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.

plug and play

So I'm pretty much caught up with my script writing. Yesterday I wrote 4,000 words and I'm up to 18,000 for the month. In case you haven't been paying attention, this month marks the inaugural Script Frenzy dealio. It's Chris' latest endeavor, in which people write 20,000 word screenplays (which comes out to about 120 pages, aka a 2 hour movie) in 30 days. (Why can't he pick a month with 31 days? Jeez.)

In a lot of ways, it's been way easier than NaNoWriMo, because it's a hell of a lot less words -- duh -- and all the formatting (names of people speaking, scene descriptors) chews up words like crazy. So even though I fell behind pretty early, I wasn't too worried. All you needed was 600 words a day. I could do that in my sleep.

Funny thing though. It turned out that no matter how often I put my laptop under my pillow that never happened. And it's a lot harder to go off on tangents than with the novels, although like Kristina mentioned one good sex scene eats up a ton of words.

My script is about this bike nerd who works as a mechanic in a shop. He can't actually ride bikes, though, because every time he gets on one crazy bad things happen. Anyway, he's also having trouble with the ladies, so he signs up for this experimental injection that unleashes your pheromones, making most ladies find you irresistible. At least it's supposed to. Be assured, however, that hilarity ensues.

But it's also a romance, so he meets this woman who makes wild flower soap. The problem is that the serum only lasts for a month, so he's worried that she won't like him when it wears off. Oh yeah, and there's bad side effects. Let's see, there's also a big dog, a Cyclotron race, an evil ex-girlfriend, and lots of carrot juice involved. I actually think there's some funny ideas in it, but boy does the dialogue suck.

The Script Frenzy wrap party is on Sunday, July 1 at Root Division at 7 p.m. Everyone's invited -- free food! -- and Chris has collected a bunch of actors (including the very talented Greenfield, Mass, native Jon Wolanske) to act out scenes from peoples' scripts. I plan on giving them a slapstick sex scene, which should be heelarious.

forever is a long time

So, last Sunday Kathleen and Eric got married. I get nervous for other people at their weddings. I don't vomit or anything, but I do feel those butterflies in the gut.

But this one went swimmingly. Beautiful weather, great view, not too many Hell's Angel's crashing it, Alice's Restaurant right across the street. The only minor disturbance occurred right after this picture was taken, when a baby behind me dispensed one of the loudest, wettest blow outs ever.


Kristina and Tim gave amazing toasts that had many people getting all teary faced. Kristina told this great story about how Tim had told Kathleen about Eric before he'd moved out here, and so whenever one of her dates would go awry, she'd say, "At least I'll be able to date Eric Doherty." It became an inside joke, which became an inside job, er, marriage. This has led to me "joke" about how I'll be able to date the lottery soon. Mmm, lottery.

Anyhoo, there were lots of folks returning to town for the nuptials. Like Rolf and Michele, Victoria, and Shana. It was almost like old times, except that no one was wearing playa dust or a sweatshirt that said "Number One Grandpa."




After the reception, many folks headed over to the Portola Campgrounds to hang out with the married couple on the spot where they met. The night ended with 20 people circled around a fire, receiving a lesson in "street funk" by Kathleen and Kristina. I really wish someone had captured the drunken gyrating on their camera. Maybe somebody can break out The Salt Lick move at Bardot a Go Go (coming up on July 14).

Now, the return of Grumpy Guy!

white is the new black

Bobby threw his big gay dance party last week. The theme was "white" and the staff got fully into the concept.


Waldo won the prize for best ensemble.



I call this one Lil' Lord Fontleroy meets OG Shiny Shirt.


Brett channels his inner raver and metalhead, all at once.


Have you ever noticed that a person's eyes are not the same size or shape? Kind of creepy.


And when the guys started stripping down, Waldo jumped right in. Look at those pecs!

oops i did it again

Criminy. That's all you can say. Criminy. Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be a human.

