Friday, March 31, 2006
everyone's a hippie today in Boston
The Day is AWESOME in Boston today. It's 70 degrees and sunnin', real-life t-shirt and shorts weather at last, and none of that fucked up "it's 40 degrees and finally above freezing so I'm wearin' a tank-top" type of shit that happens in towns with five-month winters. It couldn't've happened at a better time, as today is my sched-flexing half-a-day, when I whisk outta here at noon to go do the radio nonsense. Normally I head straight to Allsto and eat some pancakes and buy some comics, but today I might pop off at the park and see what's happening at the common. I imagine what's happening will be Irish kids trying to sell me roasted peanuts, and besuited business dudes eating hot-dogs on park benches whilst homeless folk lay passed-out face-down on the grass not twenty feet away. And also a bountiful bonanza of sack-hackin'. Hair flowing in the breeze and flowers engulfing all o' creation and such shit. Spring's here finally, and that's about the only thing that can keep me away from my pancakes.
The Day is AWESOME in Boston today. It's 70 degrees and sunnin', real-life t-shirt and shorts weather at last, and none of that fucked up "it's 40 degrees and finally above freezing so I'm wearin' a tank-top" type of shit that happens in towns with five-month winters. It couldn't've happened at a better time, as today is my sched-flexing half-a-day, when I whisk outta here at noon to go do the radio nonsense. Normally I head straight to Allsto and eat some pancakes and buy some comics, but today I might pop off at the park and see what's happening at the common. I imagine what's happening will be Irish kids trying to sell me roasted peanuts, and besuited business dudes eating hot-dogs on park benches whilst homeless folk lay passed-out face-down on the grass not twenty feet away. And also a bountiful bonanza of sack-hackin'. Hair flowing in the breeze and flowers engulfing all o' creation and such shit. Spring's here finally, and that's about the only thing that can keep me away from my pancakes.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
more on the mp3 page
Okay, Emerson posted an update on the mp3 page a couple days ago, and I did a very minor redesign this afternoon, so maybe you'll want to go take a quick gander. I hope to have another post up tonight or tomorrow.
Also, if anybody with any design skills wants to make up a logo for that page, we'd be very appreciative. Very appreciative.
Okay, Emerson posted an update on the mp3 page a couple days ago, and I did a very minor redesign this afternoon, so maybe you'll want to go take a quick gander. I hope to have another post up tonight or tomorrow.
Also, if anybody with any design skills wants to make up a logo for that page, we'd be very appreciative. Very appreciative.
for the last time
So for the first time a song has reached the top of the UK charts due to on-line sales. That song? "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley, which of course is a project coordinated by former WUOG dj Brian "Danger Mouse" Burton. That guy used to answer the phones for us on Head to Head sometimes, and now he's some sort of superstar, or something.
Alright, so this is it: short of becoming president (or assassinating him, or erecting a bridge using nothing but willpower, or something), nothing Burton does in the future will lead to any special notice on this website. Not that his success isn't awesome and entirely well-deserved; it's just that I for some reason have felt the need to mention that he used to dj after our stupid unfunny comedy show every single time I hear of whatever new, exciting, amazing thing he's doing. It's getting old, and so it stops now. Thanks.
So for the first time a song has reached the top of the UK charts due to on-line sales. That song? "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley, which of course is a project coordinated by former WUOG dj Brian "Danger Mouse" Burton. That guy used to answer the phones for us on Head to Head sometimes, and now he's some sort of superstar, or something.
Alright, so this is it: short of becoming president (or assassinating him, or erecting a bridge using nothing but willpower, or something), nothing Burton does in the future will lead to any special notice on this website. Not that his success isn't awesome and entirely well-deserved; it's just that I for some reason have felt the need to mention that he used to dj after our stupid unfunny comedy show every single time I hear of whatever new, exciting, amazing thing he's doing. It's getting old, and so it stops now. Thanks.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
holy hell, an extension update
Emerson put a new post up on the mp3 extension last night. It's a good one. Hopefully I'll stop being the laziest man alive and get some more posts up this week. We're also redesigning that site, too, so please excuse its current blandness.
Emerson put a new post up on the mp3 extension last night. It's a good one. Hopefully I'll stop being the laziest man alive and get some more posts up this week. We're also redesigning that site, too, so please excuse its current blandness.
reading your own reviews
Former Liberian president/dictator Charles Taylor has disappeared from his compound in Nigeria, where he's lived in exile since 2003. Over the weekend Nigeria agreed to hand him over to Libera so he could face a war crimes tribunal. This all comes hot on the heels of Jon Lee Anderson's recent New Yorker profile of Liberia's recently elected president Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, who, at the time of Anderson's writing, had yet to call for Taylor's extradition back to Liberia.
From Anderson's article in last week's New Yorker:
Makes you wonder: if Anderson hadn't mentioned this aspect of the commission's charge, would Taylor have fled extradition to Liberia? Do deposed African despots regularly read the New Yorker, or only their own notices?
Former Liberian president/dictator Charles Taylor has disappeared from his compound in Nigeria, where he's lived in exile since 2003. Over the weekend Nigeria agreed to hand him over to Libera so he could face a war crimes tribunal. This all comes hot on the heels of Jon Lee Anderson's recent New Yorker profile of Liberia's recently elected president Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, who, at the time of Anderson's writing, had yet to call for Taylor's extradition back to Liberia.
From Anderson's article in last week's New Yorker:
"The ceasefire agreement provided for a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to look into war crimes. When Johnson Sirleaf speaks about the commission, she conspicuously avoids mentioning that it has the power to recommend criminal prosecutions - a fact that is not yet widely known in Libera. When I talk to politicians with ties to Taylor, it was clear that they believed the commission would instead amount to a kind of public exorcism, in which people would own up to what they had done and be pardoned."
Makes you wonder: if Anderson hadn't mentioned this aspect of the commission's charge, would Taylor have fled extradition to Liberia? Do deposed African despots regularly read the New Yorker, or only their own notices?
so that's pretty much it for Arrested Development, then
Things were looking good on the Showtime front, but now creator / showrunner Mitch Hurwitz has decided he won't be returning. Showtime had said previously that any deal hinged on Hurwitz remaining. Episodes without Hurwitz's involvment are not just unlikely but also probably unnecessary. The prospect of new episodes has always been a nice thought, but that Friday night block in February felt so final, and offered enough closure, that I'm now mostly fine with the show's demise. Still sucks, yeah, but it was great while it lasted.
Things were looking good on the Showtime front, but now creator / showrunner Mitch Hurwitz has decided he won't be returning. Showtime had said previously that any deal hinged on Hurwitz remaining. Episodes without Hurwitz's involvment are not just unlikely but also probably unnecessary. The prospect of new episodes has always been a nice thought, but that Friday night block in February felt so final, and offered enough closure, that I'm now mostly fine with the show's demise. Still sucks, yeah, but it was great while it lasted.
I bought this shit
LOOK AT THIS COVER. Yes, it is awesome. Yes, it demands attention. And yes, whatever music contained within must be worth $4.99 (plus 7% tax). So I bought it last night. And listened to it later last night. And enjoyed it last night at the exact same time in which I was listening to it. Enjoyment concurrent to listening. That's pleasant. But so, it's kinda heavy, late '60's, acidy blues-rock, not too far off from Iron Butterfly, which is rather common-sensical, since Butterfly guitarist Danny Weiss is/was a member. It ain't as extreme as Blue Cheer, or as sludgical as Vanilla Fudge, but if you're looking for some hard spectral jammin' and stuff that sounds sorta slightly like "Frankenstein", then this Rhino's worth "horning" in to your collection, HAHAHA!
Also purchased The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter, by the Incredible String Band. This is the fourth record I've bought by these enthusiastic beard-growers, the first in five years, and after two halves of a listen I feel confident in calling it the best that I've heard. I've always sorta liked what I've had, but not emphatically, and felt it mostly kind of slight and flighty. Lacking in substance, you know? But I'm thinking perhaps I didn't buy the right stuff, as previous acquisitions were based exclusively on cheapness and not research. Like, oh, Incredible String Band live for a buck. Or Hard Rope and Silken Twine for $2.99. Etc. And both of those are okay, but not revelatory. I wouldn't call Hagman's Beautiful Daughter a revelation, really, but the first side, which I spun twice last night, is far more transfixing than I Looked Up, right? Whereas that and Silken Twine are nice, if not lively, recreations of old folk tunes, there's this weird gauzy atmosphere surrounding Daughter that imbues these songs with a degree of odd other-worldliness, like that sort of chimey, gossamer drone you hear on Animal Collective's Campefire Songs or in the Charalambides. I listened to side one twice without ever flipping it over, it was so engrossing. It's a good thing to listen to while reading Doctor Strange, too.
In additionally, I grabbed the Newmster's Good Old Boys for a buck. It's great, for sure. For sure 'cuz I haven't listened to it yet. But I am doubtless. Randy Newman shines immaculately, impeccably, and eternally.
LOOK AT THIS COVER. Yes, it is awesome. Yes, it demands attention. And yes, whatever music contained within must be worth $4.99 (plus 7% tax). So I bought it last night. And listened to it later last night. And enjoyed it last night at the exact same time in which I was listening to it. Enjoyment concurrent to listening. That's pleasant. But so, it's kinda heavy, late '60's, acidy blues-rock, not too far off from Iron Butterfly, which is rather common-sensical, since Butterfly guitarist Danny Weiss is/was a member. It ain't as extreme as Blue Cheer, or as sludgical as Vanilla Fudge, but if you're looking for some hard spectral jammin' and stuff that sounds sorta slightly like "Frankenstein", then this Rhino's worth "horning" in to your collection, HAHAHA!
Also purchased The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter, by the Incredible String Band. This is the fourth record I've bought by these enthusiastic beard-growers, the first in five years, and after two halves of a listen I feel confident in calling it the best that I've heard. I've always sorta liked what I've had, but not emphatically, and felt it mostly kind of slight and flighty. Lacking in substance, you know? But I'm thinking perhaps I didn't buy the right stuff, as previous acquisitions were based exclusively on cheapness and not research. Like, oh, Incredible String Band live for a buck. Or Hard Rope and Silken Twine for $2.99. Etc. And both of those are okay, but not revelatory. I wouldn't call Hagman's Beautiful Daughter a revelation, really, but the first side, which I spun twice last night, is far more transfixing than I Looked Up, right? Whereas that and Silken Twine are nice, if not lively, recreations of old folk tunes, there's this weird gauzy atmosphere surrounding Daughter that imbues these songs with a degree of odd other-worldliness, like that sort of chimey, gossamer drone you hear on Animal Collective's Campefire Songs or in the Charalambides. I listened to side one twice without ever flipping it over, it was so engrossing. It's a good thing to listen to while reading Doctor Strange, too.
