Friday the 13th comes on a Friday this month

Got my tax refund check this week. I will now turn all of that check over to Barack Obama. Yes, I could use some new underwear, but I think I need a new, better president even more. Thanks, W, for making things worse for John McCain yet again!

You probably don't read Esquire Magazine very much. I didn't, until somehow I got a free subscription. Now I feel weird about getting it in the mail, as if it should come wrapped in a brown paper bag. Maybe it's the pictures of scantily clad bimbos or how it smells of cologne. No matter, since they also have amazing article. In fact, this one about all the people affected by a soldier who died in Iraq -- from his fellow grunts to his family to the people responsible for delivering his body -- is the best thing I've read all year. See if you can finish it without a lump in your throat.

Have you caught the big to-do over the Obamas' onstage fist bump? Am I the only one who thinks we need a better term for that? And why no big to-do over his ass pat afterwards? I guess athletes have been doing that for decades, whereas they've only been bumping uglies (ahem) for a couple years. There's even a beer commercial about it. Can't wait to see the first marital slap video on Youtube.

And then there's the case of Alex Kozinski, chief judge of the U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, one of the most powerful judges in the country, who apparently thought he was only storing photos privately on his web site, which explains why he had "funny" pictures of naked women on all fours painted like cows and guys being chased by aroused donkeys on there. Won't these old people ever figure out the Internets?


Oh yeah, and April's friend's bday party wasn't that racist after all. Ha ha. But it did feature some wacky Quinceanera dresses, a guy at the next table punching his friend in the eye, and the purse that all the ladies will be sporting come fall (it's made from a piñata!).

The FBI's gonna pay me to learn how to surf?

Last week, a bunch of us went to see Point Break Live. I have to say I didn't have the highest of expectations. I mean, come on, the movie itself was pretty bad, so how good could a live recreation of it be?

Pretty frigging awesome, that's how good. First, it stars my softball teammate Ted as Bodhi, the Patrick Swayze character. Ted is, um, well, Ted is kind of a hot head. He's been kicked off the Consumer softball squad about six times, once by me. (Long story, but suffice it to say that he was so mad that he called up opposing coaches and tried to play against us for the rest of the season.) He also had a speaking part in Heat, and he can still recite his one line, if you ask him. My dad liked him because he was nice to my then-15-year-old brother Joel when we all went out for burgers after a game.

Okay, but there's more. They're doing the play at the Xenodrome, which is the awesome space where I went to that orgy pre-party. It's kind of like Spanganga used to be -- i.e., the only theater in town where they'll let you squirt fluids into the audience every show. (Naturally, it's been bulldozed for condos come July.) But it's a small room, which means you're right in the middle of the action. Which also means that they hand out plastic ponchos before the show.

My advice: Get the ponchos and then sit right in front. Of course, you might walk out with matted hair and sticky shoes, but that's a small price to pay. It also may be good if you don't know Ted, because if you do he will knock you to the floor and recite lines while sitting on your back.

More advice: Each show, audience members audition for the role of Keanu Reaves' character. You do not want to do this. I swear. You will be tortured beyond belief. But it will be lots of fun watching whoever is stupid enough to want the role be tortured.

Anyway, it's funny as hell. Some of the dialogue is actually pretty good, and the guy who plays Gary Busey playing a drunk cop is spot on. Tickets sell out quick, so get yours way in advance. And, if you feel like it, paint words on your butt.

Deep Fascination

So I'm working on this project for Amoeba Music's web site, in which I'm writing bios of bands. And it's making me go back and listen to artists I hadn't listened closely to in a while. Teenage Fanclub, the Country Teasers, Van Morrison, Jolie Holland -- all great all over again. And then there's the Feelies.

Oh, the Feelies. Never has a band been so hard to describe your love for. And yet it is a deep love. Deep and long lasting. Maybe it has to do with that show I saw in 1991 at the Warfield -- at that time it was probably the most exciting I'd ever seen, save for that Tom Waits gig in Cleveland in '87. They kept playing faster and faster and faster, until I was drenched in sweat from jumping around. Now, you've got to understand that in '91, I didn't dance. Jumping around at shows, too, was out of the question. So this was something special.

No band ever made me feel so euphoric, like I could jump right out of my skin with excitement. That slow building towards ecstasy, those mumbled vocals, that weird burning tension, those great covers (quite possibly the best version of "Paint It Black" ever, including the original). Wow.

I loved them from that high school reunion scene in Something Wild, when they did weird covers of David Bowie/John Lennon and the Monkees. I loved them from that Spin Magazine article in which a female fan said The Good Earth was a great album to masturbate to. I loved them for being such nerds.

One of them -- Glenn Mercer -- put out a decent solo record last year, with lots of Feelies on it. But he ruled out a reunion, because Bill Million was still happy living in Florida. According to this article, Million had quit the band in 1991 and moved his family south to take a job at Disney World -- without bothering to tell any of his bandmates. Health care, it seemed, was a bigger lure than alt-rock "stardom."

Still, something changed, as the band finally agreed to get back together this July. Two sold out shows in Hoboken and then opening for Sonic Youth on July 4. One miserable week before I will be in NYC. Arghhh! I guess I will have to make do with cool clips like this and this.

Oh, one more thing. Das Burning Man ist eine nooosance Man.

Who told you that? Steve?