On Monday night, I went with Russ and Megan to the Jameson Free Drink party, which has become an annual event. Last year, it was at the Hemlock and featured free whiskey, Mickey "Do the Jane Fonda" Avalon, and Mini Kiss (midgets rock). This year, they held it at 1015 Folsom and hired MC Jelly Donut, that guy who plays music with robots, some beatboxer, and Mini Britney (midget does Ms. Spears). Turns out it's the same little person who was Paul Stanley last year. There's a picture here on Megan's blog.

I don't have a problem with little people. The Station Agent was a great movie. So was Time Bandits. But Lil Brit made me really uncomfortable. Yes, she had a decent voice and could really belt it out. And I could see how this is probably the only way she's going to break into show business. (She could probably have picked a better role model.)

But damn. I couldn't watch. All those dudes from Concord laughing at her. And her stripping down to a spangly body suit. Ick. I felt grossed out and bad for her, and then I felt guilty for feeling grossed out and bad for her. Oh the circle of shame and disgust and shame and disgust and…you get the idea.

I have no problem with the mentally ill. I find them interesting, actually. But the retarded and deformed give me the willies. What's that about?

In related news, I watched "Coming Home" for the first time. Man, Jane Fonda gives one of the longest replications of an orgasm ever. And the rest of the film is really intense too. I bet it was amazing when it came out in 1978, considering how the country was still freaked out about Vietnam. I need to ask some old people about that. I watched all the extras on the DVD, and Bruce Dern started getting all teary and choked up when describing watching it for the first time in a theater. Bruce Dern! Who knew he was such an old softie? He kept referring to himself as "Dernsy" or "Derns." What a kook.

Anyway, it's a great look at the late '60s, how people changed from supersquare to hip(pies) over night, while others didn't change at all. Kind of like my parents did.

Positions and the filling of said positions

Random stuff:

Funny thing I overheard on BART from a guy talking into cell phone: "The position that needs filling is boyfriend, so if that's a position you don't feel suited for, I guess you shouldn't be applying."

There were a lot of things I regretted about going to New Zealand. One of the main ones was not buying the Shocking Pinks' Infinity Land cd while I was there. I haven't seen it available anywhere else. Until now. God bless the internets. The disc is the best thing Flying Nun has put out in years -- it's very NZ, noisy and moody and rocking, but now they've got some DFA stuff out so they're embracing the electronic too.

I also love the new Lodger album. British band, disc out on Slumberland Records, which hadn't released anything in ages. (Yay, Mike!) They're like a kindler, gentler Wedding Present. Oh so many hooks. Makes you want to curl up into a papa san chair and drink tea with whiskey in it and maybe think about some girl you had a crush on in freshman year of college and never dared talk to.

Also, this: The Balkan dance party at the Rickshaw featured sex and stage diving and a guy taking drags on a cig between vomit launches.

And this: Physical attraction can't overrule emotional incompatibility.

dance dance revolution

I went to see the Spank Rock DJs recently with Brent and Marlo, and something became painfully obvious.

I don't know how to talk to strange women at dance clubs. (Not that I know how to talk to strange women at bars or bar mitzvahs or zoo bathrooms.)

I was having a really good time, because they were super-fun DJs, but I couldn't have as good a time as I would've liked to have, because I couldn't talk to the women I wanted to talk to. And so it ended up being a little bit of a bummer in the end, a bit of wistfulness added to my raging hullabaloo.

So I started asking my female friends how to go pick up or at least talk to ladies at danceterias. Here's what they came up with:

1. Make sure there's no boyfriend around. Or wedding ring.

2. Make a lot of eye contact. Wait for them to return it. If they don't, move on. If they do…

3. Start dancing near them. See if they move away or turn away. If they don't…

4. Move in and dance closer. Do not touch, save for maybe a light hand on arm. If they still don't run away screaming …

5. Start talking to them. It'll probably be loud, so just ask them simple things. Like the quadratic equation. This is also a good time to find out if their boyfriend is in the bathroom or at home and very large. After a while, you can offer to get them a drink.

6. Sadly, I am not a smoker so I can't ask them outside to separate them from the herd. But I can steer them to the bar or drift away from the dance floor when I bring them their drink.

7. Ask them to have sex with you in the alley.

I haven't been out dancing since, so I haven't had time to try out their suggestions. But I was going to a party at Ideo tonight, and I figured I could apply the same techniques there.