In additionally, I grabbed the Newmster's Good Old Boys for a buck. It's great, for sure. For sure 'cuz I haven't listened to it yet. But I am doubtless. Randy Newman shines immaculately, impeccably, and eternally.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Enjoyable Bidness: Four Things I Liked
In the world of cinema, there exists a film called V For Vendetta, which is quite well-versed at exceeding expectations. Based on the highly regarded comic book that I read four issues of at work last week, Vendetta totally sounded like something I'd fuckin' detest as fervently as possible. Why, you say? Well 'cuz every other adaptation of an Alan Moore (not my wife, the other one) comic has sucked awesomely, and 'cuz them Wachowski Bros are supreme shit-merchants of this careless digital age. Also early script snippets I read on-line were miserable, too. But so the finished product ain't too bad, really, and is actually fairly good. It looks amazing, the acting is generally fine, and the central theme of the comic wasn't fucked with too egregiously. The big bang at the end was maybe a bit too self-indulgently action film-esque, and added little to the resolution other than that visceral fist-pumping, they-blowed-it-up-quite-good moment that was no doubt mandated and stipulated by producer Joel "not-Ron" Silver. And the case can be made that, if the culture being saved and preserved is typified by Cat Power and Antony and the Johnsons, then perhaps fascist totalitarian dictatorships ain't so bad afterall. Still, an enjoyable romp with just a little bit more behind it than most action flicks, but still suitably idiotic and addle-brained enough to entertain intellectually inert dumbasses like me.
Moving on to the tv. Not a hi-def tv, unfortunately, but tv nonetheless. Last night's Gervais-written ep. of the Simpsons was sterling. Not a classic, or anything, but definitely a highlight of the last eight or so seasons. Granted the funniest bits were Gervais basically being himself and/or David Brent, but there was enough good stuff happening outside of (and in addition to) the Gervaisity that this episode was easily approaching a level approaching greatness. A fine half-hour well-spent.
Musically, I gotta strongly recommend the new album from Parts and Labor, entitled Stay Afraid. It comes out on Brah/Jagjaguwar sometime in the next coupla weeks. These dudes have been thrilling me constantly for a couple years now, and with Stay Afraid said thrills might just be fuckin' lethal. If you think Trans Am would be better served by rockin' out full-force 100% of the time, you might dig Parts and Labor. The kid at the station what reviewed the album compared 'em to Husker Du, which really ain't right at all, exceptin' the similarity in energy levels and general rambunctiousness. I don't get any pissed feeilng from P&L, though, whereas that was like 90% of the Husker Doeuvre.
Finally, in regard to comic books, that most noble and agreeable of human communication, let us discuss the sheer beauteousness of Frank Espinosa's Rocketo. The story ain't so hot, really, and it often reads like an awkward translation from a foreign language (it most assuredly ain't), but the art's just so god-damned beatiful that I can't muster the nerve to knock it. The whole island-hopping, a-venturin'-we-go milieu is fine and intriguing, but the dialogue is almost always kinda weird and stilted, and the typos fly as often as Spiro Turnstiles' fists. Still, the rich, startlingly kinetic drawings more than split the difference. Borrow some dude's copy and take a quick gander, it's well worth it.
In the world of cinema, there exists a film called V For Vendetta, which is quite well-versed at exceeding expectations. Based on the highly regarded comic book that I read four issues of at work last week, Vendetta totally sounded like something I'd fuckin' detest as fervently as possible. Why, you say? Well 'cuz every other adaptation of an Alan Moore (not my wife, the other one) comic has sucked awesomely, and 'cuz them Wachowski Bros are supreme shit-merchants of this careless digital age. Also early script snippets I read on-line were miserable, too. But so the finished product ain't too bad, really, and is actually fairly good. It looks amazing, the acting is generally fine, and the central theme of the comic wasn't fucked with too egregiously. The big bang at the end was maybe a bit too self-indulgently action film-esque, and added little to the resolution other than that visceral fist-pumping, they-blowed-it-up-quite-good moment that was no doubt mandated and stipulated by producer Joel "not-Ron" Silver. And the case can be made that, if the culture being saved and preserved is typified by Cat Power and Antony and the Johnsons, then perhaps fascist totalitarian dictatorships ain't so bad afterall. Still, an enjoyable romp with just a little bit more behind it than most action flicks, but still suitably idiotic and addle-brained enough to entertain intellectually inert dumbasses like me.
Moving on to the tv. Not a hi-def tv, unfortunately, but tv nonetheless. Last night's Gervais-written ep. of the Simpsons was sterling. Not a classic, or anything, but definitely a highlight of the last eight or so seasons. Granted the funniest bits were Gervais basically being himself and/or David Brent, but there was enough good stuff happening outside of (and in addition to) the Gervaisity that this episode was easily approaching a level approaching greatness. A fine half-hour well-spent.
Musically, I gotta strongly recommend the new album from Parts and Labor, entitled Stay Afraid. It comes out on Brah/Jagjaguwar sometime in the next coupla weeks. These dudes have been thrilling me constantly for a couple years now, and with Stay Afraid said thrills might just be fuckin' lethal. If you think Trans Am would be better served by rockin' out full-force 100% of the time, you might dig Parts and Labor. The kid at the station what reviewed the album compared 'em to Husker Du, which really ain't right at all, exceptin' the similarity in energy levels and general rambunctiousness. I don't get any pissed feeilng from P&L, though, whereas that was like 90% of the Husker Doeuvre.
Finally, in regard to comic books, that most noble and agreeable of human communication, let us discuss the sheer beauteousness of Frank Espinosa's Rocketo. The story ain't so hot, really, and it often reads like an awkward translation from a foreign language (it most assuredly ain't), but the art's just so god-damned beatiful that I can't muster the nerve to knock it. The whole island-hopping, a-venturin'-we-go milieu is fine and intriguing, but the dialogue is almost always kinda weird and stilted, and the typos fly as often as Spiro Turnstiles' fists. Still, the rich, startlingly kinetic drawings more than split the difference. Borrow some dude's copy and take a quick gander, it's well worth it.
OSIS
9th Wonder at Lenox Mall on Saturday afternoon.
Walking around with his crew. Dude is tall as shit - easily 6' 5".
Dressed down in jeans and a nike jacket and shoes. Nobody really noticed him but he had like 5 guys with him so I was too intimidated to talk to him.
Dont know what is up with him and Little Brother - read somewhere that he was MIA for their tour. His most recent project was the MURS & 9th WONDER record that is supposed to be great.
9th Wonder at Lenox Mall on Saturday afternoon.
Walking around with his crew. Dude is tall as shit - easily 6' 5".
Dressed down in jeans and a nike jacket and shoes. Nobody really noticed him but he had like 5 guys with him so I was too intimidated to talk to him.
Dont know what is up with him and Little Brother - read somewhere that he was MIA for their tour. His most recent project was the MURS & 9th WONDER record that is supposed to be great.
apparently Nikki Sudden died over the weekend.
Which is really pretty awful. Here's a thread at ILM that seems believable enough. I've never heard much of his solo stuff, but those Swell Maps albums are awesome.
Didn't Griggs play drums with him at some point last year?
UPDATE: Here's Billboard's obituary.
Which is really pretty awful. Here's a thread at ILM that seems believable enough. I've never heard much of his solo stuff, but those Swell Maps albums are awesome.
Didn't Griggs play drums with him at some point last year?
UPDATE: Here's Billboard's obituary.
and now I bore you to death with fantasy baseball junk
Here's one hell of a useless post. I had three drafts this weekend. I let the computer draft 70% of one team, but the other two drafts were all me. Here's what I got:
IMPLEMENTATION FORCE (Baseball Moguls of America; two keepers, five franchisers)
C: Kenji Johjima
1B: Paul Konkero
2B: Chone Figgens +
3B: David Wright +
SS: Bobby Crosby +
OF: Bobby Abreu *
OF: Brian Giles
OF: Aubrey Huff
UT: Magglio Ordonez
BN: Mike Jacobs
BN: Ryan Doumit
BN: Ronny Cedeno
BN: Bill Mueller
BN: Alexis Rios
SP: Johan Santana +
SP: Pedro Martinez *
SP: Rich Harden +
SP: Brad Radke
SP: David Bush
RP: Derrick Turnbow
RP: Duaner Sanchez
RP: Todd Coffey
P: Aaron Heilman
P: Fernando Rodney
P: Oscar Villarreal
ARMY PARTY (AD&D Baseball 3rd Ed.; two keepers)
C: Brian McCann
1B: Richie Sexson
2B: Brian Roberts
3B: Eric Chavez
SS: JJ Hardy
OF: Aubrey Huff
OF: JD Drew
OF: Jermaine Dye
UT: Curtis Granderson
BN: Trot Nixon
BN: Wily Mo Pena
BN: Orlando Hudson
BN: Ryan Doumit
BN: Ronny Cedeno
SP: Johan Santana *
SP: Carlos Zambrano *
SP: Chris Carpenter
SP: Jose Contreras
RP: Eric Gagne
RP: Bob Wickman
P: Derek Lowe
P: David Bush
P: Oscar Villarreal
P: Vicente Padilla
CHOCOLATE KUEGELHOPF (I Love Baseball 2006) (mostly autodraft)
C: Brian McCann
1B: Prince Fielder
2B: Felipe Lopez
3B: Morgan Ensberg
SS: Omar Vizquel
OF: Brian Giles
OF: Pat Burrell
OF: Magglio Ordonez
UT: Travis Hafner
BN: Casey Kotchman
BN: Craig Wilson
BN: Stephen Drew
BN: Connor Jackson
SP: Roy Oswalt
SP: Ervin Santana
RP: Ambiorix Burgos
RP: David Weathers
P: Derek Lowe
P: David Bush
P: Jon Papelbon
P: Blaine Boyer
*: keeper
+: franchiser (player acquired with rookie eligibility)
As you can see, I'm a firm believer in David Bush.
Here's one hell of a useless post. I had three drafts this weekend. I let the computer draft 70% of one team, but the other two drafts were all me. Here's what I got:
IMPLEMENTATION FORCE (Baseball Moguls of America; two keepers, five franchisers)
C: Kenji Johjima
1B: Paul Konkero
2B: Chone Figgens +
3B: David Wright +
SS: Bobby Crosby +
OF: Bobby Abreu *
OF: Brian Giles
OF: Aubrey Huff
UT: Magglio Ordonez
BN: Mike Jacobs
BN: Ryan Doumit
BN: Ronny Cedeno
BN: Bill Mueller
BN: Alexis Rios
SP: Johan Santana +
SP: Pedro Martinez *
SP: Rich Harden +
SP: Brad Radke
SP: David Bush
RP: Derrick Turnbow
RP: Duaner Sanchez
RP: Todd Coffey
P: Aaron Heilman
P: Fernando Rodney
P: Oscar Villarreal
ARMY PARTY (AD&D Baseball 3rd Ed.; two keepers)
C: Brian McCann
1B: Richie Sexson
2B: Brian Roberts
3B: Eric Chavez
SS: JJ Hardy
OF: Aubrey Huff
OF: JD Drew
OF: Jermaine Dye
UT: Curtis Granderson
BN: Trot Nixon
BN: Wily Mo Pena
BN: Orlando Hudson
BN: Ryan Doumit
BN: Ronny Cedeno
SP: Johan Santana *
SP: Carlos Zambrano *
SP: Chris Carpenter
SP: Jose Contreras
RP: Eric Gagne
RP: Bob Wickman
P: Derek Lowe
P: David Bush
P: Oscar Villarreal
P: Vicente Padilla
CHOCOLATE KUEGELHOPF (I Love Baseball 2006) (mostly autodraft)
C: Brian McCann
1B: Prince Fielder
2B: Felipe Lopez
3B: Morgan Ensberg
SS: Omar Vizquel
OF: Brian Giles
OF: Pat Burrell
OF: Magglio Ordonez
UT: Travis Hafner
BN: Casey Kotchman
BN: Craig Wilson
BN: Stephen Drew
BN: Connor Jackson
SP: Roy Oswalt
SP: Ervin Santana
RP: Ambiorix Burgos
RP: David Weathers
P: Derek Lowe
P: David Bush
P: Jon Papelbon
P: Blaine Boyer
*: keeper
+: franchiser (player acquired with rookie eligibility)
As you can see, I'm a firm believer in David Bush.
