March (Donut) Madness

Danapalooza II's Great Temescal Donut Challege was a raging success (although, if you're like me, you had to endure a major sugar come down afterwards). Here's how it worked: I procured tasty treats from three local donuterias and then placed them unlabeled on plates. Attendees then tried all three kinds of either glazed raised, glazed old-fashioned, chocolate glazed, or crumb, and then rated them from one to five. The real masochists also compared them to the dozen from Krispy Kreme and Colonial Donuts, which partygoers brought on their own. And here are the final results:

Glazed Old Fashioned:
Golden Gate Donuts (42nd and Telegraph) - 18 ("A darker coloring.")
Lee's Donuts (40th and Telegraph) - 16 ("Somewhat whimsical aroma of deep fry.")
Lee's Donuts (Broadway and 45th) - 10 ("Light & crumbly -- wow!")

Chocolate Covered:
GG - 28 ("When you sink your teeth into this one you think, 'I'm really eating a donut at this moment!'")
Lee's 40th - 26 ("A totally average donut.")
Lee's Bway - 13 ("Terrible. Stale. Out of a box?")

Glazed Raised:
GG - 25 ("Light and sticky sweet. This is what plain glazed should be like.")
Lee's 40th - 20.5 ("Tasted old but was okay.")
Lee's Bway - 18 ("Bad donut.")

Crumb:
GG - 21 ("The best! Soft inside, crystally borderline crunchy coating.")
Lee's 40th - 22 ("The best!")
Lee's Bway - 16 ("Meh.")

So there you have it. Golden Gate takes three out of four. One other thought: Krispy Kremes taste the best the next day, although Colonial's chocolate cake donut was surprisingly fresh as well.


As for the Photo Contest, here's some suggestions for the identity of the sharply dressed man in the front door photo:

"He used to live here. … At night, he and Dan bongo together at Lake Merritt."
"Many music journalists claim he has been a pivotal figure in the history of rock 'n' roll."
"Leonard Nimoy. Or a guy from Ottawa who teaches ceramics and sings tenor."
"Insurance agent by day, Turkish undercover cop by night, ladies man through and through."
"His name could be Waldo [sic] or Harold."
"This is a photo of my first boyfriend, Stan Bernowitz. He really took advantage of me. … I had been unable to have an orgasm because my clitoris was not in my throat, like Stan said."

Yikes!


Other highlights of the week:
Watching Jeffrey Lewis sing songs that he illustrated with his own comics. Meeting a union organizer/burlesque artist with an MBA from the London School of Economics.
Seeing Eric's ecstatic look when he started dancing to his old DAT tapes of the Big Wu (and seeing Elly's stomach-pat hippie dance). Hanging out with Shana and Victoria for too brief a time. Drinking Botswanan liquer, eating BYOW homemade cupcakes, tossing back good tequila while listening to Stereo Total at the Make-Out Room, having a whole back room full of friends at Suriya Thai. Discovering that soccer and shotgunned beer is a good hangover cure. Total present capture, as Laura called it. Understanding that getting older is weird, but it can be fun too.

I could say something mushy about how my friends make life worth living but I won't. That'd be too corny.

Why do I have to be Mr. Pink?

Friday was one of the weirdest Rickshaw nights ever. Weirder than Robin Williams partying with the Club ID boys. Weirder than frat hippies drinking shots from a ski contraption. Weirder than Bobby rolling under a pile of coats on New Year's Eve.

See, the Russians were back in town. Previously, the promoter had brought us the Russian Tom Waits, the Russian Bob Marley, and the Russian Melissa Etheridge. (Only the first artist was actually billed that way; the others were how we came to describe them. This activity got a bit out of control, as you will see.)

This time it was supposed to be RTW coming back, with the added excitement of a 16-year-old's birthday party. But the US government, in its infinite wisdom, felt that it would send a message. Nothing says "We're tougher than you" than not letting a Tom Waits impersonator into your country.

So, instead we got the Russian Bob Mould. Seriously. He was big and bald and made a huge racket even though he was playing solo. Just like Bob Mould. The crowd ate him up. Of course, the crowd was heavily lubricated. I bet most of the people there had never been to New York, but they sure knew about Long Island.