Ideo is some kind of design firm or something, and they have cool parties where people drink and eat and look out over the bay while artists say inspiring things. Stallion was performing, which was inspiring in an '80s metal-loving magician way.

Well, I looked around the room and deck. It was mostly lesbians and architects. And Devil-ettes, out of uniform, and members of my softball team and their odd German co-workers. But I did find one woman I found very attractive. And I tried to make eye contact. Over and over. She seemed to be looking behind me at one point. That was the best I could do.

Then, some guy from 826 Valencia tried to get the crowd to make a story. It was kinda Dave Eggers-esque and kinda funny. So I waited around, looking to see if there was someone else to make eye contact with. I went outside. I came inside. I stood by the beer. Nothing.

Some lady started rambling about how the virtual world was better than the real world (duh!), and I began to fall asleep. I figured my prospects were bleak, so I'd best leave. Bryan the ex-softballer was standing next to me and I reached over to shake hands and say goodbye. And out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman, an attractive woman, looking right at me. And smiling. Not the "oh, you've got guacamole on your chin" smile; rather, the "hey, I've noticed you're cute and I'd actually like you to talk to me" smile. The smile I'd waited all night to see.

But it was like I was already engaged in an irreversible motion. I could not stop that hand from grabbing Bryan's and from the words "See ya" coming out of my mouth.

Maybe I should've jumped right into the bay afterwards. At least that would've been a memorable exit.

Communism and wedding cake

Oh my god, everyone I know is getting married. Or divorced.

Well, not everyone. Just these folks:

Kathleen and Eric: This weekend, they're having their bachelor(ette) parties at farflung locals like Dillon Beach (the site of a recent murder, which makes me think it's like West Side Story up there, only with real sharks) and Guerneville (hellooo, ladies). Then they're tying the knot (or cherry stem) in two weeks in the Santa Cruz hills.

Shana & Niko: A bunch of us are getting hotel rooms to party over the July 4 holiday down south somewhere.

Wendy and Matt: In September.

Russ' ex, Heather, just announced her betrothment.

Joanna's ex's ex told me she's getting married in a week (on the steps of City Hall).

And Brent's ex, Jill, just had her dad get remarried -- to a woman he'd only known for four months.

And I'm sure that's not all, because weddings and the Domino Theory go together like Laurel and Hardy. Here's how it works: Couples go to weddings and then either break up or decide to get married themselves. Not all couples, of course. But most weddings inspire some kind of conversation about "where things are going." At least I don't have to worry about having that conversation any more. Did I say any more? I meant right now. Ha ha. Yeah.

So who's next? I've got my guess, but I'm not saying who it is.

baby, let me find your obscure seven inch

Sometimes when I go to the city now, I feel like a tourist. I think, "That used to be my city and now I'm just one step away from a German doofus with a fannypack and shorts shorts."

Like last week, when I went to the Haight for some record shopping. I was dying to find a copy of Doug Clark & the Hot Nuts' version of "Baby Let Me Bang Your Box." They always play it at Saturday Soul Night at the Elbo Room, and it's a hilarious, raunchy rocking song (it was also featured in John Waters' A Dirty Shame). I figured if anyone would have it on vinyl, it would be Rooky's Records. Same with Vaughn Mason's Roller Boogie classic "Bounce, Rock, Skate, Roll," KC & the Sunshine Band's "Boogie Shoes," and, um, Ace Frehley's "New York Groove." (Can you tell I've been hanging out with Roscoe 2000 when he's DJing?)

But not only did they not have any of them, but the very knowledgeable clerk had never even heard of the first two. Heresy! That said, he was probably the nicest record store clerk ever -- I know, I know, that's not really saying a lot, but this guy was like the Mother Theresa of record store clerks. Not to me, exactly, but when dealing with the French dude who was actually buying records. The longer the French guy stayed, the more the clerk offered him. "Are you ready?" he'd ask, and the guy would make no inclination towards leaving, so he'd offer him a free button, a free sticker, and eventually even a free bottle of water. Maybe after I left he offered him the whole store.