Friday, March 24, 2006
radiooidar
Okay, you know the drill: Mesmerization Eclipse on WZBC 90.3 FM, today from 3 to 5 pm.
There'll be tons o' great stuff from folks like Magma, Henry Cow, Endless Boogie, new Young People, Portastatic, etc., etc. Typical shit from this old asshole. Wait, I didn't mean that in a gross way.
I might also talk about why this new comic book I bought today is perhaps the absolute worst thing ever created by mankind. And yes, I'm talking about Vandal Savage's pony-tail.
Okay, you know the drill: Mesmerization Eclipse on WZBC 90.3 FM, today from 3 to 5 pm.
There'll be tons o' great stuff from folks like Magma, Henry Cow, Endless Boogie, new Young People, Portastatic, etc., etc. Typical shit from this old asshole. Wait, I didn't mean that in a gross way.
I might also talk about why this new comic book I bought today is perhaps the absolute worst thing ever created by mankind. And yes, I'm talking about Vandal Savage's pony-tail.
finger pointing
As in we'll show you the way.
Ice wrote a new unrealized script. I helped out a little bit. You can read it at Unrealized Scripts. Neither of us have seen Crash.
Also, until DJ gets his review up, you can read my thoughts on the new Liars album in this week's issue of the Flagpole. It's probably better than I make it sound.
Finally, I ain't up on my Gerber enough to write a Howard the Duck, but I did just buy his last twelve or so issues of The Defenders on eBay last night. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.
As in we'll show you the way.
Ice wrote a new unrealized script. I helped out a little bit. You can read it at Unrealized Scripts. Neither of us have seen Crash.
Also, until DJ gets his review up, you can read my thoughts on the new Liars album in this week's issue of the Flagpole. It's probably better than I make it sound.
Finally, I ain't up on my Gerber enough to write a Howard the Duck, but I did just buy his last twelve or so issues of The Defenders on eBay last night. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Yeah we suck...
...and havent gotten anything up in several days.
Good things coming next week:
Tons of record reviews (New Liars, Loose Fur, Wooden Wand...)
Hot Tub News
Dark's script for Howard The Duck 2: Can I Get On The BILL?
Until then enjoy some Snakes On A Plane fun...thanks to LD for showing us the way...
Trailer
http://www.snakesonablog.com/
...and havent gotten anything up in several days.
Good things coming next week:
Tons of record reviews (New Liars, Loose Fur, Wooden Wand...)
Hot Tub News
Dark's script for Howard The Duck 2: Can I Get On The BILL?
Until then enjoy some Snakes On A Plane fun...thanks to LD for showing us the way...
Trailer
http://www.snakesonablog.com/
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Cool things this dual day break:
- Albany's lead increasing with every Jager I ordered.
- Buying wedding rings and not getting cattle prodded
- Strong margaritas made without a mix
- Hanging with Lord and Dutchess Douche
- Taking a ride of wonderment in the Dutchess' space machine
- Havana Restaurant - some of the best Cuban in ATL.
- V For Vendetta - it has its faults but overall I enjoyed myself a lot
- Animal Collective - High School night at the concert everyone! I should probably have a completely different section of "Suck ass things that happened this dual day break:" and have it be completely dominated by the two ass lickers that just happened to park themselves next to us at the show. Before I get into it - let me say that Animal Collective were fucking great. As we left we were debating whether that may have even been better than the first time we saw em.
Ok so these fuckshits - two of them - of course were THE BIGGEST HUGEST ANIMAL COLLECTIVE FANS - OH MY GOD! First one was this 4 ft. red headed whoremonger who was trippin balls, man. We were in the back at the Variety and against the railing of those little areas that are blocked off so people can stand and be above the floor. Well because her dwarf ass legs were so short her fucking face was right behind mine and Bobby's heads. After hearing her scream SCREAM about how excellent the klezmer-ish opening band was totally "world music and awesome" we knew we were in for a long night after the next quote (mind you right as AC was getting on stage and warmed up with some atmospheric noise stuff): "OH MY GOD MY TRIP IS TOTALLY KICKIN IN RIGHT NOW!!" The midge proceeded to not only talk through the entire show but also do shit like scream at her non-existent friends throughout the crowd in front of us. What she forgot was that first off no one was friends with her leprechaun ass and secondly the people she came with were standing right next to her. So shit like this would happen in the middle of one of the most quiet portions of the show:
"ENRIQUE! ENRIQUE!! HEY ENRIQUE!!! TURN AROUND!!!"
(Tap the me and the dude next to me on the shoulder)
"HEY WILL YOU TAP MY FRIEND ENRIQUE ON THE SHOULDER HE IS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU! ENRIQUE!"
(Dude taps the guy in front of him who obviously has heard the barking) - "Look, I'm not Enrique [you tensy nugget]" added by editor
"OH THATS NOT ENRIQUE (turns to person next to her) THATS NOT MY FRIEND ENRIQUE! DAMN, YOU WOULD HAVE LIKED THE WAY HE DANCES. HE'S A DANCER!"
"MIKE! MIKE! HEY MIKE TURN AROUND...."
So yeah I wanted to German suplex her dumb ass. The other perpetrator was the Anti-Phil Horan. Within the first song he had his shirt off and was thrashing like he was at a Slayer concert. Remember - AC started out really slow on Sunday - creeping to a crawl with a open chord dronier thing. THRASHING! THRASHING! WHIPPING FACE AND HEAD SO SWEAT GOES ON THE PUSSIES NEXT TO ME WHO DON'T KNOW THE EMOTIONAL POWER OF THE COLLECTIVE AND HOW IT EMBODIES MY RIFFS! Suck my dicks asshole. This guy was a meathead locked in a twerp's body. At one point he was so fired up that he grabbed the girl he was with - this slovenly hunched over depressed girl - and body slammed her. So forcefully that I really wondered if anyone else saw that and if we should beat this dude's ass for beating on a female.
Why didnt we move, we did but it was so packed in there that moving meant 2 feet. About halfway through the show I had tuned out diarrhea lips and closed my eyes so electric current up the snoot snout dancing dude didn't bother me and enjoyed the show. Believe it or not Animal Collective were so good - despite the annoyances (am I just turning into one of those crabby old dudes at shows, or have I embraced the truest sense of a BLOGGER BEING!) the music was engulfing and undeniably daring and fresh. Me and the boys toasted a few bottles of mini-champagne to a set that shifted between jubilation and terror. Warm and icy overtones. Drone and succinct jams. I left the last show having owned 4 albums by them and only recognized 2 songs all night - Sunday's show had more that one recognized but still was choc full of completely new material. I tried to find a set list online but I think with AC - a set list (if one exists) is a very loose fabric to follow. Which is what makes them - them.
- Albany's lead increasing with every Jager I ordered.
- Buying wedding rings and not getting cattle prodded
- Strong margaritas made without a mix
- Hanging with Lord and Dutchess Douche
- Taking a ride of wonderment in the Dutchess' space machine
- Havana Restaurant - some of the best Cuban in ATL.
- V For Vendetta - it has its faults but overall I enjoyed myself a lot
- Animal Collective - High School night at the concert everyone! I should probably have a completely different section of "Suck ass things that happened this dual day break:" and have it be completely dominated by the two ass lickers that just happened to park themselves next to us at the show. Before I get into it - let me say that Animal Collective were fucking great. As we left we were debating whether that may have even been better than the first time we saw em.
Ok so these fuckshits - two of them - of course were THE BIGGEST HUGEST ANIMAL COLLECTIVE FANS - OH MY GOD! First one was this 4 ft. red headed whoremonger who was trippin balls, man. We were in the back at the Variety and against the railing of those little areas that are blocked off so people can stand and be above the floor. Well because her dwarf ass legs were so short her fucking face was right behind mine and Bobby's heads. After hearing her scream SCREAM about how excellent the klezmer-ish opening band was totally "world music and awesome" we knew we were in for a long night after the next quote (mind you right as AC was getting on stage and warmed up with some atmospheric noise stuff): "OH MY GOD MY TRIP IS TOTALLY KICKIN IN RIGHT NOW!!" The midge proceeded to not only talk through the entire show but also do shit like scream at her non-existent friends throughout the crowd in front of us. What she forgot was that first off no one was friends with her leprechaun ass and secondly the people she came with were standing right next to her. So shit like this would happen in the middle of one of the most quiet portions of the show:
"ENRIQUE! ENRIQUE!! HEY ENRIQUE!!! TURN AROUND!!!"
(Tap the me and the dude next to me on the shoulder)
"HEY WILL YOU TAP MY FRIEND ENRIQUE ON THE SHOULDER HE IS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU! ENRIQUE!"
(Dude taps the guy in front of him who obviously has heard the barking) - "Look, I'm not Enrique [you tensy nugget]" added by editor
"OH THATS NOT ENRIQUE (turns to person next to her) THATS NOT MY FRIEND ENRIQUE! DAMN, YOU WOULD HAVE LIKED THE WAY HE DANCES. HE'S A DANCER!"
"MIKE! MIKE! HEY MIKE TURN AROUND...."
So yeah I wanted to German suplex her dumb ass. The other perpetrator was the Anti-Phil Horan. Within the first song he had his shirt off and was thrashing like he was at a Slayer concert. Remember - AC started out really slow on Sunday - creeping to a crawl with a open chord dronier thing. THRASHING! THRASHING! WHIPPING FACE AND HEAD SO SWEAT GOES ON THE PUSSIES NEXT TO ME WHO DON'T KNOW THE EMOTIONAL POWER OF THE COLLECTIVE AND HOW IT EMBODIES MY RIFFS! Suck my dicks asshole. This guy was a meathead locked in a twerp's body. At one point he was so fired up that he grabbed the girl he was with - this slovenly hunched over depressed girl - and body slammed her. So forcefully that I really wondered if anyone else saw that and if we should beat this dude's ass for beating on a female.