One guy -- with his shirt unbuttoned farther than most guys in Long Island -- got a bit too wasted. So wasted that it was rather comical. He couldn't decide which he'd rather do: fight a guy or drink his beer. He kept grappling with one and then switching to the other. Even though he was only 5'2", it took three guys to toss him out (and only one girl to step on his glasses).

After Russian Bob finished, the night got weirder. The birthday girl's parents had hired a DJ to play what sounded like bad candy raver psi-trance from 1993. The Russians immediately ran for their credit cards like Gavin Newsom for a bottle blonde (or a good bottle of merlot). And the teenagers? They stayed upstairs, played strip foosball, and committed some of the most vigorous and disturbing dry humping to grace our harrowed halls.

Finally, it was time to go home. As I was taking out the recycling, the Russian Steve Buscemi stumbled up to me, mumbling something. "I'm sorry, what?" I asked. He leaned in and slurred, "I want to thank you for the kind service." Well, I couldn't shake hands since both hands were full, and he seemed to want to thank me physically. So he leaned in further, and I realized that he was going to do some continental air kiss, like in the movies or in France. (The one time I had gone to visit Chris in Paris in 1999, I had made a fool of myself by kissing cheek instead of air. I had hated the air kiss ever since. If you're going to kiss, kiss like the Italians. Full on.) Only, the Russian Steve Buscemi wasn't interested in an air kiss. He planted one right on my left cheek.


The Russian Steve Buscemi had surprisingly soft lips.

Beuller, Beuller, Beuller...

I had a very Brent-like moment at the last night of Noise Pop. I was tending bar, and this woman came up and ordered a glass of wine. Then she stopped.

"Wait, I know you," she said.

I looked at her doubtfully.

"Yeah, we made out once."


I looked some more. Nope, nothing at all in the memory banks. "Sorry," I said, "I don't think so, I've got a pretty good memory for that."

"Yes," she said, "we did. We went to Ocean Beach at 4 in the morning. It was freezing. My name is Kelly."

You know that moment in Secrets and Lies where the mom remembers that she could in fact be the mom of this black woman because she did actually have a one-night stand with a black man? Well, that's probably what my face looked like.


"Oh, heyyyyy," I said, "you used to live in Berkeley, right?"

We had met at a party at Victoria's massive Mission Street loft. She was one of the few women I've ever successfully picked up at a party. We had made out - and more - over two occasions, including that night on a blanket on Ocean Beach and another time after a bizarre Oakland warehouse party in which Jake's friend Hans played stand-up bass to accompany his trapeze artist girlfriend. And she'd been going to school with Rolf in his Psych program, and had tried hitting on him and Chris a week after we met.

And here she was. I couldn't see the same person in her at all, save for the long blonde hair. She looked heavier, more conservative, older (duh), and, well, shorter than I remembered. But I didn't say any of that. I was the model of restraint for once. I gave her the wine for free, and I didn't see her again the rest of the night. It made me wonder how many other people I've "made out" with are wandering around the Rickshaw, or other places I frequent. I just read about how spouses are GPSing each other's cars these days, trying to catch each other at infidelities. Soon, we'll be able to map out our entire lives on a big video screen. I thought about making a map of SF, showing all the spots I've eaten dinner or gone to bars or made out with people.


Oh yeah, the Spinto Band ruled. They were the perfect embodiment of a TKS band: bouncy, cute, clever, and catchy, full of fun covers and goofy energy. Like the Muppets if they were college kids from Delaware. And I have a new favorite local band: The Old Fashioned Way, a 7-piece indie-pop orchestra of boys and girls with a main singer Asian guy with a super-deep voice. Like Stephin Merritt fronting Architecture in Helsinki. Very high school band atmosphere, in the best way.

Pinheads and Noise Pop

It's Noise Pop, all the time this week. Last night, I decided to skip the festival for the first time in days, and I actually dreamt that John Vanderslice was popping all around me.

Okay, not really. But it wouldn't have surprised me.


Tuesday at Mezzanine w/ Freedm:

Freedm is just another word for nothing left to lose, and, um, Doc Martens. Really, this '90s revival is getting out of hand. What's next, free flannel shirts at shows? At least Doc M brought along a free photo booth, which I took part with two loverly former editors from West Coast Performer.


David Cross: I couldn't hear him when he was MCing. He djed a very Three Kinds of Stupid set though - highlighted by "Jet Boy Jet Girl" - and came upstairs to stand next to me for about an hour while he chatted up some girl he'd met at All Tomorrow's Parties.

Extra Action Marching Band: This was one of their more sedate performances, which made me want to go see them tonight at Balazo Gallery, where they'd get really sweaty and freaky. They seem like old friends now, even though I don't know any of them. Remember that Thanksgiving dinner show where they zapped a turkey with one of those orb things? And the trapezee artists were all on mushrooms and suddenly Brent was holding hands with a strange woman? Good times.

Har Mar Superstar: He seems fatter from the balcony.

Tapes n Tapes: Don't recall, much at all.


Wednesday at Swedish Music Hall:

It still smells like cat pee, and $3 for a cup of hot chocolate mix with water is annoying, but what great acoustics!

Laura Gibson: Dynomite! Is it wussy if I say I had shivers several times? I did! I know I've ranted about her before, but she was just as fantastic live as on record. What a freaking voice! And she told little anecdotes in an adorably nervous way, and played that beat up guitar like it was a Stradivarius.

Etienne: When good he's real good; when bad he's real boring. Funnier than expected, tho, especially that song about the Brain that's a Bro.

Josh Ritter: I thought he was very talented and very un-San Francisco in that he didn't hide behind irony or floppy hair. But I'm not so into poetic songwriters who turn great phrases that mean nothing to me and maybe everything to him or maybe nothing to him but a pretty phrase. When he did a John Prine song, I thought, 'Yeah, that's the kind of songwriter I like.'


Tonight, maybe some NP happy hour action, but then off to Rickshaw for Club Loaded with German DJs and one of the dudes from Junior Senior. And tomorrow: the Spinto Band! Oh Mandy.

If you can't tell, I got a new computer with one of those cameras where you can distort the view. Chris came over and we tried it out. Here he looks like one of those knights that go "nih!" or a villian from Flash Gordon.

Tales of blargy blee

Recently I was interviewing the guys in Scissors For Lefty, and I learned that the bassist and drummer's mother used to be a pop star -- in Borneo. In fact, when they go back to visit they still hear her played on the radio. When I asked if she still sang, the drummer said, "No, in Borneo, being a pop star is something you do until you're married."

I thought about that quote while listening to the Hot Toddies play the Rickshaw tonight. They're four cute young girls from Oakland and they sing salacious songs about Swedish boys' bare asses and getting horny in Seattle. (They made me feel a little like a dirty old man when I told them I liked their songs, which is good I guess, because I am older and it'd be weird if I didn't feel a little strange telling a much younger woman that I liked her flirty songs. Oh god, my feminist mom would be so proud.) But anyway, I couldn't help wondering if they'd give up their music when they settled into jobs and families. Or if they'd grow tired of subsisting on bean burritos and No Doze and move to Ukiah or Des Moines to get an advanced degree in biochemistry. And years later, would they ever get played on the radio in Borneo? Probably not.

This getting older thing is weird. How exactly do you age gracefully? In the words of Captain Fatass, "What's the use of parking lots/ if you ain't makin' out and smokin' pot?" There was an article in the Chronicle recently about a woman turning 40 and hating it, about how she had always thought women who dyed their hair and wore trendy clothes were hideous caricatures. But now that's she older, she understands the need to try to maintain your youth, no matter how.

I think I know why I'm having these thoughts. Every year around my birthday, I get moody and bonkers. Or thoughtful and melancholy. Or manic and wild. And then, usually right after my birthday, I'm back to normal. I'm not sure what it will be this year, but I can feel it coming on, something bubbling up below the surface. It might help if I could figure out what to do for my actual birthday, which is less than a month away now. Can't decide on a day or a theme or a venue. Next year will be a big one, and there's plans afoot for a trip to Mexico. But this year is smaller, more contained. Maybe some bowling. Or dancing. Or eating.

Right now, I'm staving off the Blue Meanies by reading Tales of Blarg #9. It's a long-running local zine by Janelle Hessig, and it's hella funny. Lots of comics about being a crusty (there's a hilarious punk vs. hipsters strip) and getting older (in her case 30ish), having your hormones rage like never before (all my female friends say this is true) and enjoying vices (like biting your toenails or peeing in weird places). Besides all the poo and dick jokes, there's a surprisingly tender comic about dealing with depression, in which she suggests, "The seemingly endless shit tunnel out of Shawshank doesn't really go on forever. Keep in mind that Frida Kahlo didn't get to painting until she got rooked by that trolley, and the Ramones wouldn't be the Ramones if Joey wasn't crazy. People have come back from worse things and so will you."

Words to grow old by?

Take it off, way off

So, because today was Valentine's Day and I was already in the city for the Rickshaw's weekly booking meeting and then had to work the underwear party that night (more on that later), I decided to see a movie. Not just any movie, but the ultimate anti-Valentine's Day movie.

It was called Flannel Pajamas, and I knew the minute that I saw the preview that it was a film for me. Two characters meet, fall for each other, get married, and watch their relationship slowly break apart, with lots of talking and sexing. It sounded like a French film, but without all the subtitles and croissants. And it starred the slimy brother-in-law from Weeds (Justin Kirk) and the adorably freckled gal from Tully (Julianne Nicholson). What's not to love?


Well, I was almost dissuaded by the Onion's review. Boy, did they hate it. "Opaque acting, excruciating dialogue, and flat, affectless direction certainly don't help, but even in brilliant hands, Flannel Pajamas would still be a movie about two horrible, unsympathetic people doing dreadful things to each other, and learning nothing in the process." Ouch.

But I went anyway, partially spurred on by Mick Lasalle's Chronicle review (which I have to say may be the first one that I've ever agreed with). And you know I really liked it. Sure, the film isn't perfect and the characters are far from perfect, but, hell, that's life. Lots of people have a hard time in relationships, because relationships can be next to impossible (oh wait, am I projecting here? And why do we keep trying them? Because they're also kind of awesome).

I have this theory. I know, I know, I always have a theory. But here it is: The two main characters in Flannel Pajamas are hard to like because people within relationships are harder to watch. If you saw a film about these two people living outside of their relationship, I bet you would like them more. It's like when a couple you thought were perfect for each other end up breaking up -- you can never know what's really going on inside their heads and behind their closed doors. The nicest people may be bitch-slapping the hell out of each other when you're not around.

Anyway, I recommend the film if you like watching messed up people try to figure themselves out for a couple hours. It just felt really real.

Of course, then I went to the Shaw and watched 22-year-olds dance around in their underwear at the Club Neon pantie party. That felt way less real. Especially when the staff joined in.

Three kinds of fog

So the 16th Three Kinds of Stupid party was Saturday night at Rickshaw Stop. The 16th one! Remember when it was held in my living room? Remember how we used to know everyone there? Remember how we blew up Brent's receiver right after the beer ran out, and 200 angry strangers nearly hung us from the tire swing in Victoria's loft? No? Well, that was years ago.

Now we have a fog machine.


So that's why these photos are a bit bleary, I swear. I have to say that I'm fully pro-fog machine at this point. You get on that stage with the DJ set up hooked to the ceiling and rocking gently and girls coming up and asking to DJ in the middle of a set and the fog is rolling in and the lights are spinning around, and you just feel like a rock star. For a minute.

And yes, that is Mr. Mostly Meat in the far left-hand corner. He doesn't look real happy with whatever we're playing. Must've been the Quiet Riot. Oops, sorry, Meat!

Here's DJ BAS talking to Kristina and Kathleen, right after Malsy got scary zombie eyes and K-D grew talons for fingers. At least that's what it looks like to me. They're lovely ladies, don't piss them off or they'll flip you upside down.


I didn't get any photos of Trackademicks, although Brent supposedly has more that I can put up later. But you do get to see the latest trend in party mania: sex on the dance floor while your partner is upside down.


Probably my favorite attendee was the guy who decided to turn the torrential downpours into his own personal style, waving his open umbrella in the air like he just didn't care while onstage. You can see that he finally shed it in this pic (you can also see a woman doing the Monster Mash).


Sixteen parties! This was the first ever where we didn't have CDs for people. Instead, we made a podcast and placed it here. You can listen to us make fun of each other for picking certain songs. We also ask some really important questions, like "Do people take baths in Sweden?"