I decided to go up to Recycled Records on Upper Haight, because Roscoe swears by them. And that's when I saw that the Lower Haight, my Lower Haight, had changed. Just like the Western Addition, which is now called NOPA by all the finest real estate agents, the LowHate has gotten a serious spit-shine. For one, that futon store off Fillmore has finally, really, truly gone out of business, after about 10 years of going out of business. And in it's place? A superfancy Thai Restaurant, with slanty beams and mood lighting and huge windows -- the kind that no one ever dared put in around there, in case a gangsta or anarchist decided to offer up his brick. RNM is kind of fancy, but they figured out how to be Lower Haight and chic -- you make it look ugly on the outside and don't let people see inside, and you serve fancy White Castle-style burgers.

Next to the Thai place is a boutique that looks like it belongs on Upper Haight. Because it's really roomy and elegant with more moody lighting, whereas the boots down here usually are funky and cool without trying so hard to be exclusive.

Further down the street, An Baudrain or whatever it was called is now Danny Coyle's. Trading Irish bar for Irish bar is good, I guess, and Jake swears by this place. Nearby, though, is Haight Street Dentistry. I mean, come on, what's next? Junkie Daycare?

In another attempt at branding, all the street poles have Lower Haight signs on them, with individual paintings. Some are pretty cool in an Upper Playground-meets-XLR8R hoodie sort of way, but others feature lame-ass bird doodles.

The most disturbing sign of "urban renewal" (aka the rich, white hordes descending), however, was the sign announcing the city's desire to install "safety cameras" on the street corners.

Oh yeah, and Kingfoot Subs has a new, "totally extreme" looking sign. Jeez.

love is a mixed up tape

I just finished Love Is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield, the head CD reviewer for Rolling Stone. I was a bit suspicious of the book -- it sounded like a typical music writer pitch, the kind I can spot because I've been guilty of them myself, the kind where you say, "hey I've got a great idea for a book" before you have really thought out the idea, because you basically need the money. But the book was way better than expected.

It's about being a big old music nerd and finding true love. It's not always easy for big music nerds to find love, or even to talk to girls at all. So this guy was super lucky, especially because the woman he met was quirky and fun and the kind of Southern gal who knocked Irishmen on their asses when they went on vacation because she had a real ass. (The implication being that Irish ladies do not. I did not know this.)

But the book is also about how his wife dies suddenly and inexplicably -- I'm not spoiling anything, it's right there in the first chapter -- and he has to figure out how to go on. If the stuff about his relationship is inspiring, the stuff about coping with her death is heartbreaking. Check this graf out: "It's the same with people who say, 'Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' Even people who say this must realize that the exact opposite is true. What doesn't kill you maims you, cripples you, leaves you weak, makes you whiny and full of yourself at the same time. The more pain, the more pompous you get. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you incredibly annoying."

He's a pretty funny writer, whether talking about how often he'd like to experience both Christmas and "Hey Jude" ("every five years, at one-third the length"), the horrific '90s pop that he loves (Tom Cochrane's "Life Is a Highway"???) or the different kind of mixtapes there are ("We're Doing It? Awesome!" being one).

But mostly, it was nice to read a book about someone I could relate to (he loved Pavement and Big Star) who was really in love with his wife and whose relationship seemed quirky, crazy, and wild fun. Plus, he was articulate about being terrified that he would fuck it up. "When everything sucked and I was by myself, I thought, Well, at least I don't have another miserable person to worry about. I figured if you give up your private place and it still turns out to be lonely, you're just screwed."

The only thing that I didn't like is that it didn't come with a mixtape. To paraphrase Dazed and Confused's Wooderson, it'd be a hell of a lot cooler if it did.

me, miranda, and lots of people i don't know

Every once in a while, the right person gets famous. Like Dave Eggers. Or Beth Lisick. Or Nick Hornby. These are people who you feel speak directly to -- and for -- you, like they were one of your own friends, even though they aren't (unless you're Ajax, in which case they are, or at least Beth is).