The Flight of the Conchords full-length just came out, so I went back and checked out the first season. Turns out I hadn't seen a few of the episodes. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, the HBO show's a comedy about two hapless New Zealand musicians trying to make it in New York, and each episode features two hilarious tunes.) I just watched the one where they get mugged, and they do that spoof of a Beastie Boys video -- called "Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenocerus" -- where Jermaine goes, "my rhymes are bottomless" and then can't think of any. It also has the "Kiss Is Not a Contract" tune with one of my favorite lines, "Just because you've been exploring my mouth/ Doesn't mean you get to take an expedition further south." Plus there's that nod to Crocodile Dundee, where Jermaine says to the mugger, "That's not a knife," and Brett points out that actually it is.

They even slip little bits of political humor in there, like when Jermaine asks why his sneakers still cost as much when they're made by slave kids. Plus, they do the best French film spoof ever, "Foux De Fafa." If you haven't seen it, what the motherflippin' are you waiting for?

Lush Lit

I know I'm coming to this late, but I just started watching The Wire. Wow, that's some good TV. Michelle S's been talking about its awesomeness forever, and apparently Eric has been too, but maybe more quietly because I can't remember him saying anything, but he swears he has, so, sorry, Eric, for not listening more closely. You guys were totally right on.

I just finished the first season. If you don't know what the show's about, here's a short synopis: It's about Baltimore. And intercities in general, how politics and people and drugs and modern society all blend together to make everyone pretty miserable. If that sounds too brainy or too depressing, don't worry. It's really about people -- in all their wonderful, frustrating complexness. The good, the bad, the facts of life (only there's no Toodie.) You end up caring about nearly everyone, from the teenage drug mules to the bonehead cops to the conflicted lawyers. (Well, there are some people you never care for, like the career cops who want to sweep all the corruption under the rug, and the unconflicted lawyers who just want to line their pockets with drug money.)

Each season focused on a different facet of the city. First one was about the drug trade in the projects, and the next ones apparently tackle the longshoremen culture, the political morass, the school system, and the way the media covers (or doesn't cover) news. Check out this letter the creator wrote, following the show's run. Sounds like the kind of guy who should be running for office. Or at least be invited to dinner.

Richard Price wrote for the show at some point, and I've got to recommend his new book, Lush Life. It's got some of the best dialogue I'd read in years, just so juicy that reading it is like biting into the most perfectly ripe fruit, and it has the same complex character development as The Wire. It's a "police procedural" in structure, which means that it's all about the cops trying to track down a murder suspect, but really it's about how the Lower East Side of Manhattan has changed over the past 20 years. Price gets in the heads of so many different kinds of people -- rich, poor, young, old, white, African American, Chinese, men, women -- mixing humor, sorrow, and insight into the human condition. Really one of the best books I've read in ages.

Also, have you seen the clip of John McCain on the Daily Show recently? God, how depressing. Please let us not have his bullshit-spewing dinosaur as our next president. There was a time when I thought he wasn't so bad, but that time is long gone. Watch here as he avoids all the tough questions Jon Stewart throws at him, like he were a drunk matador. And you'd think if he were going to make a sad attempt at humor using a pop cultural reference, he could at least memorize the details, instead of putting them on a cue card. How exactly will he remember the important things, like when to change his diaper?

April was rewrite month

I haven't been writing here much, mostly because I've been writing a lot elsewhere. In particular, I've been trying to rewrite a Young Adult novel that I first drafted during NaNoWriMo 2006.

In order to get focused, Chris thought up the idea of Manuscript Revision Month, in which we and a few other people would work extensively on a writing project, whether it be novel, non-fiction, or short story. We all came up with goals, and if we didn't finish we would have to place this horrific, battered Matisse print on our wall for three months. Also, we'd be trading manuscripts with each other at the end of the five weeks, so it'd suck if it still sucked.

Well, the deadline is Monday. And pretty much no one has finished. But I have gotten a lot more accomplished than I thought I would. And I can tell you a lot about the coffee shops of the Bay Area that we visited during that time. So, consider this my own little Yelp page:

SF:

Ritual Roasters. Hipster central. Well, you need a good battery here, because they covered up the wall sockets. And it's usually really loud, either with music or people making billion dollar internet deals. But the donuts are amazing, the energy is high, and I hear the coffee rules (although Chris says to stay away from the Ethiopian beans). Me, I like the chai.

Cocha, er, Socha. Outer Mission café, relatively new. On a lazy Sunday, they had this cute older jazz duo having a great time playing Monk covers. Very mellow, free internet, sure not to last so go now.

East Bay:

A'Cuppa Tea. Claremont. Site of the best chai I've ever had -- and the most expensive. Then, next time I went, it wasn't as good, but it was equally pricey. It's good and quiet and you can usually get a table, but the baked goods are old and stale and hard. I like the overstuffed chairs, but I've only enjoyed them from afar because they're always taken.

Far Leaves. College/Ashby. This place rules! All tea, all the time. No food, really, but they make you huge pots of tea that you heat up right at your table. Very studious, very meditative, plus the best iced tea ever.

The Beanery. Also College/Ashby. Everyone knows the Beanery is practically my second home. The perfect East Bay work café, with internet and outlets and a nice (if occasionally eccentric) staff. The best, soft chocolate chip cookies.

Espresso Roma. Same as above. Never been a big fan. The ice cubes, and thus the cold drinks, taste weird and metallic. Kind of stinky interior, so-so baked goods.

Café Milano. Bancroft/Telegraph. Big and open late with a somewhat cavernous vibe. All right cookies and brownies (you can see what makes a good café in my mind). Same staff for a decade, good turkey sandwiches, which used to be my meal du jour when I was KALX music director.

Café Strada. Up the street from Milano. Good snacks, outdoor seating with heat lamps. Nice vibe, if very studenty.

Whole Foods café. Near Grand Lake. Good: Free Internet, Kambucha. Bad: Loud '80s soundtrack, horribly overpriced food.

UC Berkeley Music Dept Library. Verrrry quiet, nothing to distract you except for odd magazines like Oboe Monthly. Downside: no drinks/snacks.

Youth culture killed my dog

First things first: I need someone to explain Ghostland Observatory's popularity. Sure, they're the Pink Floyd of the electro-rock scene (this is a quick way for funny rock critic types to say that they use laser light shows, ha ha), and the guy has nice long braids (Brent thought he was a lady for most of the show) and it's nice to think that the guys in Suicide were right all those years ago. But jeez. Those screechy lyrics and those dull tunes. What the hells?

Onward. I went to the Chinese Olympic protests last week, and I had one nagging question: Who the hell invited the Wonderbread 5 to a Chinese themed party? Oh yeah, and when did "Smells Like Teen Spirit" become a party down good time anthem?

There were some great signs. Like this one, which I'm pretty sure was a joke. Ha ha.


I saw one fight. This elder white dude was arguing with a bunch of pro-China folks and one of them grabbed him, so he began shouting, "Chinese aggression! Chinese aggression!"


Oh boy, this guy's lucky the Beastie Boys weren't around to thrash him.


No matter which side you were on, your heart had to go out to this dude.


And there's always at least one guy who just makes no sense at all. Congrats, dude, you've offended everyone, including your own mom.


One last thing: Have you seen Priceless, the new Audrey Tatou comedy? It's hilarious! She plays a gold digger on the Riviera who matches wits with that guy from the Valet, who's just a regular broke shmoe who's in love with her. Mmm hmm.

What's your damage, Heather?

I've been on a big '80s movie kick lately. It's been interesting seeing which stand the test of time. Here's the verdict so far:

Some Kind of Wonderful: (A-) Mary Stuart Masterson is still intensely adorable as the tomboy with a crush on Eric Stoltz. That scene where they practice kissing is a classic. Docked points for the locker room scene, mainly because her boxers were far less alluring than I remembered them.

Heathers: (B-) You know, this doesn't play so well now. Kind of zippy for a while, but then Winona Ryder becomes pretty unbearable and Christian Slater's maniacal behavior kills the tone of the movie. Lots of famous lines, though.

Can't Buy Me Love: (A-) Formulaic, obvious, and full of hideous 80s fashions. But I'm a sucker for this crap, and seeing Patrick Dempsey as a lawnmowing geeks is priceless. Plus it's got a very young Seth Green as a pain in the ass younger brother, and what nerd didn't want to buy Amanda Peterson?


Reality Bites: (D) I never saw this back in the day, and Jesus now I see why. You have to feel badly for Winona (who here proves herself to be the worst fake-laugher ever), having to choose between awful yuppie Ben Stiller and whiny slacker Ethan Hawke. Only Janeane Garafolo survives -- boy, does she ever. Rarrr.

Say Anything: (A) Well, yeah, this still sits atop the heap of teenage romances. That John Cusack was born to play a kickboxing slacker love magnet. But all the supporting cast is amazing too, from creepy dad John Mahoney to twisted rocker Lili Taylor to the dreamy Ione Skye (who I just learned is now married to singer Ben Lee, wow). And that ending, when they wait for the ding on the plane, is one of the best ever.

Next up: Sixteen Candles.

World serious

So, I went to opening night at the Coliseum last night. It was awesome. The Red Sox won, and their fans weren't as obnoxious as usual. Everyone seemed in a really good mood, maybe because it was the very first game of the season. I went with Gabe and his girlfriend Amanda, who I found out works at the D**w School, where I DJed that dance party. Nice folks, and she asks more questions than anyone I've ever met.

But then, when we were leaving, they had to go and spoil it. I mean the guys in the regulation jerseys. Have they no shame at all? A regulation jersey, fine; a t-shirt with your team's name on it, okay. But a shirt with the name and number of an actual player on it? How old are you, eight?

It's always these guys that get drunk and take out their frustration with the outcome of the game by yelling at another guy in a similar shirt. It goes something like this (I swear, this is all true):

Guy in A's/Buck jersey: Beckett, he sucks!
Guy in Sox/Beckett jersey: World series champs!
A's: Patriots, 18-1. (See, here he's so flummoxed by his own team's lameness that he's switched sports.)
Guy: Two rings in four years. (Back to baseball.)
A's: 18-1, 18-1! (Sensing a sore spot.)
Guy: What's that? What? (Feigning a lack of hearing.)
A's: Patriots suck!

This is probably the same guy who started the "Sox suck!" chant in the seventh inning, when the Sox were beating his team 2-1. If they suck, then what do the A's do? Suck and blow? Yeesh.

Chasing the rooster

Ho, man, what a birthday it was! I'm still trying to adapt to non-island life. As Jake said, when you get back you have a really hard time getting to all the things you have to do, because you've gotten used to not having anything to do. Except lounge around and go to the beach and "chase the rooster."**


People keep asking for the highlights, so here's a few: The birthday itself was one long day of fun. We went snorkeling for the second time, at a beach where these pools were made out of rocks. (Overall, we saw sea turtles, spotted puffer fish, a flounder, a protruding brow fish, and many more. No eels or sharks, alas.) Michele and Kristina made an amazing dinner, followed by Kathleen's super-chocolaty cake.


