking.

bud light for dinner

The last two days have been filled with home and garden magazines, wedding guides, searching for images of Quetzalcoatl and writing someone's engagement announcement. I've done a lot of work--editing, phone calling, e-mailing. I find it best to throw myself into things after the holidays so I don't get bummed out. Unfortunately, our e-mail server's down, and my torrent of productivity hit a violent snag. I was so close to getting everything I wanted done today, but it's going to have to wait till tomorrow. I just proofed an article about framing and picking the perfect frame and matting while listening to In the Aeroplane over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel and spilled a quarter can of Bud Light on my desk.

But, you know, that's why they invented paper towels, and I found this on YouTube.



And this afternoon, when I finally rolled into the office, someone sent me this: Beauty is nothing without brains

the king of kings

The best thing about this time of year, other than the friends and family and whatnot, is that tons of little breweries put out bad ass beers. Winter seasonals comprise some of my favorite beers. They're really spicy, and they're almost always really strong. Last year, I wrote at length about the benefits of Anchor Steam's "Our Special Ale" or Anchor Christmas for short. They switch up the recipe every year, and I'm happy to say, after the past couple weeks of extensive testing, they've once again hit a home run.

Coming in as a close, but devastating second is Brown Shugga by Lagunitas. Not only is this one tasty, but it's a hefty 9.9% alcohol by volume. I usually sip one during the course of a night, in front of my television, and fall into blissful sleep. Tonight, I downed two of them and capped them off with an Anchor Christmas. I could go for a good 12-hour nap. But instead, I'm typing this and wondering what train hit me.

It's been fucking cold here, and not California cold either. Actual frigid temperatures have seeped into the valley prison, and walking to my friend's place for a movie and a couple beers was a treacherous journey. The heavy beers warmed me right up, and watching some crazy amphibian monster fuck up Seoul, Korea, got all of us hollering. Good times. But I'm sleepy. Too much time on YouTube. That Justin Timberlake "Dick in the Box" clip is really funny, but I've been on a nostalgia kick lately, and this is my favorite Weezer song.

brimful of asha on the 45

I probably should have stayed home today, but the draw of pizza, beer and rock music proved to be too strong. I called my favorite cab driver up--he drives a limo now, a plush new Lincoln Town Car, and I get to ride around in it for cheap--and ditched my Final Fantasy XII pals (sorry, guys!) to go see some bands at a local pizza shop that's become a sort of venue.

I don't know why bands would want to play anywhere else in this town. First off, their pizza is pretty damn good for California, they have bottles of Pabst for a buck, and since it's a restaurant, it's able to stay all ages. I paid a donation at the door, got ear plugs, a slice and a beer and had a good time.

Afterwards, my friends took me over to this party. I went willingly. I wasn't kidnapped. But once I got there, I was reminded how I'm becoming increasingly less of a party person. All I do is hide in a corner and leach on to the people I showed up with. I don't mingle. And even to the folks with whom I arrived, I rarely talk.

This was certainly a good party. There was a good turn out, people weren't too wasted, and I actually knew quite a few folks there. Still, I did my best to stick to my social chameleon routine and tried to blend into the walls. One good thing that happened at the party was I heard a song I hadn't in a while.



I've been trying to find I Was Born for the 7th Time by Cornershop for quite some time now. I guess it's really not a chore. I could probably just look it up on Amazon and have it in a few days, but I still like the joy of actually finding something that I want. I guess I'm old fashioned. I've listened to it six or seven times now since coming home in the hopes that I'll get sick of it and forget about it for a while. It hasn't happened yet though.

Rediscovering this little gem led me to reminisce about other '90s one hit wonders. One of the best of that crop was Marcy Playground, who I still think got the shaft somehow. I don't know why this album didn't do better than it did. "Sex and Candy," obviously, was a big hit, but there were a lot of other good tracks on it too, like this one.



I guess that's why Time-Life makes nostalgic greatest hits collections.

savage animal: it rolls off the tongue

I'm not going to sit here and try to defend Skid Row. I really shouldn't have to, but the era of rock that they came out of has become the butt of many jokes. And with good reason. Remember Ratt? Dangerous Toys? Great White? Dokken?! Slaughter?!???!1112?!11 These bands were awful. Even then, when I was young, and I didn't know any better, I still thought they were awful. And while i still get a kick out of the occasional Def Leppard song, I know that for the most part, all that shit was pure schlock. But, a couple summers ago, I was driving down to see No Doubt and Blink-182 (modern schlock) with my roommate at the time, and we were both drinking beers and whiskey from a flask while barreling down some two-lane country highway. He was a big rocker kinda guy. He liked fat-bottomed girls and drum solos. He was playing a mix CD he'd made on the car stereo and "I Remember You" by Skid Row popped on. I chuckled at first, but then I realized that it really stood up. It's probably the best power ballad ever. Skid Row, the band's first album, was one of the first I'd ever paid for, so I must have liked it, and listening to one of its biggest hits just then, I realized why. Sure, they were just as pretty as the rest of their contemporaries, but they definitely had a blue collar sound to them--the kind of thing Bon Jovi tried for but never quite attained. I mean, the band is what it is. It's not rocket science. Skid Row grew up in Toms River, NJ, and I don't know what it was like back then, but my aunt lives there now and it's like a city-sized retirement community where everyone eats dinner at 3pm and drives a gray/silver Buick. But maybe back in Skid Row's day, it was a rough and tumble town. Maybe one of them worked at a train yard. Or maybe knew someone who did. I'd like to think that's true.

Tonight, I scored free tickets to go see Sebastian Bach and his band here in town. They played all the hits, and even though no one was there--and Baz pointed that out to two people who were fighting ("What are you guys fighting about? There's plenty of room for everyone. There were more people on my bus last night")--they still unleashed a year's worth of fist pumping, guitar face and drum stick twirls. There was even a drum solo. And when someone threw a blunt on stage, Baz and co. sparked that bad boy up, following suit with a cheesy one-liner. Tonight was a one-off date from their tour with the new Guns N' Roses, and I'm sure they'll play in front at least a few thousand people tomorrow. And I'm sure Baz will blow doors off of Axl, because I saw GNR in the band's prime and Rose couldn't hit a fucking note. He sure could make costume changes though.

Yeah, I'm still pissed off about it.

lived in bars and danced on tables

Cat Power's a really beguiling creature. I've seen clips of her performing live and it can get really weird. She did this dance on Letterman that at first I thought was cute and quirky, but as it continued, made me feel really awkward. I get the feeling that you'd be having a very nice conversation with her and then, without warning, she'd begin staring at the ceiling and then turn to start drawing unicorns and butterflies on the wall. I don't know what that means, but Chan Marshall can really write a beautiful song when she puts her mind to it. I really like this video for "Lived in Bars" because it's not so dour and serious as some of her songs get and it reminds me of visiting home for the holidays and getting blotto with old friends of mine. I get to listen to so much music, I sometimes forget about certain albums. The Greatest came out last year, and it's super soulful so go out and buy it.



PS. I know I'm supposed to recognize her as an artist, and I do. She's awesome, but she's got pretty awesome legs too... And I don't feel bad for noticing.

this is where i'm supposed to comment that i can't believe its december already or how it weirds me out that it gets dark so early...

Instead, I'll just post this:



Because Monica Bellucci is pretty fucking ridiculous. And Italian. And 42.