Miranda July is one of these people, at least for me. I'm sure there are plenty of people who absolutely hated "Me, You, and Everyone We Know," but I walked out of that movie so happy to be alive. She's just quirky and funny and thoughtful, a little bit sad maybe, and so very creative. She reminds me a lot of Ryan.

Anyway, she was reading this week at Modern Times from her new book of stories, No One Belongs Here More than You. The store is a decently sized, except that there were something like 400 people there to see her. It was hella hot, so hot that I could feel the sweat beads snake their way down my back. So crowded that she had to go up on the ledge above the books to read. Here she is, right next to a massive sign reading "Hella Gay." I bet a lot of ladies were wishing it were true.


Apparently, it was pretty dusty up there, and then they turned the fan on her to help with the hotness, and it blew a ton of gunk onto her. Can you imagine getting up in front of 400 people (including your mom and brother) in your cute little 60s outfit and then getting sprayed with muck? The whole audience gasped.

But then she told us about a game she played with her brother as a kid when they would get dragged to boring readings. They would pick out words from bookshelves and try to make sentences with them. Like one would say, "Third shelf, fourth book from the right, third word in title, added to sixth shelf, first book, second word" and it would spell something out. She said they did it at home too, and they were always trying to use the book "The Golden Ass."

See if you can spot me here.


She read three stories, each of them quirky and funny and a little disturbing. Here's an excerpt from "The Man on the Stairs":

"Generally, people don't like each other very much. And that goes for friends too. Sometimes I lay in bed trying to decide which of my friends I really care about and I always come to the same conclusion: None of them. I thought these were just my starter friends and the real ones would come along later. But no. These are my real friends."

I used to feel like this, back in the early '90s. Now I look back and think, "Who were those people?" They were indeed my starter friends.

Anyway, after the reading, she answered a bunch of questions, including one about her "creative process" which I felt was very appropriate. She said something to the effect of "I'm like everyone else: one day I say I'm going to work before reading my email, give myself a little reward for working, and it goes really well, so I do it the next day and then it's bad so I throw out that method and start all over again."

I didn't buy her book, because it was just too crowded. I'll buy one later, I promise. But by not doing so, I missed out on the chance to say I know her friend Yuri, or say I know the guy who inspired the creepy dude writing messages to the little girls in her movie, or say I interviewed her for Kitchen Sink during the SFIFF a couple years ago and I felt embarrassed that my shirt was unbuttoned during our talk and also that the piece never ran, or say that I had invited a woman on a date to the reading because I thought it would be the perfect place for a suitably awkward, possibly exciting first date but that she couldn't make it because she was feeding people who had AIDS.

As I looked around the room, I was kind of in awe of the crowd. It was like that Monster Art Drawing event, where pretty much every woman there was cute, quirky, and hip. I wished Miranda would do what Dave Eggers did after one reading, and take everyone out for a beer so they could mingle.

But she didn't. So I went home and watched the series finale of the Gilmore Girls.

How embarrassing is that?

Caves of poop

Last night, this guy was being a dick at the bar. Loud, drunk, obnoxious, full of himself. After playing in the first band, he came up to the bar and demanded two napkins to put on his beers, so he and his girlfriend could go out and smoke. Then he placed the beers directly in front of me and the well, so that if I had to serve a customer I would have to reach around them. I asked him if he wouldn't mind moving them off to the side.

"Oh," he said, "I'd hate to get in the way of the busy bar."

The bar, as you might've guessed, wasn't that busy.

If he wasn't such a dick, I would've held my tongue. It's tough getting people out during festival season, when there are 40 million bands to see. But, no.

"Are you in the first band?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Well, I guess then it's kind of your fault, isn't it, that the bar isn't so busy?"

"I'm not the headliner," he sputtered. Wow, so you didn't bother to bring any folks out to the show because you're not playing last? Or second or third? "When I headlined here, we sold the place out. With the Monolith."

And then it all clicked. I was there for that show too, several years ago. And the guy had been a super dick then, too. How did I remember? Because he'd been just as loud and drunk and stupid then, until he'd found out I wrote for the Weekly, and then he'd been very apologetic.

Needless to say, Cameron didn't invite him to the pants-off dance-off.

Here's this week's Grumpy Guy & Sunshine strip: