I elbowed Toby Keith

He's the country singer who wrote "These Colors Don't Run," and it was an accident. Actually I thought he was part of the stagecrew, until I saw him turn a corner and head for Stephen Colbert's guest chair.

See, April and I got the very last standby tickets for the Colbert Report (drop the T -- it's French, bitch). So we were standing next to an old guy from Wisconsin who was far less interested in talking bowling with me as he was in staring at boobs with April. Anyway, Toby walked past and I knocked him a good one. Oops.

Turns out Toby is some kind of redneck Democrat or something, with a new movie called, get this, Beer For My Horses. He sang, which was not so hotso. Would've preferred the originally scheduled guest, the biker who stopped "journalist" Robert Novak from leaving the scene of his hit and run. After Novak caught the cancer, they didn't feel like making fun of him. Go figure.

Here I am outside the studio.

Earlier, we met Paul at PS1 for some disco and James Turrell light exhibit action. He's the guy who bought that crater 38 years ago and has been working on it ever since.

Not everyone liked the exhibit, which was a hole cut in the ceiling.

There were lots of other hipsters, many sporting these Roman sandals. Go Trojans!

April wants me to mention that girls without bras and mannequins with nipples are running rampant here. I have no pictures of that, but I have one of this guy, who forgot his pants.

We also went to the best burger place in town, Burger Joint. Bizarrely enough, this tiny grill is housed in the belly of a super-fancy hotel, denoted by a little glowing burger sign. If you don't order correctly, you get sent to the end of the line.

Look, the white trash aesthetic is out of control.

This place was in Chelsea, so I figured it was an art gallery, but no it was one of those clothing stores where they have three things on a table, each costing more than a small car. Great door though.

There are lots of multiple-use spaces here. Went to see Cause Co-motion at the Cakeshop, which has a bakery and a record store upstairs and a venue downstairs. And then I picked up a CD by a fantastic local band, My Teenage Stride (see their cute videos here and here), at Sound Fix, a Brooklyn record store attached to a bar. I wonder how many people do a lot of drunk purchasing instead of dialing. Smart business move.

I will leave you with a pic of April and I at PS1. I can't figure out how to turn it rightside up on this computer. Trust me, it's cute.

Hot and Crusty

You know what's big in New York right now? Terrycloth shorts attached to a skimpy top, making for some kind of shorts-dress thing. They're everywhere! I tried to get you a picture of them but all I scored was this one.


These are all from the Santogold/Diplo free show on Sunday. Believe you me, it was people-watching heaven. I tried to take a bunch of pics all surreptitiously, so that's why they're a little off-framed. Especially these of the couple who butted ahead in the 45-minute line right behind us. I was so pissed. They just walked up and asked some woman an innocent question, then just stayed there. Stupid hipster bitches.



Anyway, here we are inside the Central Park Summerstage, watching Santogold and her Solid Gold Dancers perform their robotic moves in striped jeans (it was 92 degrees out).


I'm not sure if these folks were a couple, but I loved her mask. She was also pushing a stroller, which made me want to run up and see how she'd dressed the baby.


If you know me, you know I love funny signs. The only thing in this store window was a fancy old chair and a fancy weird floor lamp.


Here's our pal Sammich's shop. Who knew he was a professional tailor?


My dad's friend Jim swears by this deli, but I wasn't in the mood for sturgeon (ever).


Now doesn't this restaurant sound good?


Posters for the Pineapple Express are everywhere. Also, the Brooklyn Art Museum is feting the director, David Gordon Green, by showing his past films and the movies that inspired him. Like Turner & Hooch. I kid you not.


We will finish with a shot of April. You will notice that she's not facing forward. I told her I wanted to take a picture of her during the first time she ever got mad at me.

"The first time?" she said.

Summer Vacation

Tomorrow, April and I leave for New York City. (Insert Pace Picante Sauce inflection here.) If you want to know what I'll be doing, I'll hopefully be hanging out here, showing off my awesome physique like this guy:


Good times, for sure. Maybe even some blogging, since I'll be gone almost a month. But no Grumpy Guy, since I won't have a scanner. Goodbye Grumpy Guy, it was nice to know you. Have a nice vacation, and maybe bring us back some Grumpy Tales.

Rock of Ages

In memorial of the recent Feelies reunion, I give you my Top 10 favorite live shows:

*Feelies at the Warfield w/ fIREHOSE and American Music Club, 1991. I had no idea who AMC was and I kept wondering who had let Bob Seger into the building.

*Crash Worship at the Trocadero, 1995? Came home with a strange rash on my elbows from all the red wine, sweat, and condensed milk.

*Broadcast at the Bottom, 1999? All the lights off, keyboard intensity.

*Young Fresh Fellows at the Bottom, 1998. I was high, so I'm still not sure if they were the greatest band ever that night. Drummer had a giant gong.

*Terrastock SF at Custer Studios, 1998. Um, standing next to the singer for Bardo Pond while tripping balls and watching the Spaceheads has to be one of the most profound moments I've had.

*Belle & Sebastian at the Warfield, 2001. Like an orgasm after 4 years of foreplay.

*Neutral Milk Hotel at the Kilowatt, 1996? There were 50 people, maybe, and 10 were on stage.

*Extra Action Marching Band at a warehouse when they zapped a turkey
w/ a Vandergraaf Generator, Thanksgiving 2002?

*The Aislers Set at Purple Onion, 1999? Like being in the Cavern Club in Hamburg in 1961, or so it seemed at the time.

*Thunderbleed (aka Blind Vengeance) at the Vulcan Warehouse, 1999? Back when they had some guy who could sing.

Yes, I have a hard time remembering dates.

Bad Isn't the New Good

I have been watching a lot of bad movies lately, and since I'd hate for you to make the same mistakes I have, I thought I'd tell you about them. Warnings are good. Critics who lead you astray are bad.

Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay. I passed up Iron Man for this. Seriously. I really didn't want to see Iron Man. And this wasn't so bad, although maybe it was the Vicodin that made it work. But really, I liked it better than…

Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Which I saw second. I guess I laughed a couple times, but overall pretty damn dumb. Not as dumb as Dude Where's My Car?, but dumb enough to make me give up my attempt to appreciate Unapologetically Dumb Films. Also, it plays like one big product placement, which fostered a bad taste in my mouth that the characters couldn't overcome.

The Foot Fist Way. Not even good as a Parkway movie. So slapdash and unfunny that it seems like it was written on a napkin and then they lost half the napkin right before shooting.

Cassandra's Dream. I liked the last couple of Woody Allen movies okay, but this was a stinker. Just repetitive and dull, with Ewan McGregor and Tom Wilkinson wasted. Plus, not a wiff of Scarlett Johansson.

Gone Baby Gone. Based on a Dennis Lehane novel and featuring two members of the Wire cast (including Omar!) and about Massachusetts corruption. How can you go wrong? Easy! Maybe there's just been too many films like this already or maybe Ben Affleck butchered the novel or maybe the Wire is just so much better than anything else that this seemed simplistic and obvious. Also, an Oscar for Amy Ryan? Was it a bad year for costume dramas?

I know I'm Not Alone. Michael Franti wanders around the Middle East with a guitar, talking to normal folks who tell us that war sucks. Well, duh.

All that said, I recommend Teeth, the vagina dentata coming of age film, and Wall-E, the sweet love story wrapped up in the apocalyptic cartoon story. Talk about opposite sides of the spectrum.

Also, here's a video of Jacques Dutronc and Jane Birkin to get you ready for Bardot a Go Go this Friday.

Phair Enough

Have you looked at Exile on Guyville's cover lately? I'd never noticed how much Liz Phair looks like Stevie Nicks on there.

Last week, Chris and I went to see Phair play her entire 1993 album at the Fillmore. Would it suck? Would it be embarrassing? Would there be anyone under 30 there?

The answers turned out to be no, no, and no. For me, it was more interesting than great, although Chris liked it a lot. He reminded me how nervous a performer Phair used to be and how she was perfectly comfortable now. But she's never really been a great singer and her guitar playing hasn't gotten much better. So, unlike the Sonic Youth Daydream Nation show, the songs didn't sound better than they did originally. A little more Stones-y than on the album, however, which made it easier to see how they were influenced by Exile on Main Street.

It was still enjoyable, mainly because some of her songs are really pretty amazing. And dirty, way dirty. Which is probably part of the major reason why I originally liked them. Catchy and dirty? Bingo.

The oddest moment of the night occurred during "Flower" when she sang, "I just want your fresh, young jimmy/ Jamming, slamming, ramming in me," and a number of women from all over the audience whooped and hollered. Really? I could understand dudes whooping, but ladies whooping for another woman asking for some jamming, slamming, ramming? Not that the ladies don't like that sometimes.

Maybe it was all the pot smoking. Jesus, the 30+ white men and women sure do like the ganja. Doesn't a Liz Phair show seem like an odd fit for smoking out? It's not like there's trippy visuals or wild guitar solos. Just singalongs about doggy style sex with the TV on (from the Whip Smart-era encore, "Chopsticks").

One last thing. According to this article, we have Nash Kato from Urge Overkill for Phair's nipple showing up on the cover.

Bar Crawl

April is doing some work for a travel guide, so we went to check out a bunch of high-end bars. You know, the kind of bars I'd be afraid to go into usually, because even if they are really splendiferous, the people in them would suck big donkey balls. And I don't need another cool SF place spoiled by fratboy hellspawn.

We were going to dinner at Town Hall first, so I ducked into Harlot. Bars like Harlot are not built for happy hours, especially on one of those SF nights where it's hot enough to wear short-sleeves. Also, Harlot is as black as your hairstylist's dye job or a goth girl's fingernails, only it's that kind of shiny black that gives black a bad name. Black shouldn't be slick. Black should be scary. Not yuppie scary, but Halloween scary.

Anyhoo, Town Hall was good, almost great. And afterwards we walked to Bourbon & Branch, password in hand. Now, I'd been doubtful about this place, because of the yuppie fucks who flock there and the ridiculous drink prices. Turns out, B&B is awesome (if ridiculously expensive, but hey the travel guide was paying). First of all, the whole speakeasy thing is cool without being annoying. The only sign outside says "Anti-Saloon League," and you have to go online to get a password and a reservation. Inside, it's the right kind of dark -- plush and sultry and shadowed, kind of like Anne Rice's vagina. They play old scratchy jazz and give you free drinks to start off and wow was my $14 bourbon cocktail some kind of amazing. Plus, there's a library that you enter through a fake bookcase.

Nothing was going to live up to Bourbon & Branch. Certainly not the Redwood Room at the Clift, even if they still have those creepy digital image "paintings" that seem to follow you when you move. The drinks were even more expensive than B&B, without all the cool atmosphere. That said, the giant chair in the foyer never fails.


Next, the Ambassador, owned by those dudes that throw parties for Paris Hilton and shit. It was totally empty, which meant we could sit in one of the leather booths with the phone built in (you can't call Australia, we tried). Drinks were eh and oddly they had no whiskey specials, which means it must be a Cosmo crowd. Oh yeah, they were playing some neo-soul music that white guys put on the stereo when they want to have sexy time.

Swig had a private party when we passed it, which meant we didn't have to go in, which was excellent because it looked like hell on earth or at least in the Marina. I do like the big open window though.

Let's see, Olive was Olive. Vessel is like an LA club mixed with a terrarium -- lots of different levels to sit at and everything was sparkly and I kept hitting my knees on things. Also, it's got those bizarre shared bathroom stalls where everyone uses the same sinks, and tables with speakers in them. The crowd was a weird mix of Blow Up kids and Walnut Creek hoochie types. I like the potted plant, though.

Finally, Otis. There were only two customers at 11:30, but the DJ was extremely happy and friendly. I'm not sure which is a better indicator of the plummeting economy: that Otis is empty or that LA Girls closed down.

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.