Why didnt we move, we did but it was so packed in there that moving meant 2 feet. About halfway through the show I had tuned out diarrhea lips and closed my eyes so electric current up the snoot snout dancing dude didn't bother me and enjoyed the show. Believe it or not Animal Collective were so good - despite the annoyances (am I just turning into one of those crabby old dudes at shows, or have I embraced the truest sense of a BLOGGER BEING!) the music was engulfing and undeniably daring and fresh. Me and the boys toasted a few bottles of mini-champagne to a set that shifted between jubilation and terror. Warm and icy overtones. Drone and succinct jams. I left the last show having owned 4 albums by them and only recognized 2 songs all night - Sunday's show had more that one recognized but still was choc full of completely new material. I tried to find a set list online but I think with AC - a set list (if one exists) is a very loose fabric to follow. Which is what makes them - them.
Monday, March 20, 2006
cinematic shit avalanche
We saw a movie for the first time ever this weekend. First time ever since November. In a theater. That time it was Walk the Line. This time it was CSA: Confederate States of America. One was good enough to win some amount of Oscars. One was good enough to not have any reason to exist whatsoever. If we were long-forgotten Arctic explorers just thawed out from suspended animation, or perhaps creatures from a world far beyond our comprehension, and CSA was the first movie we ever watched, we would probably want to kill the movies with our crazy alien death-rays and/or icepicks.
CSA is another nail in the coffin of the mockumentary. It's a satirical look at the history of an America in which the South won the civil war, which is not an inherently bad idea, or anything. Slavery was never abolished, we conquered South and Central America, we aligned with the Nazis during WWII, we Pearl Harbored Japan before they could do it to us, and now the American Empire is isolated from the rest of the world. Somehow the Cold War happened between us and Canada. Anyway, it's framed as a Ken Burns-style documentary, with frequent commercial breaks supplying the most blatant attempts at humor. Of course all the products advertised - Niggerhair Tobacco, Coon Chicken Inn, Darkie Toothpaste - were real products, in some cases still being manufactured and advertised up into the 1980's. So not only is the film something of a reminder that the Confederacy didn't exactly have morality and goodness watching their backs, but also that, even in the real and supposedly freedom-loving America, race relations have been all sorts of fucked since, like, forever.
And, okay, yeah, well, duh!
Or maybe not. The wife, who hated the film far more than I did, hadn't heard of any of the products before, and was slightly surprised by them. And it can be helpful to remind yourself every now and again that, yeah, shit really was fuckin' nuts for a long while, far more nutsier than the still-sorta-screwed today. But the whole message, and the way in which it was delivered, makes the film suitable more for high school underclassmen than the grown New England liberals it's being exhibited to. If you haven't realized that black-white relations in this country have been eternally fucked since day-minus-one by the time you're eighteen, something somewhere is horribly amiss.
But so, the movie is truly awful, regardless of its intent. Such heavy-handedness, and iron-willed, resolute ham-fistedness! Absolutely nothing is subtle about this film. Its humor basically bludgeons you down into a lump on the ground. And the production values are sub-high-school level. Seriously, Walton High School Video Productions could have made more professional looking fake advertisements back in 1992. The actors playing the talking heads in the body of the documentary are okay, but every other actor is awful. Combine that with the fact that Ken Burns parodies stopped being original and/or funny in like 1991, and you're left with a film so poorly conceived and contrived that it's really quite staggering. Seriously, avoid the hell out of this one, friends.
We saw a movie for the first time ever this weekend. First time ever since November. In a theater. That time it was Walk the Line. This time it was CSA: Confederate States of America. One was good enough to win some amount of Oscars. One was good enough to not have any reason to exist whatsoever. If we were long-forgotten Arctic explorers just thawed out from suspended animation, or perhaps creatures from a world far beyond our comprehension, and CSA was the first movie we ever watched, we would probably want to kill the movies with our crazy alien death-rays and/or icepicks.
CSA is another nail in the coffin of the mockumentary. It's a satirical look at the history of an America in which the South won the civil war, which is not an inherently bad idea, or anything. Slavery was never abolished, we conquered South and Central America, we aligned with the Nazis during WWII, we Pearl Harbored Japan before they could do it to us, and now the American Empire is isolated from the rest of the world. Somehow the Cold War happened between us and Canada. Anyway, it's framed as a Ken Burns-style documentary, with frequent commercial breaks supplying the most blatant attempts at humor. Of course all the products advertised - Niggerhair Tobacco, Coon Chicken Inn, Darkie Toothpaste - were real products, in some cases still being manufactured and advertised up into the 1980's. So not only is the film something of a reminder that the Confederacy didn't exactly have morality and goodness watching their backs, but also that, even in the real and supposedly freedom-loving America, race relations have been all sorts of fucked since, like, forever.
And, okay, yeah, well, duh!
Or maybe not. The wife, who hated the film far more than I did, hadn't heard of any of the products before, and was slightly surprised by them. And it can be helpful to remind yourself every now and again that, yeah, shit really was fuckin' nuts for a long while, far more nutsier than the still-sorta-screwed today. But the whole message, and the way in which it was delivered, makes the film suitable more for high school underclassmen than the grown New England liberals it's being exhibited to. If you haven't realized that black-white relations in this country have been eternally fucked since day-minus-one by the time you're eighteen, something somewhere is horribly amiss.
But so, the movie is truly awful, regardless of its intent. Such heavy-handedness, and iron-willed, resolute ham-fistedness! Absolutely nothing is subtle about this film. Its humor basically bludgeons you down into a lump on the ground. And the production values are sub-high-school level. Seriously, Walton High School Video Productions could have made more professional looking fake advertisements back in 1992. The actors playing the talking heads in the body of the documentary are okay, but every other actor is awful. Combine that with the fact that Ken Burns parodies stopped being original and/or funny in like 1991, and you're left with a film so poorly conceived and contrived that it's really quite staggering. Seriously, avoid the hell out of this one, friends.
Friday, March 17, 2006
the radio that was on the bump
Mesmerization Eclipse, WZBC, 3 to 5 pm.
Streams should be a-streamin'.
Mesmerization Eclipse, WZBC, 3 to 5 pm.
Streams should be a-streamin'.
The Greatest Phone Conversation OF ALL TIME
So my office within the past year moved into a new building and with that had to completely revamp our phone systems. In the 6 or so months that we have been working with these new phones - I will pick up a line to dial out and there will be another conversation going on, however no one from our office is in on the conversation. In the 3 times that this has happened to me it has all been conversations b/w associates of ours at other companies - I can hear them but they cant hear me. Before today all I heard was random talking about various office stuff and then 10 seconds later it disconnected.
Well today I picked up line 6 to call a colleague and was the third party to a "party line-ish" phone call involving 2 people that did not work for our company or any other company we do work with. After hearing it, I immediately typed it into Word (which was open on my desktop) because I figured no one would believe me. Below is that conversation, while no names were heard - I decided to imagine what their names would be to make it easier for the reader:
Pearcy : Effeminate black male
Kris : Wimpy sounding white male
Pearcy: I just felt it and it hurt.
Kris: What did?
P: The bump on my butt, it hurts.
K: Don't worry, it will be gone. Gone by the time I get home today.
P: I hope so, cause it hurts. I touched it.
K: Yeah it will, dont worry.
P: Cause yeah - I felt the hair.
K: The hair on the bump?
P: Yeah, the hair that was on the bump.
[CLICK - Disconnection]
So my office within the past year moved into a new building and with that had to completely revamp our phone systems. In the 6 or so months that we have been working with these new phones - I will pick up a line to dial out and there will be another conversation going on, however no one from our office is in on the conversation. In the 3 times that this has happened to me it has all been conversations b/w associates of ours at other companies - I can hear them but they cant hear me. Before today all I heard was random talking about various office stuff and then 10 seconds later it disconnected.
Well today I picked up line 6 to call a colleague and was the third party to a "party line-ish" phone call involving 2 people that did not work for our company or any other company we do work with. After hearing it, I immediately typed it into Word (which was open on my desktop) because I figured no one would believe me. Below is that conversation, while no names were heard - I decided to imagine what their names would be to make it easier for the reader:
Pearcy : Effeminate black male
Kris : Wimpy sounding white male
Pearcy: I just felt it and it hurt.
Kris: What did?
P: The bump on my butt, it hurts.
K: Don't worry, it will be gone. Gone by the time I get home today.
P: I hope so, cause it hurts. I touched it.
K: Yeah it will, dont worry.
P: Cause yeah - I felt the hair.
K: The hair on the bump?
P: Yeah, the hair that was on the bump.
[CLICK - Disconnection]
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
IS IT LIVE???
...or is it DEAD? Dark, LD and I knew some kid from high school who used to wear that shirt every fucking day to school. Anyways - found a really fucking cool website today with live footage from all your favorite freaks. Also attention to all you video IPOD HEADS!
Its called LIVE EYE - and essentially they run "episodes" with footage of various bands playing one song live.
Use the link and scroll down to stream and DOWNLOAD (ATTN IPOD HEADS!!!) clips from the following...
Wolf Eyes
Mission To Burma
Acid Mothers Temple
Comets On Fire
Friends Forever
Gang Gang Dance
...Plus - Kinski, Gris Gris, The Go! Team, Erase Errata, DKT/MC5, !!! to name a few.
THE ACID MOTHERS IS REALLY WHAT GOT ME HERE - 28 Minute vers of PINK LADY LEMONADE!
...or is it DEAD? Dark, LD and I knew some kid from high school who used to wear that shirt every fucking day to school. Anyways - found a really fucking cool website today with live footage from all your favorite freaks. Also attention to all you video IPOD HEADS!
Its called LIVE EYE - and essentially they run "episodes" with footage of various bands playing one song live.
Use the link and scroll down to stream and DOWNLOAD (ATTN IPOD HEADS!!!) clips from the following...
Wolf Eyes
Mission To Burma
Acid Mothers Temple
Comets On Fire
Friends Forever
Gang Gang Dance
...Plus - Kinski, Gris Gris, The Go! Team, Erase Errata, DKT/MC5, !!! to name a few.
THE ACID MOTHERS IS REALLY WHAT GOT ME HERE - 28 Minute vers of PINK LADY LEMONADE!
more huzzahs for mustachery
So, yes, this is total genius, and perhaps proof, once and for all, that LD does possess a more astounding brain than Joseph Abraham.
I fully endorse teamwide mustaching. Marcus Giles at least needs to grow one, if only in recompense for that horriffic thing he had growing on his chin a few years ago.
Speaking of Giles, does anybody else think he looks sort of like a real-life Rob Liefeld drawing?
So, yes, this is total genius, and perhaps proof, once and for all, that LD does possess a more astounding brain than Joseph Abraham.
I fully endorse teamwide mustaching. Marcus Giles at least needs to grow one, if only in recompense for that horriffic thing he had growing on his chin a few years ago.
Speaking of Giles, does anybody else think he looks sort of like a real-life Rob Liefeld drawing?
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
I put my Lance face on
... and now I am hopelessly confused.
I'm sorry, but what the fuck is this site all about, then?
Yeah, yeah, focused, dedicated, determined, dependable, etc., but I fail to see how creepy disembodied athlete heads will get me to give you my money, American Century Investment Services, Inc.
... and now I am hopelessly confused.
I'm sorry, but what the fuck is this site all about, then?
Yeah, yeah, focused, dedicated, determined, dependable, etc., but I fail to see how creepy disembodied athlete heads will get me to give you my money, American Century Investment Services, Inc.
Monday, March 13, 2006
The Hangover Jews II
UPDATE:
I'm in a battle of the minds with some bitchy lady who went to see the Jews on Friday and thought it was shit. Funny LADY!
UPDATE:
I'm in a battle of the minds with some bitchy lady who went to see the Jews on Friday and thought it was shit. Funny LADY!
The Hangover Jews
Silver Jews
Friday Mar 10, 2006
40 Watt
Random Rules
Smith and Jones Forever
I'm Getting Back Into Getting Back Into You
Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed
Trains Across the Sea
New Orleans
How Can I Love You (If You Won't Lie Down)
Inside the Golden Days of Missing You
Dallas
Horseleg Swastikas
Sleeping is the Only Love
Slow Education
Punks in the Beerlight
I Loved Them Every One (TG Sheppard cover)
ENCORE:
Buckingham Rabbit
All i have to say about this show is that I was so hungover that I missed the Saturday show at the EARL (which I had tix for). Crox and I decided to turn a up a few of the Ol' Kentucky Gold. I mean we had to, it was a great night (props to Beers for dealing with our sensibilities. DC was in classic form on Friday - he had the crowd rolling most of the show. Im sure he and Bob (and Westy) would have been proud of our Osama thrash, and my reason for missing the second night. Found the setlist to the ATL show only 3 differences...Black and Brown Blues, The Poor The Fair And the Good, & How To Rent A Room.
Some cool dude has posted MP3s of both shows. They are huge files, but worth the download.
"In 27 years, I've drank 50,000 beers..."
Silver Jews
Friday Mar 10, 2006
40 Watt
Random Rules
Smith and Jones Forever
I'm Getting Back Into Getting Back Into You
Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed
Trains Across the Sea
New Orleans
How Can I Love You (If You Won't Lie Down)
Inside the Golden Days of Missing You
Dallas
Horseleg Swastikas
Sleeping is the Only Love
Slow Education
Punks in the Beerlight
I Loved Them Every One (TG Sheppard cover)
ENCORE:
Buckingham Rabbit
All i have to say about this show is that I was so hungover that I missed the Saturday show at the EARL (which I had tix for). Crox and I decided to turn a up a few of the Ol' Kentucky Gold. I mean we had to, it was a great night (props to Beers for dealing with our sensibilities. DC was in classic form on Friday - he had the crowd rolling most of the show. Im sure he and Bob (and Westy) would have been proud of our Osama thrash, and my reason for missing the second night. Found the setlist to the ATL show only 3 differences...Black and Brown Blues, The Poor The Fair And the Good, & How To Rent A Room.
Some cool dude has posted MP3s of both shows. They are huge files, but worth the download.
"In 27 years, I've drank 50,000 beers..."
Friday, March 10, 2006
On A Private Beach In Michigan
Wilco
Athens, GA
3.09.06
Classic Center
The Late Greats
Handshake Drugs
I'm Trying to Break Your Heart
Forget the Flowers
One by One
AT Least That's What You Said
Jesus Etc.
Hummingbird
Theologians
I'm Always In Love
In A Future Age
The Good Part
Walken
I'm The Man Who Loves You
Poor Places
A Shot in The Arm
Encore:
Maybe The Sun Will Shine Today (new song)
Passenger Side
War On War
Heavy Metal Drummer
Kingpin
Finale:
Spiders (Kidsmoke)
Woah, damage control. It's somewhat bullshit when you catch a band this talented live. Also, while they are completely still in their prime. It makes you feel worthless relatively quickly. That being said - Wilco destroyed last night. And while that not be much of a surprise, what always shocks me about them is how effortless it seems to produce gold like that. Is that how I start out every review of a live show i like?
This was the second time I've seen em, not much. When I saw them the first time I remember leaving thinking I wished that is how every band put on a show. Played their songs, played the songs the cowd wanted to hear, but also used the live arena to morph the songs into completely new entities. Change the sound, change the approach, everything. They did that again last night, and with their addition of Nels Cline they are on a new plane of existence.
One of my favorite things about A Ghost Is Born is the massive sonic step up they took - even from YHF. This record incorporates all the things you love about Wilco plus huge fucking guitars, feedback, annihilated solos, skewed sounds essentially. While Nels didnt play on AGIB - live they had to get him to pull some of the stuff off. This guy holds his own in the ranks of the improvisation elite. (Just got a copy of the "4 Guitars Live" with him Lee Ranaldo/Carlos Giffoni/Thurston Moore - a beast of a noise exploration) Now Wilco adds him as ultimate shreader. Get your ass absolutely kicked on songs like "At Least That's What You Said" and "The Late Greats".
The setlist was great I thought. The crowd seemed to get bored with it at times but mainly those were the trust funders who were there b/c they heard about em at Bonnarro. But you know what, whatever, they were drunk and having fun so thats cool. Wilco touched on almost every album at this show and it definitely compared to the colossal first time they played at le Classic Ctr:
War On War / Sunken Treasure / I Am Trying To Break Your Heart / Kamera / Radio Cure / Shot In the Arm / How To Fight Loneliness / Not For The Season / Jesus, Etc / Heavy Metal Drummer / Pot Kettle Black / Red-Eyed & Blue / I Got You / I'm the Man who Loves You / Poor Places / Reservations // Encore 1: Hesitating Beauty / One By One / California Stars // Encore 2: I'm a Wheel / Passenger Side / Casino Queen / Outta Site / Misunderstood
(doubles in bold)
Best part of the night for me was Spiders as the closer. I was sure the show was over after the Encore because it was pushing 11 (classic limit). Fuck naw, they came out one by one and cranked up the kraut as hell deep ass groove jam sesh. Easily over 10 minute ending. Wilco is truly a prized American treasure.
Thanks to Thorn for the rememory.
Wilco
Athens, GA
3.09.06
Classic Center
The Late Greats
Handshake Drugs
I'm Trying to Break Your Heart
Forget the Flowers
One by One
AT Least That's What You Said
Jesus Etc.
Hummingbird
Theologians
I'm Always In Love
In A Future Age
The Good Part
Walken
I'm The Man Who Loves You
Poor Places
A Shot in The Arm
Encore:
Maybe The Sun Will Shine Today (new song)
Passenger Side
War On War
Heavy Metal Drummer
Kingpin
Finale:
Spiders (Kidsmoke)
Woah, damage control. It's somewhat bullshit when you catch a band this talented live. Also, while they are completely still in their prime. It makes you feel worthless relatively quickly. That being said - Wilco destroyed last night. And while that not be much of a surprise, what always shocks me about them is how effortless it seems to produce gold like that. Is that how I start out every review of a live show i like?
This was the second time I've seen em, not much. When I saw them the first time I remember leaving thinking I wished that is how every band put on a show. Played their songs, played the songs the cowd wanted to hear, but also used the live arena to morph the songs into completely new entities. Change the sound, change the approach, everything. They did that again last night, and with their addition of Nels Cline they are on a new plane of existence.
One of my favorite things about A Ghost Is Born is the massive sonic step up they took - even from YHF. This record incorporates all the things you love about Wilco plus huge fucking guitars, feedback, annihilated solos, skewed sounds essentially. While Nels didnt play on AGIB - live they had to get him to pull some of the stuff off. This guy holds his own in the ranks of the improvisation elite. (Just got a copy of the "4 Guitars Live" with him Lee Ranaldo/Carlos Giffoni/Thurston Moore - a beast of a noise exploration) Now Wilco adds him as ultimate shreader. Get your ass absolutely kicked on songs like "At Least That's What You Said" and "The Late Greats".
The setlist was great I thought. The crowd seemed to get bored with it at times but mainly those were the trust funders who were there b/c they heard about em at Bonnarro. But you know what, whatever, they were drunk and having fun so thats cool. Wilco touched on almost every album at this show and it definitely compared to the colossal first time they played at le Classic Ctr:
War On War / Sunken Treasure / I Am Trying To Break Your Heart / Kamera / Radio Cure / Shot In the Arm / How To Fight Loneliness / Not For The Season / Jesus, Etc / Heavy Metal Drummer / Pot Kettle Black / Red-Eyed & Blue / I Got You / I'm the Man who Loves You / Poor Places / Reservations // Encore 1: Hesitating Beauty / One By One / California Stars // Encore 2: I'm a Wheel / Passenger Side / Casino Queen / Outta Site / Misunderstood
(doubles in bold)
Best part of the night for me was Spiders as the closer. I was sure the show was over after the Encore because it was pushing 11 (classic limit). Fuck naw, they came out one by one and cranked up the kraut as hell deep ass groove jam sesh. Easily over 10 minute ending. Wilco is truly a prized American treasure.
Thanks to Thorn for the rememory.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
The Gay Agenda
OK. This is funny. Take a look at this. It's a link to the schedule of my neighborhood movie theater. Take a close look at the showtimes. That liberal gay hollywood brainwashing machine at work.
OK. This is funny. Take a look at this. It's a link to the schedule of my neighborhood movie theater. Take a close look at the showtimes. That liberal gay hollywood brainwashing machine at work.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
please help with my fantasy
Gotta keep two of these three: Bobby Abreu, Pedro Martinez, Derrek Lee. Who should it be?
Take into consideration the franchisers they shall be joining: Johan Santana, Rich Harden, David Wright, Bobby Crosby, and Chone Figgens.
I'm leaning towards Abreu and Pedro. Lee may very well be the best of the three next year, but he's less predictable than Abreu, and I have strong faith in Pedro, wonky toe be damned.
Gotta keep two of these three: Bobby Abreu, Pedro Martinez, Derrek Lee. Who should it be?
Take into consideration the franchisers they shall be joining: Johan Santana, Rich Harden, David Wright, Bobby Crosby, and Chone Figgens.
I'm leaning towards Abreu and Pedro. Lee may very well be the best of the three next year, but he's less predictable than Abreu, and I have strong faith in Pedro, wonky toe be damned.
The World's Hammjamm...
How would one say "How are yall doin'?" in Swahili, you ask?
Oh just...
"HAMJAMBO!"
How would one say "How are yall doin'?" in Swahili, you ask?
Oh just...
"HAMJAMBO!"
What Had Happened Was - A Day In The Life Of Jeff Griggs
This will become a weekly series:
After one of the most glorious weekends of my life, I feel compelled to tell you guys a tale of drunkeness and supreme joy the likes of which my tiny brain can barely contain. As I begin this, it is approximately 33 hours since my last drink, but I believe I'm still a little tipsy.
