Preposterous Tunes

In the run up to the KALX fundrazor (yes, they spell it that way on purpose) and in celebration of the station's 45th anniversary, DJs are focusing on music from a different decade each week. Last Monday, Fresh Pink asked me to sub her show so she and the Fuzzz could get out of town, and I could get my '80s jones on. It was one of the most fun shows I'd done in ages, and I didn't even get to play half the stuff I wanted to. I guess I can play some of the rest on October 29, when Fresh and I will be doing our fundrazor show together (save your money for our show, hint hint). Oh yeah, and next Monday, October 22 from 3 to 5:30 p.m., we'll be sharing the '90s, which prolly means I'll be rocking the indie and she'll be dropping mad science on ya. For reals. Um, here's what I played on Monday (you may notice a few current things, which were supposed to take care of official station business):

My Bloody Valentine, Drive It All Over Me, Thorn
Chin Chin, Stop Your Cryin', 53rd & 3rd presents AGARR Retro
The Wake, On Our Honeymoon, Harmony
Plasticines, Zazie Fait de la Bicyclette, LP1
The Raincoats, No One's Little Girl, Moving
Manatella, Brandy, Fashionable Neighborhood
Emma Pollock, Adrenaline, Watch The Fireworks,
Throwing Muses, Green, S/T,
Three O'Clock, I Go Wild, Baroque Hoedown,
Primal Scream, Gentle Tuesday, Children of Nuggets Vol. 4,
Jesus and Mary Chain, Cut Dead, Psychocandy,
Shocking Pinks, This Aching Deal, S/T,
Doublehappys, The Others Way, Nerves,
Delta 5, Mind Your Own Business, Rough Trade: Post Punk Vol. 1,
Sexual Harassment, If I Gave You a Party, Anti-NY,
Jens Lekman, Kanske Ar Jag Kar i Dig, Night Falls Over Kortedala,
Jazz Butcher, Partytime, In Bath of Bacon,
Breathe Owl Breathe, Marshland, Climb In
Pylon, Crazy, Hits,
Young Marble Giants, Final Day, Colossal Youth & Collected Works
Rosehips, Room in Your Heart, S/T,
I, Ludicrous, Prepostrous Tales, Rough Trade Shops: Indiepop 1,
Shop Assistants, All Day Long, S/T
Les Calamites, The Kids Are All Right, S/T
The Black Lips, Veni Vidi Vici, Good Bad Not Evil
Replacements, Take Me Down to the Hospital, Hootenanny
X, True Love, More Fun in the New World
Violent Femmes, Ugly, S/T
Great Plains, Letter to a Fanzine, Naked at the Buy, Sell & Trade
Young Fresh Fellows, When the Girls Get Here, The Men Who Loved Music
The Mixers, Love Hurts, Whaam! Bam! Thank You Dan,
Primitives, Really Stupid, CD86
Fire Engines, Meat Whiplash, Hungry Beat
Embarrassment, Wellsville, Heyday 1979-83
The Chesterfields, Completely & Utterly, S/T
The Speedies, You Need Pop, Speedy Delivery
Brilliant Corners, Oh, BBC Sessions
Georgie James, Need Your Needs, Places
dBs, Black and White, Stands for Decibels,
Feelies, It's Only Life, Only Life

And yeah, that is a picture of me in 1982. Wow.

Spice wreck

Saw the Darjeeling Limited with a bunch of high college kids last night. How was it, you ask? Better than The Life Aquatic, for sure. Worse than all his other films.

It certainly started out good and quirky, and it looked frigging beautiful. India tourism council should be paying him because even the squalid tenements looked gorgeous. And the actors were all great, even if they didn't have a lot to work with. (A scene with Owen Wilson revealing his brutalized face was particularly poignant, considering his recent suicide attempt.)

But there were tons of problems. While Wes Anderson had sort of gotten over his daddy issues, his characters were still running after a missing mom figure. And, as Chris pointed out, the Wilson character was pretty similar to the one in Bottle Rocket.

But the main problem was that the characters are flat and unknowable. I didn't care about them because I didn't know them. I got that they were as damaged as the kids in the Royal Tannenbaums, but I never knew why. A flashback didn't add anything, and neither did the short prequel available for free on iTunes (although it did allow you to see Nathalie Portman naked, if bruised.) And like the Life Aquatic, Darjeeling leaked energy as much as an old balloon, dragging at the end.

It almost felt like it was made to sell a 2-DVD set full of extras that will supply the answers to the blank stares and stunted monologues.

In other words, I like his earlier films better.

king dork

Last night, I was coming home from bowling with Cameron and Kristin (Presidio Bowl has those bizarre Bud Lite bottles shaped like bowling pins), and got off BART right behind Dr. Frank. And man was he speeding along.

I knew he'd just taken part in Porchlight's Litquake show at the Du Nerd, and I've had this secret fantasy that he might help me with my YA novel if I ever finish editing it. So when we got to a light, I said, "Hey, you're Dr. Frank." It seemed better than saying, "Hey, you're Frank Portman" for some reason.

And instead of running away in fear, he said, "Why yes I am." So we talked about how his agent had talked him into writing King Dork and how he was late finishing his second book, and how he thought the Litquake crowd was tough and NPR-ish, but they laughed, even though he had never had a job before and the topic was "crap jobs." I said I knew Joe Sixpack, who I know he used to know but I have no idea if he still does. And then he turned in at his house and I continued on home, dreaming of a Dr. Frank quote on the back of my novel.


Oh yeah, this song came on the Internet jukebox at Presidio Bowl and I liked it, even though I had a sneaking feeling it was a Jack Johnson song. Sure, enough it was. Jeez, what's next, Dave Matthews? Ben Harper?

No, I swear this will never happen.

chemistry lesson

It's all about the Red Sox this time of year. And Hardly Strictly Bluegrass (today with Johnny Cougar and Neko Case!). And Tease-o-rama. And the end of softball season. Jeez, it's busy times.

I'm bummed I can't see the Go-Go's tonight, even if I could only remember three of their hits last night. (In my defense, no one else could remember more. You try, I dare you.)

Here's a question for you. Why did it take so long for someone to come up with "I just don't feel any chemistry between us" as an excuse for not dating any longer? I mean, it's like squeezable ketchup bottles -- people needed it, so why didn't they think of it earlier?

I have now been the recipient and the offerer of this phrase, and I have to say it's brilliant. Way better than "It's not you; it's me" or "I'm moving to Alaska." Suddenly, everyone is absolved -- it's not anyone's fault, it's just a matter of the cosmos and its wacky ways. You're not to blame. It's a lack of spark. No matter that the other person probably felt more spark than you did. Too bad! It's not my fault.

I think what the person's actually saying is "I prefer guys with 401k-s" or "You have stubby fingers" or "Pottery doesn't turn me on." Or worse. But now no one has to be honest. Or at least not brutally so.

Whew.

good reads, ringing ears

Wendy just turned me on to GoodReads.com, which is half book review site and half social network. Actually, I don't know if people are really contacting strangers with lines like, "Wow, I find Virginia Woolf highly overrated as well! Let's hook up!" but I hope they are.

It's kind of fun to see what your friends thought of the books you've read and vice versa, and it gives yet another opportunity for the opinionated to spout off online. (See Yelp, listservs, and, um, blogs.) I imagine that, like most of these things, it'll seem really entertaining for a couple weeks and then I'll forget about it.

I wish someone would make a site like this for movies. I'd been on that for hours.

Last night, I went with Ruxz to see the Finnish band Circle at the Bottom of the Hill, which I hadn't been to in at least six months. Still the same, only older, like everything. But wow, that was quite a lot of rock. Assembled Head In Sunburst Sound were heavy, brother, and Triclops!, well, they're fronted by John Fleshies, so you know they're going to be fun. He jumped into the audience right away, with a mic chord so long that he could wiggle on his back (while still singing) all the way into the club's kitchen. Ruxz called them "rock" but I thought up "sprock" for "speed rock" (instead of speed metal), but Zac suggest it could mean "spazz rock," which probably fit better. (Yes, it was a 347 Divis reunion. Colonize them, I dare ya.)


But Circle, well, they were hilarious and heavy. The main guy is a huge bear of a bassist, who he gets this seriously frightening look on his face when he sings, scarier than any metal poseur. The other singer looks like a skinny leather daddy, with studded leather belts and a ridiculous penchant for running in place or giving fist salutes, when not engaging the bassist in wrestling matches. (He got lifted upside down in the middle of a song.) The shredding guitarist looks exactly like Beck, and the drummer, who I swear also plays w/ Aavikko, was a skinny, non-expressive robot with a silly Lone Ranger mask on. This picture doesn't do them -- or the music, which was an unholy mix of prog, metal, jazz, and um a capella folkiness -- justice.

The Glow

I don't usually believe in auras and all that crap. But back in college, my film class watched this experimental movie that featured a woman before and after she was pregnant, and the difference was striking. She positively glowed when she was "with child." The word "radiant" doesn't begin to describe how frigging beautiful she looked. Talk about your MILFs.

Anyhoo, last Saturday Wendy and Matt got married, and it happened again. Wendy was emitting some kind of moon beams and sun showers and other weird astrological stuff. I've never seen her happier -- for a while I thought someone had slipped ecstasy into the Racer 5. They were both super happy, the kind of happy that you're not supposed to feel on your wedding day because you're stressed or little things go wrong or your second uncle-once-removed gives a questionable toast which includes references to his toejam. But they were super relaxed and glowy, and it was great to see. So, congrats, guys. I'm just sorry I don't have any photos.

Last week I met a headhunter at the bar. And she described her job as great because she was making people happy with new jobs. I had to point out that she was making other people -- their former employers -- less happy.

And then I got headhunted, probably for the first and last time, at the wedding. By my ex! You don't have that happen every day. But, for some reason, the idea of the two of us working together in a tiny office seems like maybe a bad idea. I'm just saying…

In other news, the coffee experiment has taken a turn for the worse. A couple weeks back, I said, "Screw the ulcer; I want some caffeine!" So I started drinking coffee on a regular basis, with the hope that the Kambucha would keep my stomach lining from dissolving. It was a hell of a ride. Coffee is the best work mood-enhancer since Bobby went "rolling" on New Year's Eve.

But then I started getting the headaches and the sore throats -- every day at around 6 or 7 p.m. And last night, after having coffee during the day and two cups of Chai at Naan 'N Curry on Haight, I started having intense stomach pains (and it wasn't from watching the Silver Apples guy twiddle his knobs). Eventually, they went away, but I was worried that there'd be a repeat of the Summer Camping Vomit Out a Lung Incident. So, I guess it's back to being sleepy and grumpy at work.

Hey, something else: Am I the only person in the world who didn't like Drop City? I'm reading I Am Charlotte Simmons, the newish Tom Wolfe book about a naïve mountain girl trying to navigate frat boys and lacrosse players at an elite college, and I think as satires go, it's way better than T.C. Boyle's book. But apparently I am the only one. I feel Boyle has a real distaste for his characters and that he savages them accordingly, but everyone else I've talked to thinks he likes them. Charlotte Simmons isn't the best book ever, but at least I feel sympathy towards some of the dunderheads within. Thoughts?

You've got cranky pants

You know what's a really bad movie? You've Got Mail. I know you're thinking, "My god, of course it is!" But I didn't know just how bad it was until this week.

Netfluxxx has this new deal in which you can watch certain movies for free, right there on your pooter. They offer lots of cool documentaries and a bunch of rom-coms that most people have seen already, except me. I'm trying to write a R-C, so I figured I should check out some of the "classics." Also, when I was in New York, I went to the desert place, Café Lalo, where the main characters meet -- they have 28 different kinds of cheesecake. How did I not know about this place?

Oh yeah, back to the film. Let me count the ways that this movie stinks.

First, there's the super-annoying AOL tie-in right there in the title. And you've got to listen to that nails-on-chalkboard dial-up log-on buzzing sound over and over throughout, and listen to them wax rhapsodic about it. Then there's Meg Ryan, who by this point in her career is one walking caricature of her rom-com self, with more (facial) tics than a retriever in the deep woods. And Tom Hanks is at his least likeable -- I mean, are you really supposed to root for her to fall for a guy whose big bookstore chain ran her tiny shop out of business after 47 years? Oh, he brings her flowers and allowed her the time to write a crappy children's novel. Wow, what a turn around. And another thing: Both Tom and Meg find true love by kinda cheating on their spouses. Okay, so emailing isn't cheating, but it sure ain't being too honest. And the film tries to make their transgressions not a big deal by having the least animositied break-up ever between Meg and the always-awful Greg Kinnear (will someone please put this guy out of my misery?). "Hey, I'm not in love with you either! Ha ha, man, that's a relief." If only real life were like that. One more thing: what other movie can you say wastes the talents of Dave Chappelle, Steve Zahn, AND Parker Posey? That's a lot of wasting. Bleh.

mumblecore

Another thing I really liked about New York was the huge amount of rep and indie theaters they had. At the IFC theater, they were hosting a Mumblecore festival. Mumblecore is the new spate of lo-fi, 20- or 30-something slacker films in which young folks act confused about relationships, jobs, bands, and the future. Andrew Bujalski is kind of the king right now, after the success of Mutual Appreciation, in which Justin Rice (from the band Bishop Allen) struggles with his ennui and his attraction to his friend's girlfriend. (Most of the movies play better than the description of their plots.)

Other examples of Mumblecore include The Puffy Chair (a great melding of the break-up and the road movie genres), Dance Party USA, and Kissing on the Mouth (by Joe Swanberg, who seems dead set on bringing naturalistic sex to the mainstream, in film and on his Nerve.com TV series Young American Bodies). The fest was showing all of these films, plus two new ones: Quiet City and Swanberg's Hannah Takes the Stairs.

The thing about these films is that they're not for everyone. They're probably not for a lot of people. But they're definitely for me. They're full of real, awkward moments -- some comic, some just awful -- and real people who fuck up or don't know what they're doing. Lots of parties and flirtations that go horribly wrong. Or quietly wrong. Or quietly right. They're kind like an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm written by Richard Linklater and directed by John Cassavettes.

But some people would find them insufferable -- slow and meandering, plotless and unlikable. So when I was going to go to Hannah Takes the Stairs, I dissuaded Victoria and Alida from going with me. Which is kind of too bad, since I really loved the film, but at the same time I might not have loved it as much if I was worried that they weren't loving it. It's hard being neurotic.

Well, if Hannah comes to town, you should think about seeing it. It's funny, adorable, sad, and confounding, kind of like a puppy that barks the meaning of life.

the old philly

I hadn't been to New York for seven years, since Russ, Vanessa, and I went to CMJ in 2000. A very different New York. Back then, Guiliani was on the ropes, there were a couple tall buildings still standing, and homeless crack addicts ruled the parks. Now, not so much.


But is it still a great place to visit? Hell yes! I stayed at the tip top of Manhattan with Alida, and we went out every night. First stop: Other Music, of course, where I bought a ridiculous amount of obscure CDs, from the likes of French 70s folkie Emmanuelle Parrenin, country-soul rebel Jim Ford, NYC proto-punks the Speedies, a French pop comp, and this weirdo percusso-Krautrock outfit Niagara. Good stuff!


We went to a ton of cool bars and restaurants, like Momofuku (tiny noodle place), 205 (the place Jefrodisiac said is for hipsters w/ beards who like disco), TK (super-tiny French place with copies of Les Rocktibles magazine in the micro-mini bathroom), and Motor City (biker hipster bar w/ great jukebox). Ryan took me to a fantastic recycle-friendly Cuban place in Brooklyn, as well as a fun bar crawling with Buppies talking about strip club etiquette and cackling into cell phones. We did not go to Coyote Ugly, but I did pass by it.



I was on the guest list for Von Iva and the Blacks at Piano's, a club in the LES (ugh) that I'd forgotten I'd been to seven years ago (saw Mirah and Calvin Johnson for free). Not so into the new, guitar-less Von Iva but Jillian did dance around and show us her pits.


Drinks are super expensive in NYC, or rather high end liquor is pricey. $12 for a shot of Patron! Damn. But the subway is cheap, even if it means you occasionally get chased by chubby cops (my weekly pass hadn't worked so I did what everyone else does and slipped thru the gate). Maybe you're wondering what the latest fashions are in NYC? Well, women seemed to be going braless a lot more. And those damn-ugly rubber Crock shoes are everywhere, and not just on the kids who don't know any better. Short hair seems to be back for the guys, but beards and 'staches are still around. Frankly, I felt like the hipsters in SF were more interesting looking, but maybe I didn't go to the right places. Hell, I hear Philly is the new Brooklyn, so maybe everyone's rocking it there. Oh yeah, all the ladies were sporting fancy rubber booties. This woman's are blurry because she was running in a dog park, possibly being chased by a crackhead but probably not (that's so 1989).


Rolf and Michelle came down from Providence and we hooked up with Victoria to go to Coney Island. You might recall how I lost my wallet on the Cyclone rollercoaster back in 1998, the night after Ryan had hers stolen at that go go club. Well, this time I was prepared, and shook my head sadly at the guy who wasn't, as he worked his way back through the line to ask about his wallet, muttering, "Worst day ever." If you look closely you can see Rolf in this pic.


We didn't play Freak the Geek or whatever it is (kids shoot paintballs at a guy in a mask, shield, and jockstrap, while a guy with a thick accent mutters "Shoot 'im in da pickle, he likes dat" into a microphone. We did smack the punching bag and arm wrestle the statue, but they were both "broken" so we couldn't tell if we were wimps or pimps.






I think the Ferris Wheel is much scarier than the Cyclone, as the cars swing, making you think you're going to slide right off the rails. Here's Victoria grimacing as we almost go over.


After, we partied at PS1, a high school renovated into a museum, where Ryan's sister's boyfriend's 15-person disco band was playing an outside show. Here's a pretty amazingly synced video they did using Muppets footage.

Anyhoo, I wish I'd taken photos, because we sat on these hammocks and watched the parade of Eurotrash and Brooklyn/Queens hipsters for hours. It was like Burning Man, without all the nudity and hippies and fratboys. Then we went to a beach bar and drank with fratboys. Here's Ryan, looking very mod.


I went to a ton of museums too. Saw some cool dinosaurs, like the precursor to the armadillo, and a really effect film shot in 1969 or so, which featured the pictures and names of every US soldier who died in one week in Vietnam. Made me think someone should do that for Iraq.

I spent the last couple days at Christian's place in the LES, where he had cockroaches the size of a VW bus. And they were living in the fridge. That was rather surprising. The last day, I hung out in Washington Square Park for hours, watching the freshman NYU students scurry around. I can't imagine going to NYC as an 18-year-old; I would've been too freaked. But NYC is a cleaner, safer place now -- hell, I only had five guys ask if I wanted to buy "smoke."

Anybody know anyone who would want to house swap next spring?

Get get get to know ya better, baby

Okay, it'll have to be short this week…

Popscene isn't the best place to take a first date, but if you have to, make sure to bring someone who will jump up and down when they hear Depeche Mode and sing along to every, I mean every, word of every Junior Senior song. They sure are a fun band. JD Samson of Le Tigre got onstage with them, and it was nice to see she's still rocking the 'stache. Check the video for some awesome Halloween costume ideas and Peaches on rollerskates.

Also, I just heard of this German artist who makes short, lo-fi pop songs. Like Mark E Smith fronting Kleenex Girl Wonder. Someone made a cute video with his drawings.

At Matt's bachelor party, we spent something like 14 hours arguing over which artists were underrated, overrated, or perfectly rated. I was shocked to hear that Matt thinks Big Star is overrated and Neil Young underrated. I mean, Neil Young! Has anyone besides the old DB at the Express ever said anything bad about that guy? (We also learned some sexy stuff, but I won't tell you that here. My blog is a tease from now on.) Eventually, Carligula brought up Wire, and I don't think I've ever seen him get so excited. (We can say whatever we want about him here, because he says he hates and therefore never reads blogs by people he knows.) He sure loves those first two records, so much so that I went back after and listened to Pink Flag. He's right -- there's some amazing pop songs on there. Check out this clip from German TV.

Another warning: Don't ever play soccer with softball cleats. Hello, blisters.

Hey, I'm heading to NYC on Monday for some R&R. Gonna see Camera Obscura for free, go to Coney Island with Rolf, Michele, and Victoria before they bulldoze it, check out some museums, see some rollerdisco band with Ryan, catch up with Alida. If you know of anything I should check out, let me know.

Thanks to Marlo for this week's Grumpy Guy.

Blake's got a new face

So, recently I've become obsessed with this band Vampire Weekend. (Yeah, I know, dumb name. But all the good ones are taken. Like the Nazz.) They opened for the Shout Out Louds at the Shaw a while back, and I was actually pretty disappointed in their performance. Like Christopher said, it was as if they were the house band at a resort in Barbados.

See, I'd claimed they sounded like Pavement covering Graceland. But upon hearing them live and peeping their forthcoming CD, I had to change that description. They're like Pavement circa Crooked Rain covering "Mother and Child Reunion." With a little '80s ska thrown in there.

I know what you're thinking. That sounds awful, right? But it isn't. It's pretty freaking great. Maybe it helps that I've been listening to that first Paul Simon solo record a lot too, realizing again how it's full of effortlessly brilliant songs. And, hell, who doesn't love the Specials? I mean, this is no 4th wave ska crap, no Bowling For Soup or whatever. It's lean and bouncy and supercatchy. And the lead singer has a great way of clipping his phrases and adding little hiccups, sort of like early David Byrne, that's pretty endearing.

But. But they also come off like Rich East Coast Preppies Assmonkeys. I mean, one song is about a girl named Bryn, and another seems to be about a girl named Blake's face lift. The tunes are littered with references to dharjeeling tea, tropical vacations, Mansard roofs, and rules of grammar (okay, that last one's pretty damn nerdy). "Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa" actually mentions Louis Vitton, a Peter Gabriel tune, and linens, while rhyming "dawn" with "Benetton." But -- again with the buts -- god, that song is catchy. Afro-pop guitar jingle jangle, pittering bongos, and some weird synth riff, plus that singer again, holding his "I do" until it is "I do-ooo-ooo-ooo."

And yeah I'm a sucker for a song about Cape Cod ("Walcott"), especially one that says "Fuck the women in Wellfleet/ Fuck the bears in Provincetown/ Heed my words and take flight." Or one about having dreams about Boston all of your life. Or a line like "How am I supposed to pretend that I'll never see you again?" Maybe I'm just being nostalgic for my 20s, but I love this band.

Oh yeah, I bowled a 242 on Tuesday. 242! Best. Game. Ever.

Love has no pride

Last night, my friend Alida was in town visiting from New York, so I took her to the Fecal Face 7.5 anniversary party at Minna. We met Paul there, and we all got to talking about relationships. We've all had gnarly break ups in the somewhat recent past, and we all remarked how we're actually pretty dang good at being alone. Being single is nice, we said. You have tons of freedom to work on projects or be lazy or be spontaneous or just be. It's up to you. But it's also really easy. Too easy. Basically, it comes down to you don't have to worry about letting anyone down or having anyone let you down. Sometimes this seems like a really good thing and sometimes it seems really chickenshit.

Mark Morford wrote a great article for the Comical about being single now that he's "past the age when getting moronically drunk every weekend and hooking up is the ultimate goal and you've had enough sex to fill a thousand porn movies and everyone around you is no longer on some sort of giddy, wide-eyed first-adult-relationship must-get-married must-have-babies track of impossibly optimistic utopian desire." You know, when relationships are more complex, full of ISSUES like kids and home owning and fidelity and bad foot odor. Forget the fact that dating can make you feel like you're 15 all over again, making out in cars, fumbling with bra straps, asking your friends, "Do you thinks she liiiiikes me?"

At Minna, while the young and as-yet-uncomplicated swirled around us like a giant tidybowl of hipster flotsam, we bemoaned the fact that most people like what they like, even if they don't like liking what they like. You get me? Often, we think maybe if we were just attracted to a different kind of person it would all work out, that it is the pattern that is the problem.

And so I'd had a few beers and I started to get worked up and I wanted to demand that we all make a pact of some kind. But I couldn't figure out what that would be -- a pact to make a list of all the things we are attracted to and which ones we'd like to change and why? Then I got distracted, and the conversation swerved like a teenager on wet leaves. Damn leaves.

Less rocky than you'd expect

So I went to Denver last week to visit my gramma and aunt, who live there, and my dad, 5-year-old sister Yi Rong, and 11-year-old brother Micky, who were visiting. It was 95 degrees and humid, which was a nice change. I love vacationing in hot places. You just sit around in the hammock and read until you fall asleep or you hear the ice cream truck. That's the life.


Not that we hung around doing nothing all the time. In fact, it seemed like there was always something going on. This must be what it's like having kids: You're always in motion, chasing after them, playing with them, entertaining them. Then again, you can also fill a small plastic circle with water and they'll be happy for hours by themselves. Unless they get too cold. See, Yi Rong is allergic to cold. Yes, cold. Her doctor said he'd only seen 2 other such cases in 20 years. Summer is actually harder than winter for her, because she can't go swimming in the rivers and streams that they usually go to. And air conditioning gives her headaches. Not that my dad has air conditioning.

Anyway, us being Strachotas, we had to go bowling. It's in our blood. Micky bowled his first three games with big balls (in New England they have candlepin bowling, with balls the size of shotputs and skinny pins that you get three tries to knock down, which is all heresy to Midwesterners). Here he is, rocking the headband for some reason:


We also went to both the Museum of Modern Art, where they had an awesome video about the Roden Crater owned by artist James Turrell (who Paul has worked with). He's been working on it for 20-odd years, and when they asked him what it had cost him, he replied, "two marriages and a longtime girlfriend." Ouch.

The museum also had this chair out front.


The next day we went to the Museum of Science and Nature, where they had this horse made from car parts.


And here we have Yi Rong as a sad cowgirl. She really doesn't like wearing hats.


But you know what she does like? Restaurants with mariachi bands, waterfalls, cliff divers, turrets, Black Bart vs. the sheriff, fire jugglers, and scary caves. Okay, so she wasn't so keen on the scary cave. In fact, I was afraid I traumatized her forever in there. But she turned out okay.


Where were we? At Casa Bonita, the Disneyland of greasy Mexican restaurants. Russ and Megan turned me onto it, and told me how an episode of South Park had been based around it. It was pure gold, save for the fact that grams had to walk about 10 miles just to get to the food, not to mention climb up seven stories to get to our table. She almost made it too, before she took a big spill on the steps right by the table. You'd think a 91-year-old would be sprier.


We also went to a Rockies game and hooked up with Brent, Marlo and Sunil, who all happened to be in town. Afterwards, we got wasted with all the other white people at a bar with an outdoor patio on its roof. It's really amazing how creamy colored this city is.


Megan would've loved Coors Field. They frown upon PDA so much that they have a sign about it. Hey, if you call it "Mile High" Stadium, then you'd better be ready to pay the piper.

Everyone deserves to wear white

Keeping in this summer's wedding theme, I went to a party last week with Chris and Bruce (his yearly visit from South Korea) that was a "hey we recently got married in a Laundromat and would like you to celebrate with us" kind of thing. Yes, Dr. Todd and Kelly got married in a Laundromat. Seems that's where they had their first date, after it got too cold for eating their Mitchell's ice cream. So a month or two ago they got all dressed up and grabbed a basket of quarters and had a guerrilla wedding while people did their laundry. Pretty wacky, right?

You may be wondering who Dr. Todd and Kelly are and why we were invited. Well, it turns out they met at Three Kinds of Stupid 004, way back in 2004. That was the one at Victoria's old loft on Mission, the one where 200 complete strangers showed up and finished off the keg by 10:30, the one where the amp blew around 11:30. Well, the story goes that Todd put the moves on Kelly by whispering something in her ear, but she wasn't too impressed. However, later on the dancing got going, and they found themselves having a fantastic time doing some kind of "hoedown" in a circle (I recall Chris being in his Scottish jig DJ period). At the end of the night, Kelly came up and asked Todd how she could find out about more of these parties, and instead of pointing over to us Todd did the smart thing. He told her that HE could alert her, if she would just take down his phone number. Smooooth.

Oh yeah, she told me that the reason she'd come to the party was that someone had described it as "the kind of party where cops show up, even though the guys who throw it really don't seem like the kind of guys who throw parties where cops show up." Too long for a bumper sticker but still cool.

So, I can't promise that you'll meet the man or woman of your dreams tonight and I'm pretty sure the cops won't show up, but I can say that the Three Kinds of Stupid Presents party will feature two fun bands (Music For Animals, Airborne Toxic Event) and a bunch of DJs (me, Chris, our pal Eric subbing from Brent) spinning dancey rock, booty rap, 80s pop, and just maybe some Yiddish electro-rap. Here's the flyer:


And new Grumpy Guy:

post-teenage riot

So I went to see Sonic Youth perform Daydream Nation last night. I hadn't seen them since 1990, when I went to a free show at the Columbus Street Tower Records (RIP), and they passed out free donuts to the audience. But you know what? They've still got it.

Which I was a little surprised about, because I'd gone back and listened to Daydream Nation in preparation for the show, and it hadn't seem that legendary anymore. Sure, there were still a few great songs -- "Hey Joni," "Total Trash," "Teenage Riot," "Kissability," four is more than a lot of albums have -- but there was a lot of tracks that were just moody and murky and laid there. But dang if they didn't sound way better live. Kim told me later -- yes, later, backstage! -- that when they'd agreed to play the record en toto they'd all gone back and listened to their parts and kind of hated how crappily they'd been played and recorded. So I think they took a lot of time to work them out to where they liked them. Reminded me of what David Lowery said about the Camper reunion: that they -- or at least Jonathan, boy, that Lowery is a prick -- were all way better players than they were the first time around.

Anyway, Camille and I arrived late and missed a couple tunes. So I turned to the humongous, goateed guy standing next to us and asked how long they'd been playing. He just put his hand to his lips and shhhhed me. O-kay. So Camille turned to the swaying girl next to her and asked, but she just mumbled something about incoherent. Right, suddenly I got it. Everyone was super high. Which made sense, because I'd sort of forgotten that Sonic Youth was a jam band. They even have a new song called "Jams Run Free," which sounded like the Allman Brothers a bit. In a good way.

I also sort of forgot that SY is a metal band, or at least alternametal. Remember how all those bands like Jane's Addiction and Screaming Trees had a big metal crossover crowd? There was some serious headbanging going on. Dig.

Ha ha. Dig. Anyway, the encore was made up of songs I'd never heard before, which turned out to be on the new album, Rather Ripped. The funny thing was that they all sounded like Pavement songs. Seriously. How fucking cool is that? Especially since when they'd been playing "Total Trash" I'd thought, "Fuck, Pavement based their whole early career on this one riff/guitar sound." And there was Mark Ibold, the one-time Pavementboy, playing bass. It got me really excited for the Pavement reunion, whenever that comes about.


So afterwards we got to go backstage. You can read why here. I met Kim and Thurston (who looks a lot like my dad now, he's filled out but still looks about 30) and Coco. As Jerry Harrison lurked nearby, we talked about my dad, who they said they really loved. Thurston also said he seemed like the kind of guy whose bad side you didn't want to be on. Could that be any cooler? The raddest couple in rock is a little bit afraid of my dad.

Anyway, here's some more Grumpy Guy. This one's for my dad, who says he hates the more sexual ones...

c'est magnifique

I think that some of the purest happy moments in my life have been while DJing at Bardot a Go Go. The first one at the Cocodrie, when all the songs were so brand new and exciting; the second one when all the KALX people came, and it seemed like we were at the epicenter of cool; the time at 330 Ritch during the height of the dot-com boom, when people waited an hour in line and French girls stripped down to their bras and the crowd sang along with the songs; the time we had cute French girls follow us to an after party where suits talked about how "rolling" had changed their lives.

Anyway, this one was pretty fantastique too. It's all a bit of a blur, but here's what I remember. A lot of people came -- and early too. So early that Alan was almost not worried, but not enough that he didn't play a 12:30 song at 10:15 (the original "Tainted Love," which I really wanted to play later, but didn't want to be one of those DJs that knowingly repeats a song). I made a funny blunder because I was so happy to see some friends arrive. Seeing Wendy, Michelle and Kristina, I walked up and gave them a very loud, happy greeting, complete with arm squeeze -- only to realize that it wasn't Kristina. It was a friend of Wendy's who gave me one of those "who the fuck are you looks?" that women must dispense in nightclubs a lot. Here's a pic of her and Kristina, later on.


Waldo burned me a French rap song by Yelle right before the show and it killed. Same with that Flosstradamus remix of Matt & Kim's "Yeah Yeah." Johnnie's ELO track at the very end was awesome, as was a French version of some second wave ska song he played. Alan gets the low grade for playing that horrible "Stroke It" song by Clarence Carter. Apologies to those two indie boys who really wanted to hear Jacqueline Taieb -- I swear I couldn't find any. I played a song for Megan, this odd track "Nicolas" by Vetty, because it seems to be sung by a little boy, which is something she likes. Here she is with her cool nails.


More nails from Sarah, who's been there since almost the beginning.


There were lots of great looking folks, including Jo and her friends, who came as French maids.


And then this guy in a Browns T-shirt and big 'stache. He was going nuts on stage all night. Go figure.


I overheard one kid in the bathroom at the beginning of the night say "This night is gonna rock! There are gonna be hot girls everywhere!" And he was right. And now I have to be teased about making out with one of them. Which is a small price to pay, even if when I was doing it a little part of my brain was thinking, "Oh god, I hope Megan can't see me, because just last week she was saying how much she hates PDMO (public displays of making out)." But she gave me the ok later on. Whew.


The next day was debauched as well, as I joined Joanna for her friend Susan's birthday celebration in Dolores Park. It was also Symphony in the Park day, which made for an odd cross section of old classical music folks, hipsters, and Jo's hella gay contingent. I'm sad to say I didn't get any photos -- I was a bit Amsterdammed out. You'll just have to imagine Susan in her Hello Kitty bikini, the Peewee Herman impersonator with the giant dildo who attacked her, and everyone singing "You're So Gay" to the tune of that Carly Simon song (sample lyrics for Susan: "I bet you think this song is about sex").

Suitably faded, I decided to check out the end of the Good Magazine party on Minna Street. Unfortunately, by the time I got there, Diplo and Kid Sister had played, so all I heard was A-Trak (Kanye West's DJ, big woop) playing Top 40 remixes, crunky bangers, and disco. Lots of kids in oversized glasses and sideways hats, save for Frank Cho, who wore his usual suit. I did get a nice shot of the sun going down. Oh wait, that's a prop light. Still, it pretty much set the tone for my enjoyably wobbly walk to BART.

Friday the 13th comes on a Friday this month

Kathleen and Eric are leaving town! For at least 10 months! This will cast a pall on the face of many a person. I guess we survived Kathleen's long sabbaticals in France, so we might be able to survive this. At least they've promised to keep a travel blog.

In other news, Paul is single again. (Man, I feel like I have to blog for all my friends who don't have blogs. Let's see, the cat next door had kittens…) I went out with him, Brent, and Chris to commiserate at the Missouri Lounge. It was the first time I'd been in a majority single-person gathering in hella months. Felt kind of feral, like one of us might leap off our barstool and start howling at the moon. Except Brent. He looked strangely content.

Have you been to the Missouri lately? It's undergone a retrofit or whatever they call it when the hipsters descend and the ho's and pimps move on to somewhere else. It's a pretty cool place, although on this night the DJ was spinning all country music. I have a low tolerance for country -- I dig some of the old, sad stuff, a bit of Willie Nelson, and more than a bit of the clever altcountry stuff, but I can't really take 3 straight hours of it. Not to mention that people were wearing cowboy hats. Someone said wearing them makes all girls at least 10 percent more attractive, but I think that goes for most hats. Throw in some line dancing and I started to retch. Could you get much whiter? Although, I hate when people start swing dancing in rock clubs too, so maybe I'm just anti-couples-learning-steps-in-dance class.

Bardot a Go Go is tomorrow at the Rickshaw. I've got tons of new French and Euro stuff to play and Johnnie and Alan made new decorations, so I'm pretty psyched. I wish, however, I wasn't sick. You know how they have those warnings on the cold medicine say "stop if causes sleeplessness"? Well, that's never happened to me -- until last night. I was frigging peeing every hour on the hour all night long. And not sleeping much in between. Merde.

While poking around, I came across a photo of an old Bardot, probably from around 1998 or 1999. It was at the long gone Cocodrie, with its all-ages afternoon metal shows and funky toilets and drug-dealing bartenders. Good times! And look at Tim's long hair!


Grumpy Guy will return when I'm less sick and grumpy.

die katzen

Just got back from wedding number two, Shana and Niko's, which was fantastic, partially because it was like a mini-vacation. They chose a spot called Nestldown (yeah, I don't know where the extra 'E' went, either, but you can insert your own Burner/raver/doorperson joke here), which was located 30 minutes from Los Gatos.


Frankly, I had no idea where Los Gatos was before this. Turns out it's sort of near San Jose and Santa Cruz, which means it's only an hour away but feels like you're suddenly in another country. Because it's friggin' hot and there are more palm trees and when I walked into the motel to check in they were cranking AC/DC. Awesome in all ways.

So a bunch of us went a day early and bbqed by the pool for July 4. No trying to see fireworks, no fighting traffic, no awkward picnics. Just good times by -- and in -- the pool. I think Tim and I had the same reaction. We both were just glued to our chairs, happily unable to do anything besides sit in the heat and bake. The every day worries of life (when will I ever get a career, a girlfriend, dental coverage) disappear and everything slows down to a sweet, languid pace.


The wedding was on Thursday. Everyone who didn't go to the wedding seemed flabbergasted that the wedding wasn't on the weekend, for what reason I do not know.

Anyhoo, it was only about 85 degrees down in the glen where they had the ceremony. No speakers hidden in the ground playing "sexy electronica" like in Russ' sister's Mexican wedding, but they did have a fountain in a pond and a bazillion redwood trees. Shana's Jewish and Niko's German, so they threw a bunch of language and cultural stuff together and it all came out nicely. Shana's sister sang an aria in German, Niko read his vows in German and English, the moyle held the knife steady. Oh wait, that's nine months from now. Um, the rabbi had the couple each write letters about why they were getting married. Shana's was pure Shana: lengthy and sweet-natured and funny and brutally honest, more honest than you're ever likely to get in a wedding ceremony, especially about the difficulties and worries ahead. Niko listed "You're hot" as one of his reasons. Awesome!


Let's see, what else? They had a kiddie train that we all rode on. I learned that people love hothouse flowers, er, tomatoes, but I'm still not sure why. I discovered that the wedding cake they serve doesn't come from the one they cut, but rather from a bunch of sheet cakes that they've baked separately and already cut up. Also, there's no such person as the Easter Bunny.

I wish I had a picture of Jake's son Elijah getting humped from behind by a little girl. Oh the look of confusion and uncertainty on his face. Hilarious!


The wedding ran a bit late, so the DJ only had about 45 minutes, but he made the best of it, rocking "99 Luft Balloons" (Niko's request) and that Jay-Z bhangra track (Shana's). But probably my favorite moment was seeing Shana in her full-on wedding dress dancing with her mom to "Party Like a Rock Star," a recent, odd rap hit.

Afterwards, we all went back to the hotel and splashed around the pool until we got kicked out for making too much noise. Sometime after 2, I crawled into the bed I shared with Kristina. No dirty dreams about her making out with truckers this time.