They presented me with an amazing zine that compiled hilarious comics made by many of my friends. Then, Kathleen and Eric broke out the Bolivian hats and the Bolivian absinthe, and a dance party ensued. And finally, we ran off to the beach and rode the waves in all our drunken glory -- until Chris accidentally squashed Kristina's toe. Talk about the icing on the cake!


Other highlights: Chris brought Not Quite What I Was Planning, the recent collection of six-word memoirs that was inspired by NaNoWriMo, and so we spent much of the week concocting our own. I'll share a couple of mine:

Red Sox fan,
Can die now.

Love the ocean,
Oedipus be damned.

Jumping off the rope swing at this quarry tucked away in the woods was pretty cool, even if Brent ended up kicking himself while jumping off the rocks. Kristina was pissed, because he was stealing her sympathy.


For some reason we're trying to simulate our catwalk tiger look here.


Also, shave ice! Not shaved ice, not sno cones. Shave ice, which is like a sno cone with a lump of ice cream beneath it. We also played a lot of games of Quote Unquote or whatever that thing is that Karen and Thaddeus so nicely lent us. Naturally, with the in-house internets, we spent time googling the quotes in all sorts of other languages and then retranslating them. So the Dutch saying, "the short man has a taller wife" becomes "the midget spares the rod" in the Ukraine. Go figure!

We also hiked the first two miles of the Na Pali Coast, which was rather hellacious. Thank god for the beach at the beginning/end, where you could float with the fishies and buy weed (and mead) from the woman in the white van.


John sent along a new shock game, in which you were administered random shocks if you picked the same number as the computer. Believe me, it's more fun -- or something -- than it sounds.


And we boogie-boarded too!


All good things must come to an end, eventually, so we packed up and flew home, where I decided to shave my week-long growth into as ridiculous a style as I could stand.


**Oh yeah, so "chasing the rooster," which happened usually around 5 a.m. when the wild beasts would start doodle-dooing, came to stand for the act of self-pleasurement. I can't recall exactly why.

A case of the cutes

Okay, so it's been a while. I got caught in the Noise Pop whirlwind and then the mom visit whirlwind and now the Kauai preparation whirlwind (or tsunami or whatever they have down there). I figured I'd check in here while I can.

I'm in love with a new band: Herman Dune. It's a couple brothers and sometimes a sister, with some kind of confusing French/Swedish parentage. They kind of sound like Jonathan Richman if he was the brother of Jens Lekman and the sister of Kimya Dawson (of Juno fame, see more below). Very cute at times, with girl-group backing vocals, but also romantically miserable lyrics. They're playing the Rickshaw on March 19, and I'm bummed I won't be there, but at least I can watching this adorably cute video over and over.

On the subject of cute, I've got to tell you that nothing knocks the blues (more below, too) out of you faster than being interviewed about your job by your (also) adorably cute little sister. And when she said at the end of the phone call, "I hope I get to see you soon," I thought I would cry. Maybe I should try that on my next big interview. Somehow I doubt Mark Eitzel or whoever would react the same way.

So, yes, my birthday's coming up. And anyone who knows me well knows that I get depressed every year before my birthday. Never fails. But this year it hasn't happened yet, mostly because I'll be in Kauai. I can get depressed when I get back; right now, I'm just trying to figure out which beaches will have the best snorkeling. Of course, that didn't stop the Saturday blues a-coming on a little today. I think it had to do with dropping my mom off at the airport, because I seem to miss family more than usual these days, even if they drive me a bit batty at times. And then last night I met up with some ex- and current SF Weekly folks, which always gets me thinking about what I should be accomplishing in life. I always get competitive about that kind of thing, even if I'm fine with my daily life. I mean, I don't really want to compete with the guy who got divorced but moved a block away so he could be near his kids, even if it meant he was a lonely bachelor two weeks out of a month. Right?

Enough maudlinity. Have you seen the Diablo Cody impersonation? Ouch! Hey, I loved Juno and I loved the fact that an outsider in a bad dress won an Oscar. She seems normal and kooky, like one of us. But this SNL bit is pretty funny.

And that She & Him show at the Great American? Getting mixed reviews, but I loved it, even if Zooey Deschanel didn't exactly show a lot of stage presence. What a voice! I could've listened to them cover standards all night, along with her originals, which mix together Patsy Cline, Carole King, and the Shirelles. Here's a track from the upcoming Merge Records album

And now a preface to the new Grumpy Guy: In case they, by some amazing coincidence, they ever see it, the strip in no way reflects my general feelings towards my parents. Thank you and good night.

The Keys to Everything

I lost my keys on Thursday. Never done that before. And it's so weird, because I lost them somewhere within a three block region, so you'd think I could find them.

I parked my car on Durant just below College, and walked to KALX. Halfway through my show, I realized I didn't have my keys in my pocket. I always put them in the same pocket, but I realized that I had a long coat on and may have put them in the coat pocket instead. But when I checked, the pockets were empty. Later, I retraced my steps several times, went to the UC Berkeley police lost and found, looked through the windows of the car. Nothing. Russ came and we poked around with his flash light, but didn't see anything. He was very thorough -- went back to KALX and looked everywhere, even in the T section, near Toto.