Bringing camel back

I never did put up photos of my holiday trip, so here you go. I'll start with New Year's Eve in Providence. A bunch of us came all the way across the country to stay at Rolf and Michele's house for a few days.

We played lots of games, as usual, including Dance Dance Revolution (which I really don't like as much as everyone else, it's just a little odd watching people play a game instead of playing one with them). Eric reigned supreme as always, even with the added difficulty of wearing the fuzzy-eared hat (this reminds me of that Kurt Vonnegut story in which the strongest, most beautiful people have to lug around dumbbells and uglifying masks).


We also tried out the Wii box or whatever it's called. It's a remote controlled video game that lets you play golf and tennis and monkey games. Here, Michele and Victoria are beating the crap out of each other at boxing.


This game we like to call "Make the Pineapple Empty." It was played many times.


This eventually led to a recreation of the Lipstick Debacle of 2002, in which Victoria and Kristina applying lipstick to everyone's faces. After a while, we started to look like refugees from a chicken pox hospice.


I avoided it for a while, but then was tackled and pockmarked. It's no wonder no one wanted to make out with me.


At several points, the pipes backed up and sewage started overflowing into the basement. It looked like we wouldn't be able to use the toilets at all on NYE, so Vic made the ladies a port-a-potty for the garage. (Luckily, the Rotorooter dude fixed everything right before the other guests arrived.)


Around midnight, we gathered for the dropping of the ball, which had been crafted by Brent and Rolf out of plastic champagne glasses. Inside, there were colored lights and a boombox, which played the theme from Chariots of Fire. (Soon after, Eric D busted out some Diet Coke and Mentos, but somehow I didn't capture the majesty of the explosion.)


Then we danced to Stereo Total, Kenny Loggins, and Fatboy Slim, just like old times. Around 4:30, people collapsed on the floor and listened to Belle & Sebastian.


The only thing that could've made it better is if we'd gotten to ride around on a bike shaped like a camel. Oh well, dare to dream.

Sad and pretty, occasionally witty

I had a revelation yesterday while I was writing an artist blurb for the Noise Pop program guide. I pulled up the MySpace page for the woman, Laura Gibson, and clicked on her music. And I sat, stunned. It was so beautiful. Time stopped. The pain in my wrists fled. The air smelt of fresh baked cookies. I heard birds sing and frogs burp (or whatever they do), even though my windows were shut tight and I live in urban Oakland.

I listened to all four songs on the site. Then I listened to them again. And then I went to her regular site and read all about her, about how her dad was a forest ranger and her mom was a kindergarten teacher, how her first shows had been in nursery homes and her nephew's classroom. How the members of Norfolk & Western, a Portland band which is good buddies with M. Ward, had loved her music so much that they'd asked to adorn it with singing saws and violas and trumpets.

But what exactly had struck such a chord in me? Sure, she sounded a bit like Jolie Holland and Cat Power, and a lot like Karen Dalton (a '70s New York folk singer who had a stunning, Billie Holliday-ish warble, and whose first album, It's So Hard to Tell You Who's Going to Love You the Best, is a must own). She had a voice that seemed tentative and uncertain, but also brutally honest and sincere. And the playing was so intimate that you felt like you were eavesdropping on a woman playing in her bedroom late at night.

But really what it came down to was this: Gibson's songs were sad and pretty. And I like songs that were sad and pretty. Or fun and goofy. Or smart and witty. Sure, every once in a while I like something else, but those are the three types I'm most drawn to. Put all of them together -- see early Belle & Sebastian -- and I'm in ecstasy.

And what does that say about me? Well, I've got a new theory. It's that the type of music that you like is also the type of person you're attracted to. Now, you may laugh, but I tried this theory out at a book swap party last week, and it proved highly informative. Of course, now it'll be harder for you to think about what you truly like musically and how it matches up with what you like romantically. (One person, who wasn't at the party but was later informed of the theory, joked, "I like my music with nice breasts.") But you should try anyway. If for no reason than it's interesting to try to categorize what you generally like about music.

And then you should buy tickets to see Laura Gibson on February 28 at the Swedish American Hall.

You are what you eat ... and eat and eat

So, I went to the Fancy Food Expo this week, thanks to Tracie's tip. It had been 13 years since I went last, way back in 1994 when I worked at the knish stand. On that day, I went a little crazy on the fancy finger foods, gorging on everything in sight, including the free French champagne, which meant I showed up woozy and bloated for my first shift as a waiter at Centerfolds. Sort of like this (note how my no-hawk is really coming in here):


This time I knew better. Thanks to Tracie's friend's suggestion, I ate mostly savory things first, saving the sweets for last (and forgoing the bubbly).

The whole thing - two huge rooms of every kind of fancy food available to stores, caterers, and restaurants - reminded me of the Alternative Press Expo, where all the exhibitors were desperate to get your business. I only snacked at tables where other people were gorging, so that I wouldn't be drawn into conversation about the delicate flavor of their crackers and cheeses. Or how many kinds of pickles they sold.


Some random observations:

Texas is not a country, even if its booths were situated in the International corridor, right next to England and Australia.

Korean chocolates taste like taffy that's been stuck under a desk for a week.

You feel more like a glutton if you carry your toothpick from booth to booth, even though you're helping the environment by conserving tiny pieces of wood.

They're doing crazy things with sugared/flavored nuts these days.

All packaged Indian foods taste the same, whether they be from New Zealand or Germany.

Darth Vader looks less menacing as a gumball machine.


After a while, I actually got tired of all the chocolate mousse and candied yak butter. I took one last pic of some disturbing candles and headed home.


That night, I came back to the city for the Black Lips. I've decided that whenever Fresh Pink tells me a show is worth seeing then I should drag my tired ass out of the Three Kinds of Stupid podcast editing suite, and go. She's always right! It's amazing.

The Black Lips, also, were amazing. I never thought frat rock would be popular again, but then again I didn't see the Hives' as a major label band either. Anyway, the Lips friggin' rocked, they covered Jacques Dutronc's "Hippie Hippie Hooray," and they spit up in the air and caught it in their mouths (I have to try this at the next TKS bash). These things are what make up a great, dumb rock band.

And I've decided that I really like great, dumb rock bands. I like my music either really smart (Don Lennon, Flaming Lips) or really dumb (the Sonics, Lil' Kim). Maybe dumb is the new smart.


All of this has got me thinking about a new relationship theory. But I have to test it out a bit before I reveal it.

Girl Talk

So, last week Joanna and I went to see Girl Talk. I tried to get Brent and Megan and Russ to go too, but I'm glad they begged off. Because it was weird.

Why? Because I realized something that I bet I'm going to have to realize a lot over the next 30 years or so.

I'm old.


There's no other way to describe what we witnessed. Or what we experienced, I guess I should say.
Girl Talk is a guy from Philly. One guy, one laptop, one ugly sweatshirt. He looks like he's about 23, but apparently he's in his mid-30s and has been making mashups and remixes for nearly a decade.

And his deal is that he encourages his audience to get onstage with him. At last year's Be the Riott Festival, his set got shut down after 10 minutes because so many people climbed up that the venue staff freaked out. This didn't happen at the Independent. No, they allowed around 100 people to jam up there onstage with him.


So what we got to watch was a bunch of incredibly young and dorky suburban dudes and their underage girlfriends poorly act out routines they'd witnessed on MTV or BET. Wow. A little of this goes a long way, unless you're a pedophile or addicted to bad reality TV shows. Neither of which I am, thanks.

As for the music, it was fine. Fun, almost. But something was missing. He was sort of the laptop version of Cut Chemist or one of those turntablists who are all fancy shmancy and not dancy. Not that the crowd wasn't dancing. Or Girl Talk wasn't trying. Here he is showing us his underwear.


But it felt like the Emperor's new underoos, er, clothes. These kids were up there dancing because Pitchfork told them to, not because it was that great.

I thought that maybe I was just not getting it. But then we ran into some more older folks, people who put on a dance night of their own, and they reiterated my comments. Of course, they were high and one of them kept grabbing my neck and jamming her breasts against face, but they agreed with our assessment.

See, this year I'm trying to be more careful in my criticism. Because recently someone used my last name as a verb which meant to criticize incessantly and without information. And while I was touched by this usage, I would like to think that it could be used to mean criticizing something after being informed or experiencing it.

Or even better, it could stand for making sweet sweet love.

You decide.

It's all Greek to me, part 3

More Greece. Here's a black sand beach on Santorini. Notice the stray dog lying in the sand, all emaciated and sad looking. These dogs are everywhere. My first night I arrived at 3 a.m. and discovered that my hostel reservation was for the next night and they were full up. So I wandered around the streets, considering whether or not to sleep outside (it was 70 degrees and perfect). But then homeless guys and homeless dogs started following me up and down the streets and so I ended up talking a different hostelier into giving me a cot in a hallway for 10 euros. Hello, Greece.


Here I am with the famed Santorini in the background. It really is a monument to man's immense insanity. "Hey let's put a village on a cliff, where any volcanic blast can knock us down into the ocean." But damn if that sunset isn't worth eating your toenails for. It just went on and on until I felt guilty of drinking in all that beauty, as if there were little children in China who were starved for sunsets.


And we end with the most bizarre picture of my trip. It's not from Greece; rather, it's from the Vienna airport, and as far as I can tell it's some artist's rendition of this mom's Vijayjay.

Those crazy Austrians.

It's all Greek to me, part 2

Okay, more Greece. There was an awesomely named restaurant called...Moustache! I imagined that Lee/Brian/Moustachio the Indie Rocker Bartender Man About Town Who Stole Eric's Woman That Night eats here when he visits Rini's family (this is much Rickshaw inside joking, which probably isn't that funny even if you know what I'm talking about).


Around the corner on the isle of Mykonos (my favorite overall), you can find On the Rocks and the Jam Bar (which plays, you guessed it, bad Jammy Jam Rock). At On the Rocks, I drank flaming Absinthe and watched some of the whitest people ever try to get funky to the hits of the day (think Justin Timberlake, My Humps, Nelly F's Maneater which I came to really enjoy).


After listening to all the Eurotrash disco and Top 40 pop, I was really jonesing for some good indie music. Imagine my surprise when I saw this poster for a bar that played everything from Franz Ferdinand to the Clash to, um, Metallica. Sadly, it wasn't open yet, since nothing on Ios opens until 11 p.m. (and that's when the vomit starts to flow down it's narrow, quaint footpaths).


This is a very talkative Swedish guy, who went on the cave-swim boat tour. In the background on the right you can sort of see the Brazilian girl I was in love with (she had a boyfriend back in Berlin, where she was taking classes) and on the left there's the French couple I was in love with (they looked straight out of a Tintin book, complete with cowlicks).


Here you can see the white buildings of Ios. These are the buildings that first convinced me to want to come to Greece, back when I watched For Your Eyes Only in 7th grade (my mom wanted me to see the Muppets Take Manhatten with her; it was my first act of rebellion; talk about embarrassing) and then when I saw Summer Lovers with a very young Daryl Hannah and Peter Gallagher (this was only 2 years ago but the movie was filmed in the 80s and made everything, including threesomes, seem so perfect). The buildings, at least, really are perfect. This is where I want to come to die. My grandchildren can push me up the hills in a wooden wheelbarrow. Ah, that'll be the life.

It's all Greek to me, part 1

So I've been meaning to put up some pictures of my Greece trip for ages, but really the pictures kinda blow. The Greek Islands are the kind of place that don't transfer well to a small disposable point-and-shoot camera. So after a while I stopped taking pics of nature and started taking them of weird street signs. Like this one.



It looks like a sign for "Hot & Sour Soup ahead" but it's actually one directing you to the emergency slide on the ferry.



This one seems to suggest that the Robot Walk Olympics will be taking place shortly.



Here's some cool graffiti outside a bar. Andy Warhol is indeed dead.



There were a cool nature shots, including this one, in which the rock seems to be made of stacked up french fries.



And here's where some farmer accidentally found the Venus de Milo. It was buried in a field where there's now a smattering of garbage. It was so quiet that I could hear the people talking who were swimming way down at the bottom of the hill (no, there's no indie rock club here, although there is a small scene in Athens, which of course I attempted to uncover).

a picture's worth 50,000 words

So, for this year's NaNoWriMo thing, Chris suggested that people make a piece of art to go along with their novel. And then they could bring them to the final party and auction them off.

For my piece, I did a comic novel in four panels. Kind of reminded me of when David Lasky did that mini-comic version of James Joyce's Ulysses. He had to leave a lot of stuff out too.

Here it is...