Monday, June 30, 2008

Ugh.


So I'm a little under the weather and a little exhausted, so I don't have much to offer tonight. My sinuses feel like they're going to burst at any moment.

So I'll leave you with one amusing anecdote before the day's end. This evening I was out at a bar (surprise surprise) and at one point needed to run to the restroom. Like many bars, the men's and women's rooms were right next to each other, and (again) like many bars, the men's room did not have a reliable lock. Let me first explain this to many female readers: bar men's rooms are notorious for not having a lock that will sufficiently keep the door closed, however, as men, we are usually standing up to pee in there, which in many of these bathrooms means we are facing away from the door. It still makes for some awkwardness, but as long as the back remains to the door, you're usually fine. I don't know why most bars don't at least invest in something as simple as a sliding bolt lock or a simple hook and eyelet system, but that's another issue...

Back to my story. I proceed to the men's room, open the first of two doors (why a bathroom needs a breezeway is beyond my ken), reach for the second, give the knob a tug (not even turn, mind you) and open the door. What do I see? A woman standing up from the toilet. Yes, it's pride weekend, so the prospect of a "woman" in a bathroom is slightly more likely, but still, this was an honest-to-goodness woman or the most amazingly convincing tranny I've ever seen. I quickly let the door go, mumble some inane "Zuh, uh, sorry, um, I don't, uh, sorry." and hop back to the safety of two doors' worth of removal. A few short moments later, she comes out and apologizes to me, explaining that she didn't realize she was in the men's room.

Here's my question: how does this happen so often, especially at bars? I have seen a number of women accidentally go into a men's stall. Do you not realize there are two? Do you not read the door? Are you really that drunk? I mean, I've had times when I've gone to a women's room, but I was fully cognizant of my actions, since there was no one in there, a lock on the door, and someone occupying the men's room for a bit too long. Are these ladies just not detail-oriented people, or does the promise of the awaiting porcelain just get too much and they run into the first door they are able to find that yields successful results?

All I'm gonna say is thank heavens I'm not one of those weirdos who unzips and is halfway ready by the time they cross the threshold of the bathroom, or we both would have had some explaining and apologizing to do.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Hotties.


First and foremost - happy birthday, Pete! And sure, if you want to go there, we can call Pete a hottie.

But what I'm really writing about tonight is a discussion that was kicked around a bit this evening at a little birthday get-together held in my buddy Pete's honor. Somehow discussion of reality shows and whatnot came about, and there was discussion of not only bachelor/bachelorette programming, but also "The Girls Next Door" which, from the little I've seen or heard of it, has to do with floozies milking Hugh Hefner for as much as they can all the while behaving like vapid airheads.

In the course of this conversation, statements were made about how all males, if they were given the option, would opt for a model/centerfold type beauty. Granted, this is strictly in a vacuum, so finances, personal interests, and the man's looks are not a factor. Still, I can't help but disagree. Yes, it's almost impossible to discount personality and all that jazz, but I still don't know that if I found a stone cold fox who loved the same music I did, was a die-hard A's fan, and had an apartment that I could live in for free that I'd necessarily choose her over an "unconventionally attractive" girl who could offer the same things, but chose chunky glasses and Chuck Taylors over Louis Vutton and some Manolo Blahniks.

That probably comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me. Anyone who has spent significant time out with me, especially at bars, ESPECIALLY at bars in the Mission, all know my "type", but here's the thing that makes me very curious: can you separate someone's overall look from how you categorize them? Or, in the end, do the clothes really "make the man"? If, starting tomorrow, I moussed up my hair, bought all designer jeans, got a spray-on tan, and wore unscuffed white tennis shoes, but still played in the same bands and read the same books, would people still think the same of me? Granted, I'd see myself in the mirror and try to kick my own ass, but still. What about finding some cutie in a hoodie and skinny jeans that only wanted to talk about the last episode of Oprah or who the latest star created by American Idol?

Yes, these are extreme examples, but I hope if nothing else that this posting has made you think a moment or two about your aesthetic. In the end, what you like and what you are like tend to go hand-in-hand, but it's just something to be cognizant of when seeking out members of the opposite sex...

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Video fun.

Just a few random things from the interweb that I thought you folks might enjoy. Some of you have probably seen some of these before, some of you might not have; either way, there's no substitute for when you're feeling a tad uncreative than to let other people do the creativity for you...

Bo Burnam - New Math. This kid is a genius, plain and simple. Watch all his videos and try not to laugh your ass off.


Continuing the moustache chatter, and reminding everyone that The Tick was one of the finest animated cartoons of the mid-to-late nineties:


"The Hipster Olympics" it's good, not necessarily great, but should provide a laugh or two:


Headlights - "Cherry Tulips" Not necessarily an amazing video, but a catchy song from a band that a LOT more people should know about.


Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin - "Think I Wanna Die" This is just a ridiculously catchy song with a hilarious video from a band with a silly ass name.


The Decemberists - "Bandit Queen" This is one of those lesser known treasures that was recorded in the Picaresque recording session, but ended up coming out on the EP Picaresquities (tap dance solo and all)


And what would a video posting be without at least one We Are Scientists video?? Here's the vid for the new song "Chick Lit"


This is what I should do for a living...

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Pop quiz.


Okay folks, since I spent quite a bit of the evening last night coming up with my facial hair extravaganza, tonight I will keep it simple. I have roughly one week ahead of me in which my work is going to be incredibly slow (slower than usual, which says a lot) and I will still be patiently waiting for July to begin working on my thesis stuff. Here is the crux of my situation: I'm low on cash, I can't comfortably sit around the house and read (the fam doesn't subscribe to the same love of reading that I have, so sitting and reading books for days would be "a waste of time" to those whom I share a home with), and I don't want to spend every waking minute in the coffee shop.

So what can a kid like myself do to kill time in a somewhat constructive way that will not only occupy my attention in my waking hours, but will also keep me out of the ever-vigilant eye of those who might try to rope me into doing "something constructive with my time like vacuuming or re-re-re-organizing things around the house." I hope to do some bike riding, but am at a bit of a loss for other time consuming, yet cost-effective ways to pass the time.

Whaddaya say?

Monday, June 23, 2008

Mustaccio.


Well, at least the weather has mellowed out again, so I feel that I am physically a bit more able to function than I was yesterday.

The last couple of days have been filled with facial hair. Not mine, mind you, but others around me. So I thought in honor of this interesting turn of events, I'd try to examine a little bit about what the heck is going on in this facial hair revival. Some time ago, I made the argument that Tom Selleck's "Magnum" moustache was one of the more formidable moustaches seen in entertainment. I was thrilled that other people also weighed in on their opinions. I'm going to run through a few popular or common facial hair options and give a little closer examination to the pros, cons, and in-betweens of these various styles.

MOUSTACHES

The Magnum: I've already mentioned it a few times. Think Selleck, think Ned Flanders. It's the only thing those two fellas have in common. This is the big 'n nasty of moustaches. It goes from immediately under the nostril to the edges of the mouth, and no further. It's thick and lush. Left unchecked, it can be nauseating to look at, but if you keep it clean, you'll be a hit with the ladies. If it worked for Ron Burgundy, it can work for you, too.

The Fu Manchu: This particular 'stache shows up in two incarnations. The first is the original and truest, which requires the edges of the moustache to be long and flowing. I don't know anyone who can rock this naturally. Other than Boris Karloff, of course, and his was a prop. So for us mortal folk, there's the hipster fu manchu, which is probably the most widely seen and accepted form of the ironic hipster moustache. It roughly resembles an upside down horse shoe. When it comes to this bad boy, the bushier the better.

The Frenchie/The Pencil: Yes, I'm lumping the two together, but it's mainly because they are only separated in mindset and the little patch right under the nose. Each are thin, and while the pencil connects from edge to edge across the mouth (a la John Waters), the frenchie is split in the middle by generally no more than a centimeter. It may also, on rare occasions, be curled up at the tips.

The Handlebar: A thick, lush 'stache that curls up at the ends. Rollie Fingers was one of baseball's great closers, he's also one of the world's best handlebar moustaches. Look out, ladies, this one is making a comeback in a major way. The real secret is to find the right wax to give both hold and maneuverability.

The Franz Joseph: Want to look like an 1800s saloon owner? Just grown your sideburns along your cheeks and connect them shits into a thick and heavy moustache known as the Franz Joseph. Then drop some trivia knowledge that your facial hair was originally inspired by the first emperor of Austria. This look is limited to folks who can grow respectable cheek-beards, so users are sparse.

BEARDS

The Short-Box beard: This is your all-purpose beard. It's well-trimmed and sinks no lower than the jawline. This is the beard people should think of when they hear the term "beard". Unfortunately, if you let this one get out of hand, you end up looking like the flannel-sporting "Al" from TV's Home Improvement, or any of the guys on "This Old House".

The Goatee: This is the vanilla ice cream of beards. It has been criticized as being over-utilized by portly men to draw attention from double chins, or to create more chin where one has a weak jawline. I find that, when paired with respectable sideburns, this is the best bang for your facial hair buck, and it's hard to mess up as long as you keep it SHORT. No one wants a shaggy goat.

The Soul Patch: In my life, I have met one man who can make this work without looking like a complete tool. Alas, every wannabe yuppie paired the soul patch with a ponytail when they wore jeans and a sports coat and ruined this look forever.

The Landing Strip: Like the soul patch, but it extends to the bottom of the chin. It looks horrible no matter what. However, you can only make it worse by growing out long, scraggly hairs from a soul patch and letting them fall to the chin. For the worst, most egregious offender of this look, do yourselves a favor and do a google image search for "Scott Spezio". It makes me want to vomit, looking at that pink mess.

The Chin Patch: Essentially a goatee without the moustache component, this can be hit-or-miss. It tends to scream "look Mom, I'm seventeen and can grow facial hair!" but it can create a bit of flair for the right person. Don't let it creep down the neck, because that's just gross, and don't let it get too long or else you end up looking like Scott Ian from Anthrax. And unless you're making a tribute to the late Dimebag Darrell, PLEASE don't dye it pink and fork it out.

The Chinstrap: Also known as the gladiator, this can be a very flattering beard. It's basically a moderately wide swath of hair from sideburn to sideburn, via the chin. It's self-explanatory, really. Most people would think Big Papi, I prefer John Goodman in The Big Lebowski for the best celeb chinstrap, though he accompanied it with the moustache. Perhaps that's the difference between the gladiator and the chinstrap...
WARNING: while the chinstrap is almost universally flattering, don't leave it too thin, because then you look like one of those idiotic douches with the pencil-thin goatee/sideburn thing going on, and no one wants to be that guy.

The Anchor: A sadly under-utilized facial hair option. You're looking at a well-groomed chin patch (edge of mouth to edge of mouth) flowing into a landing strip (which is fine when connected to other facial hair, just not alone), creating the visual affect of an anchor on your chin. Works almost primarily with dark-haired folk.

The Coverall: Never a good look. Eric Clapton may be the only man left on the face of the earth that thinks this is okay. As the name suggests, you just let it all go, and keep it somewhat kempt and close-trimmed. It looks more like you're coming off a three-week bender.

The Amish: Sometimes called simply a neck beard, this is when one keeps everything clean shaven from the chin up, and lets the forest run wild down below. This look also makes me want to vomit. It worries me that metal heads have taken to growing this beard with a shaved head. Henry David Thoreau is the only person to make this look bearable.

The Grizzly Adams: Want to look like a mountain man while riding public transportation in a major metropolitan city? Just let the beard take over. This is a surprising (to me, at least) hipster favorite. Granted, men of larger statue should avoid this beard, widely due to it's "hairy bear" association. Just keep in mind: you want to be Grizzly Adams, not Gentle Ben.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

This isn't discussing the weather...

... but it's too damn hot. Even in my basement hovel it's still in the 80's. San Francisco isn't supposed to be like this.

I have no idea how people survive when it's over one hundred degrees most of the summer. I guess it's something you get used to, but it sure as hell isn't something I'll ever get used to. Give me mid-sixties and partly cloudy any day.

I'd love to write more, but I have to get cleaned up before I head out...

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Collectors.


I had a few different topics in mind when I sat down to write this post, but as I logged in, I noticed that one of the "blogs of mention" or whatever it is that they link to with the hopes of supporting lesser-known blogs, and I could tell by its title that one of the blogs was dedicated to a vice which is nearly particular to the uncool nerds: stamp collecting. First, a caveat - I am not here to bash stamp collectors. My father is one. I just don't understand it. Having said that, I still stand by my claim.

The real question that seeing the aforementioned blog brought to my mind is: how do you define a collector? Most people would consider me to be a guitar collector. I prefer to think that I just happen to have a hell of a lot of guitars, and I know a lot about them, and guitars in general. Same with CDs - it's not like I actively seek out rare or out of print CDs, I just try to get music into my ears. I don't care about having original copies, usually; I'm often content just to borrow an album from a friend or anything like that. I tend to hoard books, but that speaks more to my tendency to re-read books, rather than my desire to have a lot of them. Hell, right now 90% of my darling books are residing in meticulously sorted boxes in my garage.

I have also noticed that the concept of collecting is somewhat foreign to the younger generations. Yes, I realize that at twenty seven I sound like a prick when I make generalizations about "younger generations", but I don't give a damn. How many kids these days have a stamp collection? Baseball cards are all but gone. (that's another blog, since that is all a product of corporate greed) Magic cards, the rage of my later grade school days have fallen to the wayside, but paved the way for things like Pokemon cards or Yu-Gi-Oh or Card Captors or whatever shit it is the nerdy kids are into these days. Action figures are not nearly what they once were (what kid didn't have a somewhat respectable group of Star Wars action figures back in the 80s??). All of it has been replaced by the desire to have the cool new technology before your friends do. Think about how many high school kids thought they were so ahead of the curve when they had their Sidekick like a year or two ago; they were such a status symbol that kids even wore them around their neck, though it's also due in part to the fact that they are too friggin' big to stick in a pocket. Still, imagine what must have gone through all those kids' heads when Apple unveiled the iPhone. Now that Apple is lowering the price, will ANYONE out there buy a Sidekick anymore? Hells no.

Sorry, got on a bit of an old man kick there for a minute. Back to collecting. I think at the core of the definition of "collecting" is the hands-off mentality. People who have stuff tend to use it. I read books and comics. I listen to my CDs, and when I have the opportunity to, even listen to my old LPs. I play all my guitars, though not at the same time. Collectors are the folks who worry about original packaging, resale value, original issue, and the term coined by collectors for collectors, "mint condition." These are the people who, as kids, refused to take their toys out of the packaging to play with them, preferring instead to look at them and examine every angle through the opaque plastic boxing. The teens who went to shows, bought a t-shirt of the band, hung on to the ticket stub, and put the whole thing artfully in a display under Plexiglas.

So what's the lure? Is it a sense of competitiveness? Is it genetic? Or are there some people who take more joy in seeing something cool or fun than interacting with it at the risk of causing it some slight damage. I could go on a whole tangent about the process of making new guitars into "relics", but that might take a whole other page. Let me know what you think, I'm curious as to what drives us as a culture to collect whatever it is that floats your boat. Maybe it will help explain why I have an entire shelf jam-packed with baseball cards in the uppermost reaches of my closet.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Wow.

I have been in consistent contact with the Swedish girl who, it turns out, is my second cousin. As will happen in the course of conversation with me, we got to talking about music, and I asked if there were any cool Swedish bands that haven't blown up in the US yet that I needed to know about. She promptly provided a handful of bands, all of which I really enjoyed. However, there was one band that stands out, and they're called Mando Diao. It doesn't sound the slightest bit Swedish, I know, but man are they amazing. Picture the best parts of garage, soul, and pop music all blending together to make a band of good looking Swedish hipsters, and this is the product of that equation.

Monday, June 16, 2008

Creativity.



Or lack thereof.

I don't know how many of you, dear readers, have creative pursuits in your day-to-day lives. I have a couple, this blog being one of them, and music being the blanket term to cover much of the rest of it. However, in recent weeks, save for a few moments of clarity or providence, I have felt like I've got nothing cooking. I want to write some new music, get a new band together, and I've been kicking around the idea of writing a little short fiction here and there just to keep myself sharp. Yet for whatever reason, I have nothing to offer right now. The music that emanates from my fingers is little more than re-hashed interpretations of everything I always play. Chord structures escape me, melody lines fade away as if taken by the breeze. I know I sound ridiculous and sentimental right now, maybe even a bit cheesy, but a creative blockage like this weighs on my well-being. I feel like there is something hanging over me from the time I wake until the time I go to sleep. I know most people will simply say that I should not focus on it, give things time and let it come naturally, but that isn't really an option. I blinked and somehow my summer is already a month gone. It's been great; I've been reading some great stuff, listening to a bunch of amazing music, and generally enjoying myself. Still, I feel a somewhat pressing desire to get something creative put down on paper, tape, whatever.

Suggestions?

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Shame on you.


By sheer happenstance, I watched two of Noah Baumbach's movies in the last two days. The first one, The Squid and the Whale, I've seen a number of times. I think it's pretty well done and very well acted, but as I am NOT a New Yorker, some of the local culture and class stuff is lost on me. Tonight I saw his latest effort, Margot at the Wedding. I was a little underwhelmed. Not so much that the movie was more than a little odd. I can handle odd. I generally tend to like odd. However, I was let down in that the two movies have ridiculously similar plot elements. Both deal with New York writers in failing marriages. Both have kids who are trying to sort things out as the marriage is breaking down. Both have familys that WAY over-share when it comes to sexual news and events. While the first movie is supposed to be semi-autobiographical, this one just seemed a bit more derivative, and didn't have a lot to offer as far as anything new or exciting.

One other thing popped into my head as a result of seeing this movie, and that's the depiction of professional writers in movies. It seems like all of Hollywood would have viewers think that writers are all eccentric, anti-social, self-absorbed, and mentally unstable. These two movies both paint writers in that light, the same with movies like Running with Scissors, The Tenants (which oddly pairs Dylan McDermott with Snoop Dogg), or even Sideways. So here's my cynical slant on the whole thing: chances are, most of these screenwriters had aspirations to be authors at some point in their careers, but somehow fell into the practice of screenwriting instead, so they feel it is necessary to paint fiction writers or poets in a negative light. Before you call me on it, yes, I realize that The Squid and the Whale and Running with Scissors are both autobiographical, so there has to be some degree of truth to the whole thing, and Sideways is based on a novel, but try to think back to a movie in which the main character is a professional writer and was just a good person and talented at what they did. No, Shakespeare in Love doesn't count, smartass. I think it's a conspiracy. Who's with me?

Friday, June 13, 2008

That's just gross.


As one of my first blog posts highlighted, I am a little too cognizant at times of the actions of those around me. As you can go back and find, I have a particular distaste for people sucking face in wide-open public spaces. Today I will be chronicling a few other things that people do in public that really leave me with a sour taste in my mouth.

1) Pull out a wedgie: I know I know, everyone twists or turns the wrong way from time to time and ends up with a little extra bit of underwear where it doesn't belong. (except, of course, you thong people, but still) I realize this is a common hazard that goes along with wearing underpants. But do you have to stand around in some public space and make a major spectacle of wrenching yourself around and trying, usually with just thumb and forefinger, to meticulously pluck the invading underpants out of the crack? I've gotten pretty good at a relatively subtle hands-free removal tactic, but if nothing else, just pretend to adjust your pants or something and do sort of adjustment to free up the infringing fabric.

2) Pick your nose: I will admit, I am a nose picker. But only, and I repeat ONLY in the privacy of my own home when (a) I have tissue nearby and (b) I can go wash my hands immediately after. In public, however, what's in your nose should stay in your nose. I realize it's no fun mining nose gold if you can't share it with the townspeople, but some things are better left in the comfort of your own home. Plus, in public, there's the whole disposal issue, which I often shudder to think about. Because, come on, let's face it: the pick-and-flick technique is highly erratic and can lead to undesired and unexpected results.

3) Sticking gum under tabletops/desktops: I wish I could say that this was limited to grade school or even high school kids, but unfortunately, it's not the case. Just this semester I had the displeasure of flipping up the writing surface of a desk I was sitting in, only to reveal about a dozen discarded pieces of gum that had been surreptitiously left there. I mean, come on. There's a trash can in the room. It's not like high school where you're not allowed to chew gum, so you have to stash it to avoid trouble. I'd be pretty willing to bet that if you go to most restaurants and coffee houses, there is at least one piece stuck somewhere under one of the tables. And that makes me want to vomit.

4) Spit on the sidewalk: I know you just hocked up that loogie. I know you want somewhere to deposit it. I know that spittoons have been out of fashion as interior decorating solutions for years. But do you REALLY have to spit that nasty wad of mucous right there on the sidewalk? They call gutters "gutters" for a reason - they are the unwilling recipients of all things nasty that were once on the sidewalk, and street sweepers come by once a week to clean them up a bit. That's more than can be said for the average sidewalk. So please, please, disgusting loogie hocker, if you insist on relieving yourself of that mouthful of phlegm, at least do it in the gutter, where I tend not to walk for just such a reason. Thanks.

I think that's about enough nastiness for the afternoon. I guess this was in part prompted by Jon's chicken filth water story, but it's also something that's been brewing for quite some time. I tried to spare some of the nastier ones I had in mind - did I forget anything essential? Let me know.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Tip of the iceberg.


It's late and I'm getting more tired by the minute, but this line of questioning was born out of a discussion started between Courtney and myself tonight. Expect much more of this in ensuing days.

Well, okay, technically this all started with one question and kind of snowballed from there. The initial question which she posed to me was who my favorite super hero is, other than Batman. If you read this blog, you probably already know the depths of my bat-obsession (or Bat-session, as I sometimes call it) so that should make the reason for this one qualification obvious. I couldn't immediately answer the question, mainly because I had to take soooo much into account. This, however, led to another interesting question: how do you define a super hero? Technically, there is nothing "super" about Batman, since he is just a mortal like anyone else and has no outside help or powers. This is, of course, much of what makes him so damn cool, but that's not the point. When taking the question into mind, you have to consider a spectrum of a least five types of origins for heroes:

1) Vigilante (no power): Like Batman or The Punisher, even Iron Man, these are otherwise unmiraculous joes who by some usually tragic event turn to crime fighting (or crime, depending on which side they're on), most commonly with some amount of cool weaponry and technology. They are not "super" by nature, but do some pretty damn super stuff.

2) Acquired powers: Spider Man, The Hulk, The Fantastic Four - these are the folks who have had something (usually connected to radiation for some reason) happen to them that has led them to become super-powered. These are once-ordinary people who have developed something that makes them super and then used it to benefit (or harm) the world around them.

3) Innate powers: Folks like most all the "X" teams, The Silver Surfer, or even Warlock were all born or created with their powers intact. Some control them better than others, but that's not the point, the point is they started super and they will always be super.

4) Discovery of Object: Thor's hammer, Ghost Rider's motorcycle, DarkHawk's amulet - all these folks were just normal unassuming folks until they stumbled across some sort of artifact that transformed them or gave them superhuman powers.

5) Cosmic beings: Galactus, Superman, Thanos, The In-Betweener -- these people have some sort of other-worldly origins, and are therefore superior in some way or another to regular human folk.

So where does one draw the line? Can it be said that The Punisher, a gun-toting vigilante is any more or less "super" than someone like Galactus, who eats planets for fun and floats around outer space all the time?
Speaking of Galactus... for people who are even nerdier than I am, here's your shirt.

More comic geekery to come....

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Breaking the rules.

That's right folks, two posts in a row written in the daylight hours. I can't say for sure why this is, but I figure if I didn't write one last night, I was due for one this afternoon.

So what haven't I talked about in like a day? That's right: music. More importantly, I am interested in how music affects mood. In High Fidelity, Nick Hornby (and in the movie, John Cusack) pose the question "Did I listen to music because I was miserable, or was I miserable because I listened to music?" Similarly, in an interview with Charlie Rose the other day, sports caster extraordinaire Jim Nance mentioned putting on songs with specific emotional attachments while he was writing his latest book, which is about his relationship with his father. So this got me thinking along the same lines. Would my outlook on life be different if I liked other kinds of music?

Generally speaking, I listen to what most people would call indie rock. Other people out there would call it crap (Courtney, I'm looking in your direction). No matter what you call it, a major tenet of a lot of the music I listen to is to blend interesting and compelling melodies with bleak lyrics. You know what I'm talking about: bands like the Smiths, The Magnetic Fields, and My Bloody Valentine. So what affect does this music have on me? There is an overused statement that every kid who ever enjoyed punk music says: "Punk rock saved my life." I take great issue with this staement, but that's a whole other post. I only mention it because you never (or at least I never) hear any indie fans say "Indie rock ruined my life." In his book, John Sellers even gives the sub-title of "How indie rock saved my life." While it was an interesting and fun read, I think he is a little over-dramatic in his titling, and I also think that his VERY broad-sweeping definition is rather off base.

But I digress.

Anyhow, I feel like I'm running in circles here. If you have any insight, indie or not, on how music can affect your outlook on life or just your mood in general, please chime in. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go mope around while listening to some of my favorite albums. Just kidding. Or am I?

Monday, June 9, 2008

Now I remember...

... why I never wake up in the mornings.

As most of you who pay close-ish attention to my posts, you'll notice that about ninety percent of them are written between one and three in the morning. I'm a dyed-in-wool night owl. Have been one for years. Especially now in these salad days of being in school and working a job that allows me to make my own hours, I hardly ever see this side of noon.

This morning, I offered my services to a friend to drive he and his wife to the airport. I thought this would allow me the chance to do two things: first, to finally try Burger King cheezy tots. As I mentioned earlier, if you don't wake up in the morning, it's hard to get to fast food breakfast. Secondly, I had a coupon for some free breakfast chicken sandwich biscuit thing from McDonald's I figured I could cash in.

So what went wrong?

Starting with the trip to the Airport, which in San Francisco is always a harrowing task in and of itself, my morning had already begun to sour. I waded my way through throngs of traffic to get to the United terminal. I see an opening at the curb, put on my blinker and *VOOM* some dipshit in a Navigator comes flying around my passenger side, determined on getting to the curb before me. I try to shake it off, remain calm. I pull my car to the curb, but with the front end angled in, since dumbass Mr. Navigator has given me no room to pull in. I hop out, open the hatch on my car, let the spare swing free, and..... "Sir, don't let that swing out into traffic, it'll get hit!" Up comes trotting the traffic cop/crossing guard who is more concerned with the fact that the edge of my spare tire is hanging some four inches towards traffic than she is with the fact that I almost lost my passenger side mirror to an idiot who left me in this position.

Unperturbed, I soldier on. The promise of cheezy tots gives me a glimmer of hope that all is not lost this morning. So I drive out to Burger King on my way back home. I park my car because I despise drive-thrus, walk up to the counter, place my order for two orders of cheezy tots, and..... "I'm sorry sir, we don't have any this morning." I keep composed, ask how it is that they have run out at seven forty in the a.m. and the woman muttered something about "the shipment showing up and sometimes they put it..." and starts gesturing with her hands about nothing at all. So from what I can gather is either the cheezy tots order wasn't in their shipment that morning, or it was just placed somewhere slightly out of reach from the squad of little old Filipino lady workers who were all under five foot five.

Fair enough, I say. I can just get some hash browns at McDonald's when I get my free sandwich thing.

I arrive at McDonald's, and I'm already slightly cheesed. I hop out of the car, hit the ground running, walk in the front door, look at the menu, and..... "hey, where is my coupon?" Sure enough, somewhere either at my friend's apartment building or the airport, the coupon fell out of my pocket. I even went back to the car to make sure it hadn't fallen out in there. All to no avail. Rather than accepting defeat, I just bought some food so that I wouldn't go home empty handed and empty stomached.

So I get home, sit down to eat my already-unsatisfactory food, flip on the TV, and..... "those of you who love a nice cold beer on a warm afternoon might have to pay a bit more the next time you go to the bar or the store." That's right. By some cruel twist of fate, I just so happen to return home, dejected and completely unfulfilled, in time to catch the "Good Morning America" special report segment on how the price of beer is set to sharply increase before the end of the summer, and how consumers could be paying up to a dollar a pint more for beer in no time. Talk about kicking a man when he's down.

So here I sit. It's ten minutes to nine, I've choked down a cup of the brown liquid that McDonald's tries to pass off as coffee, come to terms with the fact that my beloved Pabst Blue Ribbon might get all the way up to four dollars a pint at my local watering hole, and laid out for you fine folks exactly why I'm cranky. Now, having said all this, I'm doing what I should have done two hours ago: I'm going back to bed.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Suspense.

In the past few days, I've been re-visiting JD Salinger's Nine Stories. It's been a while, and I've been so inundated with Raymond Carver's short stories, it seems like a long time since I've read anyone else's short fiction. Re-reading the first few stories in the collection made me appreciate just how much the short story writer relies on suspense. Even in stories that are generally devoid of mystery, there still has to be a certain something lurking beneath the surface. Carver often referred to it as "menace" though I think you could really substitute terms like mystery or suspense just as easily. Basically, there should be some unspoken, undefined conflict that keeps the reader interested in what is will happen next. The beauty of short stories is that it never really has to surface or be revealed what happens with that threat or menace or suspense.

Now, what I just said there is no news, it's no great revelation. Really, it's kind of commonplace knowledge to your average lit student. However, I recently made a connection in listening to some music while reading short fiction. That connection: shoegaze is just like a short story. For those of you unfamiliar with the genre, shoegaze is usually melancholy music that relies on long-ish songs that are constantly building towards a musical climax. My Bloody Valentine fits loosely into the genre, though bands like Mogwai or Explosions in the Sky are probably better fits, at least for my needs in this post. So I came to the realization that you spend time in a short story, like in a shoegaze song, waiting to see what happens next. Most songs you just kind of enjoy them, listen to the music, sometimes sing along with the words, all that jazz. But in shoegaze, you are actively waiting, hoping for that moment when it all hits, and like a good short story, when that moment comes, it hits you like a ton of bricks. I am interested in exactly how it is that musicians are able to achieve this; there's so much more than just hitting a distortion pedal or having the drummer suddenly enter in to the mix at a much higher volume. I think that having a song really hit like that can add a great extra dimension to music, and it shouldn't be limited to shoegaze. Granted, classical composer have been using songwriting methods like this for hundreds of years, but it hasn't really transferred well to the medium of pop music and I'm not sure why. Do listeners lack patience? Yes, some shoegaze bands take just a bit too long to get to the point, but writers can do the same. Filmmakers too, as far as that is concerned. I wonder how much of it has to do with our modern "I want it now" society. The earliest pop songs to hit the radio were limited by the constructs of the record: to fit on a 45, they had to be a maximum length which wasn't much more than about three minutes I believe.

Poe famously described short stories as pieces of fiction that are meant to be read in their entirety in one sitting. What happens with our modern times when no one can sit still anymore?

Thursday, June 5, 2008

I are scientists.

Hey kiddies,
I'm going to be brief tonight. We Are Scientists has made the video for their first single "After Hours" and it's hilarious. It also segues nicely with a blog I wrote last week. If you have youtube time to kill, almost all their videos, music or otherwise, are hilarious.

And if you want to go with me to see them in SF, let me know.



Enjoy!

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Revolting.


I have to ask: what is it that gives us as the human race that blood lust? Why do we seek out opportunities to see other people get hurt?

It's nothing new. I'm not blaming the Internet. I'm not blaming crumbling family structure. Ever since the days of the Gladiators (and I ain't talking American here) humans have loved watching people or animals get hurt. It's disgusting. Look how far we've come: gladiators, boxing, bull fights, dog fights, cock fights, and now we've come almost full circle with the recent boom in mixed martial arts fighting. Of course, this whole blog is prompted by the new rising star, Kimbo Slice. This dude is scary. Screw those buffed up dudes on NBC knocking Joe Schmo into a pool or shooting tennis balls at them; Kimbo Slice is the closest we will come to a modern-day gladiator. For those of you who don't know, this scary mofo rose to fame via videos of his bare-knuckle fights coming up on youtube. They're disgusting. They're disturbing. They're bloody. I've seen a few and I can seldom stomach the whole thing. It's just nasty. Just thinking about it makes me a bit nauseous. Yet still, for some reason, CBS decided that now he is legitimately fighting, with gloves and a referee in "the octagon" that it would be a ratings boom to stick this guy on network television in a prime time fight. Well, I think the ratings were successful, as millions of Americans got to watch this guy shoot a right fist directly into his opponent's bulging cauliflower ear, causing it to burst.

I just don't get it. How can we as a global society be so enthralled with pain as entertainment? I really think I'd rather watch reality TV, which at least keeps its pain on a primarily emotional level. Even that is problematic: if someone isn't pummeling the crap out of someone else, there is all the emotional pain that "real life" television tries to capture. Why do you think Maury Povich can run seventeen thousand episodes of paternity results??? Simple: it's either heartwarming or heart wrenching. Same with Jerry Springer, a show that has become a parody of itself. People tune in to hear twisted love stories and peoples' perversions, but stay for the possibility of seeing a good fight or some blurred out nudity. Why do we watch all these elimination-based talent shows? It's not because we want to see the overwhelming abilities of the winner, it's because we want to see someone who has much more talent than us STILL get knocked down and stepped on by a panel of snarky talking heads with little to no talent of their own outside of their talent to criticize.

While I'm talking reality TV, I have to ask: what ever happened to Blind Date? I'll admit it, that show was my one main pop culture weakness. If it was on, I'd watch it. Religiously. But part of the reason I enjoyed it was that it knew it was absurd. It knew it was NEVER serious. You could count on great dates that wound up in the hot tub, and awful dates that ended with people getting drinks thrown in their faces. To be even more honest, it would be my dream job to make a living writing all the little wry comments that popped up during footage of the date. Whoever had that job was hands-down the luckiest person on the planet. Plus, Blind Date was the kind of reality TV that knew it's place: in the gutter known as the 5:00 pm time slot when NO ONE watches. I would be happier if I knew it was still there.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

97.



Attention: What follows was supposed to be my 100th post spectacular. That is, until I realized I only have ninety seven. The reason for this mistake is that apparently my internal post counter counts drafts as well. So here is what WOULD have been my hundredth post. I'll give it to you now because I pretty much used up my creative juices for the night in coming up with it. Maybe for my real 100th post I'll write a ninety seventh post. You'll just have to wait and see.


Well well, I made it to my hundredth post. In honor of this momentous occasion I will be having a little list fun and giving you five things that have thus far unmentioned in the blog (at least that I can remember). Enjoy, and tomorrow I'm sure I'll kick off post 101 with some gripes about stuff that bothers or annoys me.


1) A worn out zip-up black hoodie: In my opinion, everyone should have one. Especially in San Francisco. This is probably one of the few towns in the US where a bunch of non-hipsters all wear zip up hoodies. Why is this? Because it's the perfect adaptable piece of clothing. It's enough to keep you moderately warm, it can be zipped to the neck if you're really chilly or worn open if you just need a bit something extra to go with your tee. It can be layered beneath a jacket for added warmth, and it has a hood. It might be the most essential article of clothing any San Franciscan can have. Over the past year and a half or so, it has become an unquestioned part of the "Bill look".

2) Rye Whiskey: I have sung the praises of good old mother bourbon on this blog a number of times, now it's time to sing the praises of her peppery, spicy stepsister, rye. Rye never gets its props. You can't get it in most super markets, most bars just have one choice (which is cool, Jim Beam puts out a respectable rye), but when you consider the recent boom in scotch, you have to also wonder why the hell Rye hasn't caught on. There are some old fashioned purists out there who believe that a true Manhattan should be made with Rye; I won't say it shouldn't, but if you ask for a Manhattan, you better assume you're getting bourbon. So why does it get a spot on my special anniversary list? Simple: after MANY years of searching, I honestly thing that it is the best shot to accompany a PBR back. Yes, Jagermeister and PBR is a classic combo, but I find that Rye treats me a lot better, especially if I am getting deep into the shots on any given night.

3) Rice: A recent discussion with my mother led me to the realization that rice is much more of a West Coast thing than an East Coast thing. She honestly prefers egg noodles with a bunch of dishes. I love rice. I can't say that forcibly enough. I love rice. White or brown, as long as it's piping hot, I'm happy. I'll eat it plain, with butter, or, best of all, with soy sauce. In my mind, there is no better starch to be had. You can really eat it with damn near anything too. Just think about it, is there any dish you can think of where rice can't be swapped out for whatever starch you use? Don't even get me started on rice-based casseroles. Or deep-fried rice balls. There are just so many tasty and wonderful options. Damn, I could go for some right now....

4) Chrome Messenger Bags: No, this isn't just because they have wicked hipster cred. No, it's not even because they have those silly belt buckle release systems. It's because they are friggin' INDESTRUCTIBLE. I have had mine for a bit over a year now. In that time I have taken it to school every day, taken it across Europe with me, used it as a suitcase for trips up to the Pacific Northwest, and lugged it to and from the coffee shop more times than I could ever possibly count. It shows NO signs of wear whatsoever. Even the Velcro looks like the day I bought it. I can't say much more than they're one of the best designed and well-balanced messenger bags I've ever seen or used.

5) Indirect lighting: For years and years I toiled under the bright gaze of a ceiling lamp. At long last, I have such a wide range of lighting choices in my humble little abode that I may never need to touch my light switch again (despite the kick-ass Batman switch plate). Naturally, my favorite lighting is the ooooold school Christmas lighting, with those painted-on colors on the bulbs. Their light is so warm, just flipping their switch makes me feel like I'm putting on a sweater. I also have an ancient floor lamp, with the three small bulbs along with one upward facing bulb, all with a dust-ridden lampshade. Plus the old hanging lamp with the wicker shade above the desk, and my little tiki lamp. Even my lava lamps - it all adds up to make a nice ambient glow.