I don't have a lot of keys. I kind of pride myself on how few I have. But I did have the keys to Kathleen's car and to my home, and now I didn't have AAA and I didn't have a way to get home or get into my home. Luckily, Brent had borrowed Kathleen's car and never returned her spare keys, so he was able to come and save me. (Let this be a lesson to you: Always keep your ex-girlfriend's car's keys, until she asks for them back.) And, for better or worse, my apartment is somewhat easy to break into (not as easy as I thought but easy enough, um, but please don't take this as an offer).

Inside the apartment, I found a spare PO Box key, spare apartment keys, a spare bike lock -- everything but my mailbox. I guess I was more prepared than I realized, except that everything was in my apartment, instead of at some friend's house. Forget earthquake awareness; I need to start a dunderheaded awareness program.

Mad Men

This was supposed to be a post about the Eye-Gazing Party, but I got horribly ill and couldn't go. (Luckily for you, MSNBC was there and filed this report.)

How ill, you ask? This was a bad one. I felt like I'd swallowed razor blades. My body ached everywhere, right up to my eyeballs. I had the chills and then the sweats. My voice, when I actually tried to speak, sounded like that lady bailiff from Night Court channeling Tom Waits after her fourth pack of cigarettes. I spit up big hunks of green phlegm, which looked a bit like alien jello. And then I started hallucinating. This wasn't as bad as the time back in 2000, when I was so dehydrated that I thought great winged creatures were beating on the windows, trying to carry me away and I had to crawl down the hall of my apartment to my girlfriend because I couldn't raise my voice above a whisper. But I did hear things. Scary things. Voices, like on that Lost show.

Most bizarre was the loss of appetite. It was just gone. This never ever happens to me -- I get the two-hour feeding need, no matter what. So it's really liberating to look at food and think, "Nah, I don't need it." It's probably also not so healthy to eat once a day, and then only a little.

So, what did I do besides drink gallons of water, take cough medicine, and sleep 12 hours at a time? I watched TV shows. First I finished the initial season of Mad Men, which I highly recommend. It's written by a bunch of the old Sopranos writers and has a similar mix of dark humor, pathos, and masculine cool. It takes place in 1960 and revolves around a New York ad agency whose main client is Philip Morris, so everyone smokes all the time. I mean, all the time. Pregnant mothers smoke, children smoke, dead people smoke. Apparently, they use herbal cigarettes so no one croaks on set.

It's definitely a more innocent time -- at one point, the main ad man calls television evil -- but it's also pre-women's lib, pre-gay rights, pre-everything, practically. So it's fascinating to see these straight-laced people discover pot, vibrators, divorce, homosexuality, and other "unseemly" things for the first time. Plus, there's this one woman, Joan, who, well, I don't want to offend the women readers of this blog but she's built like some kind of teenage boy's wet dream. We're talking Jayne Mansfield curvy. And they put her in these amazing, body-hugging dresses, and then have her strut around that office as if she were demonstrating every theory of gravity and physics at once. She's over on the right here.


Season two starts this summer.

Book em, Dano

Suddenly, for the first time, I find myself in a book group. With my old knish friends Laura and Leslie and their significant others. Every six weeks, we will meet and discuss something that one of us has forced the others to read. I have a feeling that it will be a very loosely policed book group, since Leslie is already saying she just wants to drink wine and hear about dating mishaps. Laura picked the first book, Therese Raquin by Emile Zola. I've never read him, and I'm a little nervous about 19th century authors, what with all the description of the quivering hedges and such.

I just finished reading my Holiday Party Book Swap book, The Emperor's Children, by Claire Messud. It took me a really long time to get into the book, probably 150 pages, because the characters were so unlikable. Just rich or pissy or self-righteous, which was the point, of course. Messud swaps POV each chapter, which made it hard to get into the story as well -- and made me wonder if even the nice people I know would be perceived less nicely if someone could read all their thoughts. I'm sure I would be.

But eventually I found myself caught up in the churning plot, so much so that I was surprised by the big old honking tragedy that arrived (hint: the book takes place in the early part of this decade).

The novel also has some things to say about friends and family and how your perceptions of them change. One minute you're happy with them and the next they've disappeared or disappointed or done something so kind that you're brought that much closer. There's also a fantastically apt section about how sad it is that you laugh less as you grow older, especially in some relationships, and then things like this bit about reading books in general: "You do need to read them. That's what it means to be civilized. Novels, history, philosophy, science -- the lot. You expose yourself to as much as possible, you absorb it, you forget most of it, but along the way it's changed you."

This quote reminded me of a line from a recent Nick Hornby column in the Believer, in which he related how a friend, after finishing a book, waits a few days before starting another one, in order to give the book "more time to breathe." Hornby, though, can't read like that: "Those of us who read neurotically, however -- to ward off boredom, and the fear of our own ignorance, and our impending deaths -- can't afford the time."

Sometimes I think that's all life is, no matter what your life entails. Whether you spend your time working 60 hours a week or raising three children or staying up all night doing coke of strippers' butts, we're all just trying to ward off boredom and our impending deaths. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Between Here and There is Even Better Than Here and There

I decided to add a new section to my CD library the other day: The favorite albums section. It just seemed weird that I'd have all these old records that I love tucked away in the CD alcove, so I decided to put them all together in one tidy area, where they could compare cover art and argue about who had better lyrics.