I was watching VH1's The Fabulous Life of Celebrity Moguls today because my life is neither fabulous, nor am I even a menial sort of mogul. One of the celebrities they highlighted was Jay-Z, who I have a lot of respect for as a business man and an artist, though after seeing him slanging Budweiser with his new song, I kinda wish he'd just gone out on The Black Album, which was really fucking good. Anyway, the program's voice over ran over the Jay-Z's impressive resume outside of the rap game--how he owns this, is president of that, etc. The cherry on top was that he also owns his own color, which I'm sure grants you a previously unobtainable level of pimpdom. The voice over explained that Jay-Z has his own shade of blue, aptly titled Jay-Z Blue, and you can get your lap top or bling-mobile or whatever all done up with it. I didn't think this was at all possible. Then I found this article from a December 2005 issue of Rolling Stone. It's really long, but here's the clincher:

Next summer Jay will unveil an entirely new way of marketing himself: a color called Jay-Z Blue. “Jay-Z Blue is a license for corporations to get Jay-Z in the building,” said Steve Stoute, the head of Translation Consultation and Brand Imaging, who’s working with Jay on the project. “Cars, laptops, lots of different things. I got deals lined up like you don’t understand. But the bottom line is would a company pay to get Jay-Z involved in their product line? Yes, because of who he is and what he’s become as an icon. Consumers know that bullsh!t don’t leave his mouth. So when Jay-Z says x is cool he can singlehandedly change things. When Jay-Z says you shouldn’t have a [Range Rover] 4.0 but a 4.6, that changes Range Rover’s numbers. On ‘What More Can I Say,’ there’s a line: ‘I don’t wear jerseys, I'm thirty-plus/ Give me a crisp pair of jeans, nigga, button-up.’ That put Reebok’s NFL jersey business back to fans, removed it from fashion. He can move the cultural needle because they believe his honesty.”

I still have my doubts, but I guess if anyone could pull that off, it's Jay-Z. And "99 Problems" is a really good song with a bad ass video.

you've got to let the beat. get under your skin.

Whoever said--and there's been about 18 of you--that turning 30 would be wonderful clearly had no idea that the universe hates me. Seattle was great, Thanksgiving was fun, my fatally spicy Thai lunch today was great. I suppose I can't really blame a birthday, but other than the aforementioned, shit's been really, well, shitty. I don't know how else to say it. Today's meeting didn't go well at work, but that's only the beginning of the problem.

I haven't been able to sleep like a normal person--or a criminally psychotic person for that matter. Last night, I laid in bed until 7 in the morning before I finally fell asleep. Because of that, I didn't get to work till noon. I guess that's all well and good, but I feel like a loser when that happens, especially since no one says a thing to me when I wander in around lunch time. I shouldn't be able to get away with that, but I do, almost every day.

Today's meeting went poorly, and that's probably mostly my fault. I'm not much of a morale booster as it is, but I didn't help matters much with my morbid attitude. I felt really unprofessional, and neither that nor my indifference to regular office hours helps my confidence.
I found out just before Thanksgiving that my dad has prostate cancer. This isn't an excuse for my shitty attitude. It's not even a reason--my attitude's been shitty for some time now. He doesn't need surgery. At least, he's not getting surgery. I hate doctors, pretty much, and I don't trust them at all. He got some kind of medicine thing put in his arm that's supposed to keep the swelling down. He just found out yesterday that starting in late January, he's got to go get radiation treatment five days a week for five weeks, because his prostate is about three times larger than it should be, or something like that. It just bugs me that if it's something so pressing, why does he have to wait three months before he goes into have something done about it. I know that a lot of men end up getting prostate cancer and it's usually not fatal. At least that's what I've heard.

I'm a bit of a wreck. Today didn't help. So I listened to obnoxious pop music.



I mean really obnoxious, so if you know what's good for you, you'll probably not want to watch that video. I don't know what the Vengaboys' deal is. I guess they're British, and they're obviously unaware that they're not, in fact, all boys. Or maybe the girls are "more than meets the eye." Like I said, I don't know. But I'd probably make out with the lead singer chick regardless.

I looked this song up on YouTube because I remember that when we first got Napster back in the Bronze Age of the Internet, my sister had downloaded it, and it'd always play when I turned our Sonique MP3 player on shuffle. The first 40 times, I pressed skip, but after a while, my resolve eroded and I let it play. It's like a three-and-a-half minute lobotomy. It's impossible to think of anything while the song is playing. It's aggressive Nintendo sounds are too pervasive. I'm actually playing it now. ... And I forgot what else I was going to write. So check this out.

in lieu of something less interesting

For some reason, certain songs are popping in my head. I don't own any file sharing software because of my job, and I'm afraid some of the stuff that's on my computer might leak and alert record label bulldogs whose job it is to sniff out such things. Meaning, I won't be able to get free CDs any more. That's why I'm glad there's digital places like YouTube, so I can listen to stuff I don't have readily available whenever I want to.

I went to New York for my friend's wedding, and rest assured I had a good time. I'm also back home safe and sound and didn't die in some horrible plane crash. I also didn't end up on some deserted island, stranded with Evangeline Lilly. I'm stoked about the former, but somewhat bummed about the latter. I'll write a more proper post about my trip, though there's not much to talk about because it was so brief, when I'm more sober. In the mean time, here's some of the soundtrack for my last couple days, in a pleasing audio/visual format.



Hum - "Stars"
I had my guitar teacher show my how to play this one. Too bad I don't remember how to do it.



Pharoahe Monch - "Simon Says"
This became a favorite of mine more recently. Any song that samples Godzilla's soundtrack and uses the word "titties" is pretty fucking good in my book.



The Thermals - "Pillar of Salt"
If the new Thermals album was any better, it'd be illegal in Utah.



Pras ft. Mya and ODB - "Ghetto Supastar"
ODB rapping verses + Mya singing the hook = hip-pop gold.



Nirvana - "Drain You"
Probably my favorite song ever written (turn your speakers up).

the great northwest

I've been meaning to write about the Bumbershoot/Seattle trip, but I can't think of anything to type. It was a fun trip--maybe one of the funnest weekends I've had. I saw a lot of bands:

1. The Thermals
2. A Tribe Called Quest
3. Kanye West
4. Blondie
5. Jeremy Enigk
6. Of Montreal
7. Erase Errata
8. Nouvelle Vague
9. Atmosphere
10. The New Pornographers
11. Spoon

I think that's it. I also went to a comedy show with Mary Lynn Rajskub, who plays Chloe on 24 and Aziz Ansari who I think does some stuff with the Upright Citizen's Brigade and also stars in one of my favorite YouTube clips.



Aziz was great. I thought Mary Lynn was funnier when I saw her on the Tonight Show, but this one dude from LA, by way of Seattle, who opened stole the show, I thought. His name was Nick Thune. I bumped into him (almost literally) on the floor for the Kanye West show as I was trying to find a good spot near the stage. I told him I thought he was funny at the show. He said "Thanks." Later on, I was nearly trampled by Paul Scheer from Best Week Ever as he was making his way through the crowd. It was really packed. I don't think I've ever seen so many people for a concert, except perhaps for the Metallica/Guns N' Roses show I went to when I was 13. Kanye had an entire string section with him. I thought that was pretty neat. I drank Sierra Mist spiked with Jameson and tried to move to the rhythm. I'm glad no one was watching.

I caught Jeremy Enigk (formerly of Sunny Day Real Estate) at a "secret show" on this "secret stage" that was almost exclusively press only. There was a bout 25 - 30 people there, and it was the first show I saw on the last day of the event. It was probably the best one too. I liked Sunny Day's Diary album a lot, but I hadn't really followed his career since. Shit got emo in that room mighty fast. His voice was kinda otherworldly. He sang and shrieked and screamed and basically poured his heart out for 30 minutes. It was beautiful. When it was over, the Seattle radio personality who was hosting the event said, "I usually make it a point not to cry before 6pm. Me and my coworker turned to each other--we were sitting in the front row about 5 feet from the stage--and giggled, "That was awesome..."

The Thermals sounded unbelievably good in the concert hall with the worst acoustics. I sang along with all the songs from the new album to the bewilderment and aural dismay of the teenagers huddled around me. I didn't care. The place was packed, and they killed it. I think my face hurt from smiling so much.

I saw A Tribe Called Quest on Lollapalooza in '94, which was a long time ago, and I was still just about old enough to vote. That makes me want a beer. They were the first group I heard that made me appreciate hip-hop. Bumbershoot '06 was their first show together since '98, and they were a bit rusty to start off, but Tribe's kingpin Q-tip took over. I spent a few songs on the floor, then made it up to the grandstands where a group of friends of my coworker were sitting. I'd smuggled in a backpack full of wine (liquor stores are closed on holidays in Washington)--like five bottles worth--and was able to get them in without incident because I was wearing a photo pass. We passed around empty Pepsi bottles refilled with red or white wine and watched the scene below. For one of Tribe's more popular jams, Phife Dawg asked the crowd to jump and the thousands packed on the floor below did so in unison, which, from our high perch, was pretty fucking awesome looking.

A group of people from where I live came up for the festival that weekend. I didn't really know them, but they were good friends of my coworkers. We all ended up getting along really well and pretty much partied together at Bumbershoot and around Seattle all weekend. They snuck liquor into the booth for us, which kept our magazine spiel enthusiastic. They all flew up, though, me and my two coworkers had to drive--12 hours--there and back. On the way up, we were able to spend a night in Portland, OR, which is kinda like Seattle on a budget. There's also about 800,000 strip clubs. I, of course, have no problem with this, but they must employ every woman in town, because the bars we hit that night were about 90% dudes. This made my two female coworkers/travel companions very happy, but I was somewhat less stoked. That night we all ended up back at this dude's house. Some random who rolled up to us at this one bar that had some weird Star Trek name. They begged me to come, I guess, because they knew the girls weren't going anywhere without me. I said, "I don't care. Whatever they want to do." I was just happy to be drunk in a new city and not at work. We all packed in the car of one of the dude's sister and she drove us all to this really nice apartment that had some ridiculously low rent. I got free beer out of it. The Portlanders were total stoners and smoked pot out of a hookah while they were passing around a glass pipe. Talk about dedication.

We busted out of there after like an hour. I couldn't tell if these people really liked us or not (I'm pretty sure they didn't), but they were awfully hospitable. When we got back to the hotel, the girls offered to pay my way into the strip club across the street from it, because I was stuck hanging out with dudes all night. At first I was gung-ho, then I was apprehensive, because I wasn't sure if I wanted my female colleagues to see me make a fool of myself in the presense of nubile naked women, then I realized I was drunk and they were paying and I just wanted to see titties. We got to the door, but it was locked. I thought the fact that they offered was sweet, though. Instead, we all went to a ridiculously hip diner with ridiculously good food, just down the street. The quickest way to a man's heart...

That'll have to suffice for now. The whole trip felt like some coming of age story or some unreal teenage party movie, except I came of age about 12 years ago and I'm about to turn 30. Any more good times like that, and I might have to admit that my life doesn't suck all that much, and that would really suck.

every time a register chings a no talent hack gets her wings

This is going to be gross, so I warn you.

I'll admit that I want to fuck Paris Hilton. I'm not happy about it, but that's the way things go. I'm usually attracted to the worst type of people, more specifically, women who are totally wrong for and unattracted to me. I guess the draw is the feeling of accomplishment. If she's perfect for me and likes me, then what's the point? It's one of the many reasons why I'm single, and probably a lot better off that way.

Anyway, Paris Hilton is completely disgusting. She's everything I hate about people wrapped up into one tanned, processed and buffed package. I hate that she's rich, without a conscious and a selfish snob--and that kinda hate gives me a stiffy. (I told you. Gross.)

Recently, a graffiti artist named Banksy doctored up some copies of the Paris Hilton "album" Paris. The copies contain a remix of the album by an artist named "DM" believed to be ridiculously talented producer/DJ Dangermouse. There are 500 of these and they were snuck back into HMV stores in the UK and some of them are going for a ton of loot on eBay.

I suppose doing a thing like this is kinda pointless. In the end, all that's going to happen is give this crappy CD and the person who made it even more publicity than she already has, but I still like the intent behind it. If anyone wants to buy me a copy, I'd gladly trade any one or all of the three legit copies that were sent to me by the record label. I'm sure they all suck.

[Image stolen from Hollywoodrag.com]