Partially, I realized that I listen to music in a different way nowadays. Either I’m trying to keep up with all the new releases, whether it be for the Rickshaw or KALX or Three Kinds of Stupid, or I put one song from a CD on a mix and listen to it along with a lot of other single songs. So there's a 2008 mix, a 2007 mix, an '80s mix, a singer-songwriter mix, a sounds-like-Pavement mix, a hip-hop mix, a songs-from-friends-mixes mix, etc etc. What I don't do anymore is go back and listen to old records nearly as much.

But after starting my new section, I had a revelation: the cd-changer revelation. Do you remember when you got your first multiple-cd player? Man, that was a sweet day. All that deciding which 5 cds to put into it, all that breathless anticipation of "what song will come up next?!" Well, now it was back! And it was goooood.

This should put to rest that question of whether I'm a nerd or not.


Of course, this process led to other realizations. Like: Luna's Bewitched is as near to a perfect album as you can get, and I'd forgotten how much I liked Quasi's Featuring Birds. Also, that first Rogue Wave record stands up to a lot of other classics, the first Human Television EP is pretty damn timeless (in that it still sounds great, but it also sounds like it could've been made in 1985), and I don't love Slanted and Enchanted as much as I used to (the drums sound like a wet box, which didn't used to bother me). Stay tuned for more fascinating revelations...

Foreign Affairs

I really want to vote for Obama. I just wish he would be a little more specific about how he's going to bring about all this change. I mean, it'd be nice to have a president who was actually inspirational (even Caroline Kennedy compared him to her dad recently), but I'd also like to think he actually had plans for the future. Maybe he's just being vague so his opponents -- now and after the primaries -- can't call him on them. And all this "reach across the aisle" crap better just be schtick to win a general election. I'm okay having a Democratic president who reaches across, as long as he does it with a steel-toed boot. Some of these right wing nutcases got to learn there's a new sheriff in town. Listen, we saw what they did to old Bill Clinton. These people will take your outreached hand and twist it up your rectum.

Over across the pond, French President Nicolas Sarkozy has started a brouhaha over … well, what exactly? Apparently, he dumped his wife for Carla Bruni, a former model and rumored "pal" of Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, and, um, Donald Trump. Hello, she's a hot, she's Italian, she can sing the feathers off a myna bird, and she likes to read books on the floor without any underwear on -- why is this a scandal?


It seems people are shocked at how open he's been about his paramour, rather than keeping her on the, how you say, down low. Jeez, I'd much rather see her prancing around in a bathing suit than Laura Bush. (This is the same country going nuts for this nude pic of Simone Beauvoir, taken in Chicago in 1950. Note that she's wearing her high heels, even when naked in the bathroom. That's class.)

Speaking of class -- bad transition, I know -- Tracie hooked me up with some CD-swapping people. Each coupled months they pick a theme and make a disc to trade. Next month's theme is Sad Songs. Got any thoughts? I'm trying to pick 15 of the most miserable, loneliest, sad-bastardy tunes of all time.

Movie Madness

Have you been to the new Kabuki Theater yet? You know, the one that Robert Redford and Sundance bought up and made into a high-end cinema experience? I kid you not, there are now catalogs for wrought-iron windchimes on every table. And you have to pay $1-3 extra (depending on the time of your showing) per ticket for "an amenity fee." I asked the sullen ticket clerk -- thank god some things never change -- what it was for, and he said, "blatant robbery. No, ha ha, just kidding. It goes to keeping the theater green, which is really expensive." Huh.

Apparently, the carpet is made of recycled materials. The carpet that they put in, after tearing up the old one. Okay. And they use potato utensils, which is good, especially if you bring your own Bunsen burner and can melt them down (because there's no compost bins for them that I could see). Can you get $2 off if you bring your own coffee mug or fork? Um, no. Well, it says on the web site that one of the upsides of the experience is that there are no commercials, just previews. My god, do we have to actually pay more for something we don't want to have in the first place? (I guess, sadly, we do.) And also it's all reserve seating, which I'm supposed to like why? I guess it makes it easier to walk into another film and watch it, since no one is there to take your ticket at the doorway. (But doesn't that save them money on staffing?) And you can get your tickets online ahead of time and make sure all your friends get to sit near each other. Unless someone shows up that you didn't expect and doesn't have a ticket and therefore has to get one way across the theater from you. And who knows exactly where they want to sit before seeing the theater, anyway? And what if a big tall lady with a giant floppy hat sits in front of you? You're screwed.

Then there's the balcony bar. I'm all for being able to drink at the movies -- the Parkway rules! -- but the Kabuki's bar only looks out over one of its many theaters. So if you want to watch something else you're going to have to chug a $9 glass of wine at the bar beforehand or go as sober as George Bush at a prayer meeting.

All this doesn't mean I won't go there. Just that it puts more pressure on the film to be good. Sort of like when a baseball player making $10 million a year hits a bad streak -- you feel more pissed at him than usual.

I've got one suggestion, but I'm sure it'll never happen. Better previews, ie shorter previews. Like the movie I saw, The Savages. It was pretty much ruined by the preview. Almost every single surprise had been sucked out of the film, which was kind of slight to begin with (which is odd considering it's about death and family reconciliation). I think it would've been endearingly sad rather than nice but forgettable if I hadn't heard all the best lines.

For a nice rebuttal to all this carping, check out this Kabuki employee's post.


Oh yeah, and I'm really bummed I missed out on the No Pants 2k8 BART ride recently. Looks like a lot of fun.

Messing around

Random thoughts from my holiday trip back east:

My mother and her wife drink a lot of milk. For some reason, this seems odd to me. Not that my mom has a wife, but that they drink a lot of milk. No one else I know does.

I had only one bad moment with my mom. I made the mistake of telling her about my new zen approach to dealing with my parents (no, I didn't phrase it like that). It's this easy: I don't let the little things bother me. That would've been okay to say, but then I gave an example of when we were in New Haven this summer, and Denise was trying to parallel park and my mother had her redo it six times, even though three out of the first five were fine, and I just looked out the window and tried not to get angry because it didn't matter. It was their dynamic, and if Denise wanted to be bullied, that was fine. Well, my mom stormed out the room, saying we were picking on her. She sure is sensitive, that one.

You know what should be outlawed? That thing where you have to hold hands at dinner and say something you're thankful for. Especially when your step-mother's nice-if-mildly-homophobic brother is over, and you just know he's going to make bad jokes about having to hold your hand.


My 20-year-old brother Gabe was home for the holidays. He had been out in LA until his program ran out of money. Apparently, girls were flying all the way across the country to sleep with him. Which isn't much of a surprise. When he came to visit at 15, he was already 6'3" with a big white-boy afro and clothes all of orange, and he was stopping cars dead on Market Street. While we were waiting for a bus, this beautiful Brazilian woman screeched to a halt and invited Gabe to compete in a teen modeling contest with a $250,000 grand prize. "You're exactly what we're looking for," she said. He didn't go, because he's a small town boy and it seemed weird to him. Yes, a quarter of a million dollars is weird. No, hot Brazilian women aren't. (Just ask 25-year-old brother Joel, who married one last year.) Oh yeah, and Kristina and Kathleen still talk about him in a tone that is a little frightening.

Anyway, upon my return east, I discovered that Gabe had changed. For one thing, his "death stare" had blossomed.


The death stare is one of the many fine features our father passed down to us. It is an intense, unwavering, slightly unnerving eye-lock that bores down upon its recipients. It is not malicious in intent; in fact, the user is usually just paying close attention to what the speaker is saying. But something about that gaze is a bit too much for some folks. Hell, even I find my dad's stare disconcerting at times.


I used to have the stare. Back in the mid-90s I remember a few girls telling me that I made them all squirrelly with my intent gaze. (Secretly, however, they seemed to like it.) But then I must've stopped or maybe the girls got hardier, because no one mentioned for years. Only recently did a friend bring it up. Maybe the death stare has returned?

Well, I relayed this information to the whole family, and everyone got excited about trying on their death stares. This is what entertainment amounts to in snowy Western Mass. (Secretly, I like it.)


Some Strachotas haven't quite got the stare down yet.


My dad told me two stories about him and my step-mom, Ellen. At a Christmas many years ago, when they were first seeing each other, my dad opened a present he didn't like or he owned already. And he said exactly that, which led her to think, "What the hell am I doing here? Who are these horrible people who tell the truth about their Christmas presents?"

I also asked him about how exactly he'd approached Ellen. Because at the time they first started seeing each other, they were both married (him not to my mom, but to wife number two, Gabe & Joel's mother). I wanted to know how he'd taken that leap of faith, considering that she also worked with him at the same school. It could've been a real disaster. But he explained that he always liked to jump into things -- whether it be relationships or work or piles of leaves -- because even if it turned into a mess, it would be an interesting mess.

So, I decided to take that as my mantra for the new year, and maybe you should to. I here proclaim 2008 the year of the interesting mess.

A little less conversation

It's the new year, when a boy's mind turns to … top 10 lists. Well, I'll get to that, if I must, but first I'm going to give you some liner notes. Because, well, I made a year-end mix, and Karen asked what was the deal with that Elvis song, and I realized that many of them had stories behind them. These weren't necessarily the best songs of the year or the songs from my favorite albums; instead, they were just songs that meant something special. So here you go: If you've got a copy, you'll now understand them better; if you don't -- and you want one -- let me know.


A Little Less Conversation - Dan's End of 2007 Mix

1. Bob Andy - "Games People Play" - This can be found on a 3-CD box set of reggae covers of country songs by Trojan Records artists. What sounds like a horrible idea proves genius, as ska and rock steady artists make even the lamest of 70s soft-rock sound awesome.

2. Rilo Kiley - "Breakin' Up" - What could be worse than being in a band with your ex? Having her write a song in which she sings "Ooh, it feels good to be free" over and over. Chris says this album is a horrible major label sell-out, but I think it's half a genius major label sell-out (and half dullsville). This song out-discos Feist by a mile and should be required playing for anyone escaping a relationship.

3. MC Chris - "I Want Candy" - I have a large space in my heart for novelty rap, a category that houses this track from the Aqua Teen Hunger Force soundtrack. The guy played Rickshaw last year, and even though he's 5' 2" with a squeaky voice and a Boston accent, he had complete control of his rabid, stoned teenage audience.

4. The Honey Cone - "Want Ads" - At some point I downloaded the entire 10-cd Have a Nice Decade box set just so I could get this song.

5. The Mixers - "Love Hurts" - At another point I decided that I was going to quit KALX when I turned 40, so I should go thru all of my CDs and pull out the best songs to play before I left. That's how I discovered this '80s gem from the TV Personalities-sponsored UK comp, Waam Bam Thank You Dan.

6. The Morning Benders - "Damnit Anna" - Local boys, including Matt's cousin. It'd be a shame if they didn't get as big as the Kinks, or at least the Strokes.

7. MVP - "Stockholm Doesn't Belong to Me" - No story, just a great Swedish pop tune. Why do they do childlike melancholy so well? Must be all that sun.

8. Vetty - "Nicolas" - A crazy kid-pop French tune from the third Pop a Paris compilation. Someone needs to collect all these.

9. Eleni Mandell - "Make-Out King" From Miracle of Five, this Angelino's latest. Apparently she went to grammar school with Michele, and Tom Waits loves her. If she lived up here, I'd have a big honking crush on her.

10. Wire - "Mannequin" From UK punk band's first disc, Pink Flag, which I bought ages ago and didn't listen to much, until Matt's bachelor party, at which Eric -- and all of Continental -- went on and on about their greatness. Turns out they were right.

11. Ingrid Lucia & the Flying Nutrinos - "Love Is Coming Back" - This was one of the requested songs at a wedding Brent and I DJed at. I meant to play it as the bride and groom came down the stairs, but I played "Somebody's Baby" instead. Oops. Got a laugh, though.

12. Shout Out Louds - "Tonight I Have to Leave It (Russian Futurists remix)" - Remember when we didn't have the internet and we couldn't find remixes that make awesome songs more awesome? Remember when we didn't say "awesome" so much?

13. Laura Veirs - "Saltbreakers" - Waldo put this on an ipod mix at work, and I thought it sounded like a Breeders b-side. Instead, it's by a slip of a hippie girl from Seattle, who really couldn't be further from Kim Deal.

14. Flight of the Conchords - "Business Time" - Greatest musical spoof TV show starring a pair of New Zealanders ever!

15. Los Campesinos! - "C Is the Heavenly Option" - Another example that the '90s indie-rock scene is coming back into vogue, as it's a cover of Heavenly.

16. Magic Carpet - "Black Cat" - Sometimes you walk into Aquarius Music and find gold, like this '60s UK sitar-psych band's one album.

17. Elvis Presley - "A Little Less Conversation" - Okay, Alan played the remix of this at a Tease-o-Rama party, along with "Mambo No. 5," and I'd never heard either. So I went back and found the original, which has great lyrics and comes from a hilarious scene in which the King tries to put a fur coat on Ann Margaret at a pool party. Who thought this shit up?

18. Or, The Whale - "Call and Response" - The older I get, the more country I like. Especially if it comes with two cute girl singers and some serious tambourine work.

19. Emily Jane White - "Time on Your Side" - Stop asking, "Is it Cat Power?" She's local, she's a pal of Yuri's, add her to the list of artists who ended up in Rolling Stone after asking Russ to drum for them.

20. Stone - "Le Jouer La Nuit" - More French pop, here a Beatles cover.

21. Speck Mountain - "Hey Moon" People really like that Bat For Lashes woman, but I think these two girls sing better and make more arresting music. But I also thought that Low made some of the best sex music ever.


Alright, now here's my favorite albums of the year:

Peter, Bjorn, & John - Writer's Block
Jens Lekman - Night Falls on Kortedala
Vampire Weekend - Demo
The Lodger - Grown-Ups
Eleni Mandell - Miracle of Five
Parson Red Heads - King Giraffe
Eilen Jewell - Letters from Sinners & Strangers
The Black Lips - Good Bad Not Evil
Taken By Trees - Open Field
Amy Winehouse - Back to Black
Rilo Kiley - Under the Blacklight
Various Artists - CD86: 48 TRACKS FROM THE BIRTH OF INDIE POP
Various Artists - TROJAN COUNTRY REGGAE BOX
Various Artists - THE GREAT NEW YORK SINGLES
Various Artists - THE DARJEELING LIMITED Soundtrack

Deck the balls

It's over! Finally! The holiday party season is kaput. I didn't think I'd make it all the way, but I did. Last night was the last one: The Tricycle Records Holiday Bash at the Rickshaw. About 99 percent of the attendees wore all black. Plus they all had black hair and drank black beer (Guinness), and the name of one of the bands was even The Blacks! Crazy.

But not as crazy as the Odopod Holiday Party. We're talking Stallion Massage Zone crazy! Here's a pic of me (Santa) and Stallion righter after we discussed Swedish vs. Shiatsu. Can't remember which won out.


The whole idea was that Stallion's Massage Zone would be so terrifying (you had to take off ALL your clothes for him to perform his "magic") that no one would dare take part. Even with the striking leather vest and the new age background music, some people still were brave -- or drunk -- enough to give it a try. Here's Yuri, who I believe was more drunk than brave.


Go back a couple more days and you've got the Hut Holiday party, which featured a serious heavy metal cover band playing. How serious? They kept yelling, "If the management will let us play more, we will!" The management, naturally, ran and hid, so they couldn't be asked if it was okay. I tried to get into the spirit of the night, right down to the old-school Pats hat Tim gave me.


And then there was the Rickshaw's official holiday dance party w/ me and Alan DJing the French pop (well, Alan DJed a lot of things, only some of which were French pop) and the Devil-ettes dancing around. I don't have any photos because I was, um, busy. You know, working and stuff. And then at the end of the night I got that crazy propostion. Crazy! As soon as I heard it, I thought, "I love this town!"

Here's a holiday Grumpy Guy for you. See you in the new year.