Murder Beach was invited to go with Venice is Sinking to play a club called the *********** in Macon. I had previously been tipped off to this place by some friends of mine who play in bands like Sleep Horses and the Bearfoot Hookers. Apparently, Macon is relatively starved for entertainment, so regardless of the level of talent or draw, the bands asked to play at the *********** are treated like royalty. Julie, Ian and I piled into Chris Bishop's SUV at about 4 o'clock on Saturday and got on the road. The drive must have taken close to two hours, but a steady supply of Mantronix and the Alan Parsons Project on the stereo combined with a hilarious conversation about the funniest phrases you can scream while taking a shit in a public restroom (I think I won with "I'm going to teach you a lesson, boy" which I stole from that Excalibrah song about R Beers) made the trip seem almost instantaneous. We rolled into Macon at about 6 and met up with Venice is Sinking at the club. They had already been milling about for a half an hour or so, and were on their way to this Mexican restaurant down the street.
I had heard really great things about the club's owner, Vic, so I made it my first priority to go inside and get acquainted. The first thing I notice is that the club is literally brimming with gigantic frat boy-looking dudes. As it turns out, earlier in the day, there had been a semi-pro/club league rugby tournament, and all of the players had convened at the *********** for refreshments. This will be important later.
I asked around for a minute and had Vic pointed out to me. He was a tall, hard drinking-looking guy in his late thirties. I introduced myself and told him how many great things I had heard about his club. Now, you guys know me and understand that I am pretty good at warming myself up to people whom I hardly know. Well, tonight, I was particularly good. After a few minutes of conversation, Vic is literally overjoyed at the prospect of indulging my every whim. He tells me repeatedly, "if there is anything you need, I mean ANYTHING, man," as he stares me in the eye with a look that seems to suggest that if I want to fuck his wife and snort coke off his daughter's tits, I am more than welcome to it. He is a little busy prepping for the evening so I keep my intial conversation relatively short. He is trying to figure out his way around the mixing board, as his regular soundman, "Catfish," had to fly out early that morning to, no shit, go do a quick tour with the Marshall Tucker Band. I go to meet up with Venice is Sinking and the rest of MB at the restaurant down the street.
Now, it will be important for you all to know that we were given specific instrutions by Vic to get receipts for any expenses we incur during dinner so that he might reimburse us for them later. Courtney, Lucas, Julie, Ian, Kabishop and I sit down and order a round of drinks. Most everyone gets a large margarita, but I am having trouble deciding between a simple Budweiser or the house specialty cocktail, called "Silk Panties." I go with the Bud, not wanting to get too fucked up too early in the evening. Once the margaritas arrive, I realize I made the right decision. Not only is the fucking thing served in a glass the size of a basketball, there is enough tequila in ONE of these things to have an entire busload of migrant workers not only wasted, but fellating one another. Ian quickly sucks down about an eighth of his and proceeds to scream at the television all the way across the room from us, over the heads of several other patrons, mostly proper Macon citizens and their families. Apparently, the managment at the restaurant thought it was appropriate to have one of those "World's Most Extreme Video" shows playing on the big screen, which caused a newly-intoxicated Ian Darken to randomly shout "OH MY FUCKING GAWD!!" or "DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?!?!?!" Our fellow dining guests were not pleased.
The food arrives, and we all enjoy some pretty decent TexMex, made better by the first hints of alcohol coursing through our veins. The bill arrives, and we have managed to put down just under a hundred bucks worth of it between the six of us. We grab a receipt as Vic requested, and as soon as we walk back into the club, he takes the receipt back to the cash register and gives us more money back than what we paid for dinner AND a generous tip. I realize that I am in my own personal heaven.
We load all of our equipment in and pile it on the stage. In the process, the now very drunk Rugby players notice our selection of righteous poontang. Between Julie, Kristen and Carolyn from VIS, we've managed to infinitely increase the number of chances these lugheaded amateurs have of getting any action this night. Fortunately for the dudes in our party, the rugby guys realize that if they are going to get these ladies drunk and "lay down the bone hammer," they will also have to buy drinks for what possibly could be the girls' boyfriends. I am perfectly content swilling back some free beer while we throw the bitches to the dogs for a bit. Besides, I've got work to do. I had bought a new drum head for my snare because it was beggining to sound like the sound a 2 x 4 slapping a corpse. As luck would have it, and I was feeling extremely lucky, I dialed that sucker in perfectly. In fact, I don't think I've ever tuned a drum so well is such short time. We set to assembling our equipment on the stage, then went over for a game of darts.
I wasn't able to get in on the first game of cricket, so I let Kristen and Matt (her fiance), round out one team while Julie and Ian comprised the other. By this point, the Rugby teams had begun to dwindle, but it was clear that the few that remained were there for a reason. Every time Ian went to throw a dart, this one drunken gorilla would scream "FAGGOT!" Now, Cricket is not a particularly quick game. So, over the next twenty-five minutes or so, with intervals of two to three minutes every one in the bar would be startled by this jackass' mating call of "FAGGOT!!! [dart one]..... FAGGOT!!![dart two]... FAGGOT!!![dart three]" To make matters worse, his buddies were goading him on, and I could tell that Ian was begginning to fear for his life. Remembering that I am unbelievably socially on-point this evening, I approach these morons to try and quell any notion of violence, as it seems like that's exactly where these guys are headed. I approach the one in the group of seven or eight that seems relatively sober, order a beer (free as fuck, by the way, as Vic will not let us pay for a goddamned thing), and begin conversing with him about the rules of Rugby. He seems mildly interested in talking about it, so I decide to play my ace card in hopes that these guys will lose interest in Ian's perceived homosexuality.
"Yeah, you know I always wanted to play rugby, but I was always afraid of tearing up my knees. I was a third string wide receiver at Western Kentucky, and I guess I didn't want to lose my scholarship." Incredibly, this bullshit story seemed to fly. After a few minutes, these beasts gave up on Ian and actually left the bar. I guess they figured that there's no way that a group of people hanging around an ex-college football player would either A: be gay or B: would give up their women without some serious bloodshed. I secretly pat myself on the back because I am amazed at my own ability to be so deceitfully opportunistic. I'm rolling, fellas...
So, we all sit around and shoot the shit for hours, because Vic doesn't want us to play until people start arriving at around 11. It's only about 7:30 at this point, and the liquor and beer are flowing like crazy. We do a quick soundcheck (stage sounds great, btw), and I sing "Eye in the Sky" to check my mic. Vic is pleased and declares me to be "righteous." At about this time, we realize that the bar is beginning to fill up with tons of men and women wearing kilts. I'm nervous that there are more rugby fools coming in, but I quickly ascertain that this is a gathering of the internationally known Hash Harriers. Anyone not familiar with this group just needs to know that they call themselves a "drinking group with a running problem." I routinely passed these guys every year in the Peachtree Road Race where they ran 6.2 miles drinking beer THE ENTIRE WAY. Basically, they are everything I wish I could be, athletically speaking. We hobknob with some of those guys and gals, and I convince them to come back for the show. It seems as though they are on some sort of pub crawl and are having the time of their lives. About half of the ladies in the group start removing their bras so that the gentlemen in the group can throw them up on this moose head perched up on the wall. Awesome.
At this point, not much is going on apart from me drinking free Bass Ale after free Bass Ale and talking to Vic about Macon, Athens and all numbers of things. I realize after a while, that his sole purpose in life, whether he realizes it or not, is to make me happy. At one point, he sends one of the bar's staff across the street to buy a pack of smokes for me. Again, awesome.
I meet a black dude named Roger who is working the door, and he tells me that he is a DJ. We talk about what kind of stuff he does. He seems generally enthusiastic about his music, but is obviously looking for an opportunity to play to audiences that would appreciate his being more creative than just playing "Groove is in the Heart" and "I'm So Sexy." I tell him that he really needs to keep it up and that he should come to Athens to play. I tell him a story about a friend of mine from Athens who got no attention being a DJ for years, then blew up with the Grey Album. Now, this is interesting. Though I typically do not like name-dropping, either by me or anyone else, I realized that telling this guy I knew Brian Burton was a stroke of genius. While before this incident, I was being treated like royalty by the bar's staff, afterwards I was being treated like a deity. I'm not sure how this happened, but word spread quickly that I knew Dangermouse, and I guess in Macon, if you know Dangermouse, people want to drink shots with you. So, that's what I did.
It's nearing show time, and we realize that since there are only two bands playing, we really need to try and aim for a longer set time than the typical 35 minute Murder Beach show. This is when I discover something very important. Many shows are ruined because of drunkenness, but it is typically because the drunk person in question is just not being patient with themselves. You can not outrace the alcohol. Because you've just ruined one song, rushing to ruin the next is a bad idea. Instead, you should take your time, maybe even drink some more beer. Give yourself some time to collect your thoughts and refocus. This caused me to realize that the Masters of the Hemisphere were probably a much better live band than I had ever previously imagined.
We botched a couple of songs before I decided that I was just going to dick off between every song and try to say hilarious shit. Most of the Hash Harriers had left the bar, then had come back to watch our show. Macon is a funny town. I figured out that if anyone looked like they were losing interest, all I had to do was tell Kabishop to start playing bass while I played a funky beat and sang stuff like "Hash Harriers/Kings of the South/Fuck with them and they'll fuck you in the mouth!" This was, of course, met with resounding applause and even dancing. Everyone there also seemed to be thrilled every time I said something like, "Hey Macon, who's into Poontang?" Remeber this for your next visit.
After about forty-five minutes of gay pop music and hilarity, we exited the stage to much applause. Vic told us that we were the cutest band he had ever seen, and I think he may have even liked it. Proof of this was the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and the eight shot glasses he brought over to me when we had finished playing. Needless to say, I got to work, and in short time, was absolutely shit-faced.
Now, my pals in town had told me that Vic is such a great guy, that he will buy you as many hotel rooms as you request at the local best western, just for playing at the ***********. Feeling the effects of many, many free shots and beers, I told him that it may be in our best interest to get some rooms. No more than three minutes after I had finished slurring my request to him, he came to me and told me that he was sorry, but he could only get three rooms for us. Read this again: HE SAID HE WAS SORRY THAT HE COULD ONLY GET THREE ROOMS FOR US. Awesome.
Venice is Sinking decided to play two short sets, and they sounded great! About two songs into the second set, they announced from the stage that they had a special surprise for me, then they launched into a truly inspired version of Tom Petty's "You Got Lucky," by far my favorite Petty tune. I knew then, for sure, that the Gods were smiling on me. This could be the best night of my life.
Vic comes and sits next to me and we proceed to dig into the bottle of Jack Daniels. I am fully aware now that this guy is a God amongst men. He leans over to my ear and whispers that his "guy" has just walked in the door and if I wanted (I swear to God he used this word) any "tooty-toot," he would arrange a consultation. I laughed for a solid minute about the word "tooty-toot" and told him that we weren't really into snorting coke, but that I'm sure I could convince some of Venice Is Sinking to smoke some weed if there was any to be had. Well, goddammit, wouldn't you know that he showed up about fifteen minutes later and pushed a bag with about an eighth of an ounce of decent quality cheeba in it. Holy fuck. This, mind you, was free of charge. Holy fuck, again.
Soon after, we have to break down all the equipment, which is kind of a tall order for me since I was so drunk, but you can pull the van basically right up to the back door of the place, which rules. Vic grabs me when we are done and gets Daniel from Venice Is Sinking and takes us into the back room... the business room. He sincerely apologizes to us at length that the crowd was so sparse, guarantees us that the next time we come play there will be way more people, then, and he looks like he is about to burst into tears when he says this, says that he is very, very sorry, but he can only pay us $590 to split between the two bands. Read again: HE SAYS HE IS VERY, VERY SORRY, BUT HE CAN ONLY PAY US $590 TO SPLIT BETWEEN THE TWO BANDS. Awesome, again again.
We pile into the vans and make our way to the hotel, about a ten minute drive. I call my girlfriend and I think I tell her that I might not be coming home... ever.
We split the rooms up into two sleeping quarters, and one party room. Which one do you think I wind up in? Venice is Sinking was smart enough to go to the liquor store to get after party supplies, but not smart enough to realize that you never, ever buy whiskey just because it has a funny name. Daniel, Lucas, Steve, James, Ian and I started slugging from this bottle, and each one of us reported the distinct senstation of being on fire on our insides. Not good. We decided that it might be a good idea to go ahead and bust into that Macon 'dro that Vic gave me. One HUGE joint later, we are all baked out of our minds.
** Now, I'm sorry that this narrative is so long, but I truly believe that each detail is important. This was one of the greatest nights of my life, but this point in the story is actually where things went from being mega-awesome, to absolutely, uncontrollably INCREDI-AWESOME. **
We all start to get a little antsy (read: paranoid), as smoking weed in a hotel room will make you, and I suggest that we try to head to the hotel bar that Vic had mentioned to me. No one really believed that it was going to be open, but it seemed like a better idea than waiting in the hotel room for some fat hick sherriff to come arrest us all. We make our way through the hotel as quietly as we can (which is not very quiet at all), and I push on the door of the "Back Porch II Lounge," and sure enough, it swings open. The first thing I notice is the faint sound of "Hotel California" playing in the background, but that is not Glenn Frey singing. That is most definitely a redneck!
KARAOKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The second thing I notice is that in the short corridor one must pass through to get to the sweet libations and karaoke machine in Back Porch II Lounge, there appears to be a black prostitute, lying flat on her back, passed the fuck out. Standing above her is another black prostitute who is making out with a white guy with a mullet. She is slowly and (I guess) drunkenly massaging his crotch. I step over the prone prostitute, give the mullet guy a high five, and step into my Mecca.
The Back Porch II lounge is very dark. What light there is is neon. It could have been noon outside for all the patrons knew. I walked up to the bar and addressed what I thought was the bartender. He looked like a mid-thirtysomething ex-Georgia Southern style fratboy wearing a khaki visor. He was severely intoxicated. He belched some kind of words at me, and I assumed that he was taking my order. I started barking out commands for him to get me and my friends drunker than we were, but this is where I'm a little confused about the story: this guy was behind the bar, but I don't think he worked there. He started handing everybody beers, but he was completely unable to deal with any sort of transaction. I told him to give me a piece of paper so that I could start a tab for us. Of course, only about half of what we ordered wound up on the list because I am smart, awesome and poor.
It occurred to me once we had received our first round that the bar was in the process of closing up. It was a little after 2 at this point, when the frat dude/semi-bartender asked me the fateful question: "So, do you guys have a room here."
"No sir," I replied. "We have THREE of them."
A muffled cheer went up in the little bar. Apparently, be it local ordinance or just hotel rules, if a guest comes into the bar, of which there were none before we arrived, they put a sign on the door that says "private party," and they stay open indefinitely. AWESOME!
It seems like the karaoke machine is only being used by one kinda stoner guy who kept singing shit like "Fly Like an Eagle" and "Green-Eyed Lady." Of course, this would not do. My group took control, and in no time we had burned through some halfway decent versions of "Africa," "Sailing," "Maneater," "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road," "Islands in the Stream," "Another Brick in the Wall Pt. 2" and "Bohemian Rhapsody."
I took Daniel aside in the bar and made a declaration that this could very well be the best night of our lives, and that if I died, I would die happy. He concurred, and we bought more beer. Now, I don't know exactly how this happened, because I am very, very, very drunk by this point, but I realize around 4:30 or so that I am the only member of my party still in this bar. I realize, however, that there is a time and a place for truly excessive partying, and that time and place were then and now. I took control of the karaoke machine and played to the audience.
"Stairway To Heaven" - FUCK YEAH!!!
"Piano Man" - HELL FUCKIN' YEAH!!!!!
"Hey Jude" - MAN, THIS GUY IS THE FUCKIN' MAN!!!
I've got everybody eating out of the palm of my hand, and I'm getting drinks bought for me. It is about now when I meet Sherry. Sherry is a 43 year-old divorced mother who was crunk as hell, and only knew how to do that stripper dance where you put your hands on the floor and then try to grind your ass skyward. Amazing. At one point, and I can't recall what prompted this, she handed me her bra (which I threw away in the mens room toilet and scrubbed the shit out of my hands). After one last karaoke tune, a duet of "Carwash" which I sang with the club's owner, Ginger, where we changed the lyrics to "Back Porch," I decided it was time to head back to the room, as Sherry's advances were becoming less and less veiled.
I get back to the room to find the crew still partying, and I proceed to drunkenly berate them for leaving me at the bar where I could have been raped. Much to my surprise, a couple of them want to go back there. Somehow, we muster the coordination to grab a bottle of champagne (which was chilling in the bathtub) and head back down there. When we arrive, the few remaining patrons are suprised to see us, but overjoyed that we come bearing gifts. I announce to everyone in there that we are celebrating our band's 5th year anniversary, to which Daniel and Ian quickly call bullshit on me. Stabbed in the back by my friends!!! Not a good situation. Luckily, no one really cared that I was lying, and an excuse for these dumbass rednecks to drink champagne at nearly 6 in the morning was wholly unneccessary. We had our nightcap, bid adieu to our new friends, refused an offer to smoke weed in a van with the karaoke master and headed back to the room.
When we arrive, we see that the others whom we had left behind had made it to the free continental breakfast. Unfortunately for them, they had not realized that frozen waffles are not delicious when they are still frozen. For some reason (you have to understand, details of this point of the evening are incredibly fuzzy), Daniel and I decide that, by God, those guys are going to get some toasted waffles. We make our way for the lobby, but are stricken with the most horrific case of the giggles I have ever experience. We twice contemplate going back to the safety of the room, but realize that we must soldier on for the benefit of our friends. We are still laughing uncontrollably when we arrive in the breakfast room which is quickly filling up with old people who are probably on their way to early morning church services. It dawns on me that I have been drinking whiskey, beer, and all manner of things for over 12 hours, smoking like a chimney, and I smell like shit. I also am punctuating everything that comes out of my mouth with a wide variety of curse words. We are not welcome in the breakfast room, but Daniel and I will be damned if our friends do not get to enjoy their waffles.
We try our best to hold it together, but I absolutely lose it when Daniel asks these two young girls where they are from. They tell him they're from Michigan, and he keeps shaking his head and asking himself aloud, "Michigan...? Michigan? What are they doing here? Michigan? What on earth are they doing here? Michigan? Really? What are they doing here?"
I fall down. I realize I need to get back to the room, or there is going to be trouble. We stack some waffles on a plate and get some orange juice and try to get back to the room. Though it is only about 50 or 60 yards through the hallways to get back to our rooms, we stop twice to fall down laughing. I made it back to room 255 with a quarter of a glass of orange juice. Daniel walked in with a banana hanging out of his zipper and one waffle. This may be the only time in my life that I actually laughed myself to sleep.
Obviously, Sunday was a complete waste. I felt like I was going to fall of the face of the earth, I was so hungover. I deserved it, but goddammit, I had the best time of my life. It is important for all of us to remember to take advantage of situations as they present themselves, not worrying about the consequences if they do not seem to apply. The only thing that could made my night any better is if you guys were there to share it with me. I thought of you all, at different moments in the night, and wished you could be there to witness the glory. I tried to do each of you proud.
I love you guys so much...
--Jeff
This will become a weekly series:
After one of the most glorious weekends of my life, I feel compelled to tell you guys a tale of drunkeness and supreme joy the likes of which my tiny brain can barely contain. As I begin this, it is approximately 33 hours since my last drink, but I believe I'm still a little tipsy.
Murder Beach was invited to go with Venice is Sinking to play a club called the *********** in Macon. I had previously been tipped off to this place by some friends of mine who play in bands like Sleep Horses and the Bearfoot Hookers. Apparently, Macon is relatively starved for entertainment, so regardless of the level of talent or draw, the bands asked to play at the *********** are treated like royalty. Julie, Ian and I piled into Chris Bishop's SUV at about 4 o'clock on Saturday and got on the road. The drive must have taken close to two hours, but a steady supply of Mantronix and the Alan Parsons Project on the stereo combined with a hilarious conversation about the funniest phrases you can scream while taking a shit in a public restroom (I think I won with "I'm going to teach you a lesson, boy" which I stole from that Excalibrah song about R Beers) made the trip seem almost instantaneous. We rolled into Macon at about 6 and met up with Venice is Sinking at the club. They had already been milling about for a half an hour or so, and were on their way to this Mexican restaurant down the street.
I had heard really great things about the club's owner, Vic, so I made it my first priority to go inside and get acquainted. The first thing I notice is that the club is literally brimming with gigantic frat boy-looking dudes. As it turns out, earlier in the day, there had been a semi-pro/club league rugby tournament, and all of the players had convened at the *********** for refreshments. This will be important later.
I asked around for a minute and had Vic pointed out to me. He was a tall, hard drinking-looking guy in his late thirties. I introduced myself and told him how many great things I had heard about his club. Now, you guys know me and understand that I am pretty good at warming myself up to people whom I hardly know. Well, tonight, I was particularly good. After a few minutes of conversation, Vic is literally overjoyed at the prospect of indulging my every whim. He tells me repeatedly, "if there is anything you need, I mean ANYTHING, man," as he stares me in the eye with a look that seems to suggest that if I want to fuck his wife and snort coke off his daughter's tits, I am more than welcome to it. He is a little busy prepping for the evening so I keep my intial conversation relatively short. He is trying to figure out his way around the mixing board, as his regular soundman, "Catfish," had to fly out early that morning to, no shit, go do a quick tour with the Marshall Tucker Band. I go to meet up with Venice is Sinking and the rest of MB at the restaurant down the street.
Now, it will be important for you all to know that we were given specific instrutions by Vic to get receipts for any expenses we incur during dinner so that he might reimburse us for them later. Courtney, Lucas, Julie, Ian, Kabishop and I sit down and order a round of drinks. Most everyone gets a large margarita, but I am having trouble deciding between a simple Budweiser or the house specialty cocktail, called "Silk Panties." I go with the Bud, not wanting to get too fucked up too early in the evening. Once the margaritas arrive, I realize I made the right decision. Not only is the fucking thing served in a glass the size of a basketball, there is enough tequila in ONE of these things to have an entire busload of migrant workers not only wasted, but fellating one another. Ian quickly sucks down about an eighth of his and proceeds to scream at the television all the way across the room from us, over the heads of several other patrons, mostly proper Macon citizens and their families. Apparently, the managment at the restaurant thought it was appropriate to have one of those "World's Most Extreme Video" shows playing on the big screen, which caused a newly-intoxicated Ian Darken to randomly shout "OH MY FUCKING GAWD!!" or "DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?!?!?!" Our fellow dining guests were not pleased.
The food arrives, and we all enjoy some pretty decent TexMex, made better by the first hints of alcohol coursing through our veins. The bill arrives, and we have managed to put down just under a hundred bucks worth of it between the six of us. We grab a receipt as Vic requested, and as soon as we walk back into the club, he takes the receipt back to the cash register and gives us more money back than what we paid for dinner AND a generous tip. I realize that I am in my own personal heaven.
We load all of our equipment in and pile it on the stage. In the process, the now very drunk Rugby players notice our selection of righteous poontang. Between Julie, Kristen and Carolyn from VIS, we've managed to infinitely increase the number of chances these lugheaded amateurs have of getting any action this night. Fortunately for the dudes in our party, the rugby guys realize that if they are going to get these ladies drunk and "lay down the bone hammer," they will also have to buy drinks for what possibly could be the girls' boyfriends. I am perfectly content swilling back some free beer while we throw the bitches to the dogs for a bit. Besides, I've got work to do. I had bought a new drum head for my snare because it was beggining to sound like the sound a 2 x 4 slapping a corpse. As luck would have it, and I was feeling extremely lucky, I dialed that sucker in perfectly. In fact, I don't think I've ever tuned a drum so well is such short time. We set to assembling our equipment on the stage, then went over for a game of darts.
I wasn't able to get in on the first game of cricket, so I let Kristen and Matt (her fiance), round out one team while Julie and Ian comprised the other. By this point, the Rugby teams had begun to dwindle, but it was clear that the few that remained were there for a reason. Every time Ian went to throw a dart, this one drunken gorilla would scream "FAGGOT!" Now, Cricket is not a particularly quick game. So, over the next twenty-five minutes or so, with intervals of two to three minutes every one in the bar would be startled by this jackass' mating call of "FAGGOT!!! [dart one]..... FAGGOT!!![dart two]... FAGGOT!!![dart three]" To make matters worse, his buddies were goading him on, and I could tell that Ian was begginning to fear for his life. Remembering that I am unbelievably socially on-point this evening, I approach these morons to try and quell any notion of violence, as it seems like that's exactly where these guys are headed. I approach the one in the group of seven or eight that seems relatively sober, order a beer (free as fuck, by the way, as Vic will not let us pay for a goddamned thing), and begin conversing with him about the rules of Rugby. He seems mildly interested in talking about it, so I decide to play my ace card in hopes that these guys will lose interest in Ian's perceived homosexuality.
"Yeah, you know I always wanted to play rugby, but I was always afraid of tearing up my knees. I was a third string wide receiver at Western Kentucky, and I guess I didn't want to lose my scholarship." Incredibly, this bullshit story seemed to fly. After a few minutes, these beasts gave up on Ian and actually left the bar. I guess they figured that there's no way that a group of people hanging around an ex-college football player would either A: be gay or B: would give up their women without some serious bloodshed. I secretly pat myself on the back because I am amazed at my own ability to be so deceitfully opportunistic. I'm rolling, fellas...
So, we all sit around and shoot the shit for hours, because Vic doesn't want us to play until people start arriving at around 11. It's only about 7:30 at this point, and the liquor and beer are flowing like crazy. We do a quick soundcheck (stage sounds great, btw), and I sing "Eye in the Sky" to check my mic. Vic is pleased and declares me to be "righteous." At about this time, we realize that the bar is beginning to fill up with tons of men and women wearing kilts. I'm nervous that there are more rugby fools coming in, but I quickly ascertain that this is a gathering of the internationally known Hash Harriers. Anyone not familiar with this group just needs to know that they call themselves a "drinking group with a running problem." I routinely passed these guys every year in the Peachtree Road Race where they ran 6.2 miles drinking beer THE ENTIRE WAY. Basically, they are everything I wish I could be, athletically speaking. We hobknob with some of those guys and gals, and I convince them to come back for the show. It seems as though they are on some sort of pub crawl and are having the time of their lives. About half of the ladies in the group start removing their bras so that the gentlemen in the group can throw them up on this moose head perched up on the wall. Awesome.
At this point, not much is going on apart from me drinking free Bass Ale after free Bass Ale and talking to Vic about Macon, Athens and all numbers of things. I realize after a while, that his sole purpose in life, whether he realizes it or not, is to make me happy. At one point, he sends one of the bar's staff across the street to buy a pack of smokes for me. Again, awesome.
I meet a black dude named Roger who is working the door, and he tells me that he is a DJ. We talk about what kind of stuff he does. He seems generally enthusiastic about his music, but is obviously looking for an opportunity to play to audiences that would appreciate his being more creative than just playing "Groove is in the Heart" and "I'm So Sexy." I tell him that he really needs to keep it up and that he should come to Athens to play. I tell him a story about a friend of mine from Athens who got no attention being a DJ for years, then blew up with the Grey Album. Now, this is interesting. Though I typically do not like name-dropping, either by me or anyone else, I realized that telling this guy I knew Brian Burton was a stroke of genius. While before this incident, I was being treated like royalty by the bar's staff, afterwards I was being treated like a deity. I'm not sure how this happened, but word spread quickly that I knew Dangermouse, and I guess in Macon, if you know Dangermouse, people want to drink shots with you. So, that's what I did.
It's nearing show time, and we realize that since there are only two bands playing, we really need to try and aim for a longer set time than the typical 35 minute Murder Beach show. This is when I discover something very important. Many shows are ruined because of drunkenness, but it is typically because the drunk person in question is just not being patient with themselves. You can not outrace the alcohol. Because you've just ruined one song, rushing to ruin the next is a bad idea. Instead, you should take your time, maybe even drink some more beer. Give yourself some time to collect your thoughts and refocus. This caused me to realize that the Masters of the Hemisphere were probably a much better live band than I had ever previously imagined.
We botched a couple of songs before I decided that I was just going to dick off between every song and try to say hilarious shit. Most of the Hash Harriers had left the bar, then had come back to watch our show. Macon is a funny town. I figured out that if anyone looked like they were losing interest, all I had to do was tell Kabishop to start playing bass while I played a funky beat and sang stuff like "Hash Harriers/Kings of the South/Fuck with them and they'll fuck you in the mouth!" This was, of course, met with resounding applause and even dancing. Everyone there also seemed to be thrilled every time I said something like, "Hey Macon, who's into Poontang?" Remeber this for your next visit.
After about forty-five minutes of gay pop music and hilarity, we exited the stage to much applause. Vic told us that we were the cutest band he had ever seen, and I think he may have even liked it. Proof of this was the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and the eight shot glasses he brought over to me when we had finished playing. Needless to say, I got to work, and in short time, was absolutely shit-faced.
Now, my pals in town had told me that Vic is such a great guy, that he will buy you as many hotel rooms as you request at the local best western, just for playing at the ***********. Feeling the effects of many, many free shots and beers, I told him that it may be in our best interest to get some rooms. No more than three minutes after I had finished slurring my request to him, he came to me and told me that he was sorry, but he could only get three rooms for us. Read this again: HE SAID HE WAS SORRY THAT HE COULD ONLY GET THREE ROOMS FOR US. Awesome.
Venice is Sinking decided to play two short sets, and they sounded great! About two songs into the second set, they announced from the stage that they had a special surprise for me, then they launched into a truly inspired version of Tom Petty's "You Got Lucky," by far my favorite Petty tune. I knew then, for sure, that the Gods were smiling on me. This could be the best night of my life.
Vic comes and sits next to me and we proceed to dig into the bottle of Jack Daniels. I am fully aware now that this guy is a God amongst men. He leans over to my ear and whispers that his "guy" has just walked in the door and if I wanted (I swear to God he used this word) any "tooty-toot," he would arrange a consultation. I laughed for a solid minute about the word "tooty-toot" and told him that we weren't really into snorting coke, but that I'm sure I could convince some of Venice Is Sinking to smoke some weed if there was any to be had. Well, goddammit, wouldn't you know that he showed up about fifteen minutes later and pushed a bag with about an eighth of an ounce of decent quality cheeba in it. Holy fuck. This, mind you, was free of charge. Holy fuck, again.
Soon after, we have to break down all the equipment, which is kind of a tall order for me since I was so drunk, but you can pull the van basically right up to the back door of the place, which rules. Vic grabs me when we are done and gets Daniel from Venice Is Sinking and takes us into the back room... the business room. He sincerely apologizes to us at length that the crowd was so sparse, guarantees us that the next time we come play there will be way more people, then, and he looks like he is about to burst into tears when he says this, says that he is very, very sorry, but he can only pay us $590 to split between the two bands. Read again: HE SAYS HE IS VERY, VERY SORRY, BUT HE CAN ONLY PAY US $590 TO SPLIT BETWEEN THE TWO BANDS. Awesome, again again.
We pile into the vans and make our way to the hotel, about a ten minute drive. I call my girlfriend and I think I tell her that I might not be coming home... ever.
We split the rooms up into two sleeping quarters, and one party room. Which one do you think I wind up in? Venice is Sinking was smart enough to go to the liquor store to get after party supplies, but not smart enough to realize that you never, ever buy whiskey just because it has a funny name. Daniel, Lucas, Steve, James, Ian and I started slugging from this bottle, and each one of us reported the distinct senstation of being on fire on our insides. Not good. We decided that it might be a good idea to go ahead and bust into that Macon 'dro that Vic gave me. One HUGE joint later, we are all baked out of our minds.
** Now, I'm sorry that this narrative is so long, but I truly believe that each detail is important. This was one of the greatest nights of my life, but this point in the story is actually where things went from being mega-awesome, to absolutely, uncontrollably INCREDI-AWESOME. **
We all start to get a little antsy (read: paranoid), as smoking weed in a hotel room will make you, and I suggest that we try to head to the hotel bar that Vic had mentioned to me. No one really believed that it was going to be open, but it seemed like a better idea than waiting in the hotel room for some fat hick sherriff to come arrest us all. We make our way through the hotel as quietly as we can (which is not very quiet at all), and I push on the door of the "Back Porch II Lounge," and sure enough, it swings open. The first thing I notice is the faint sound of "Hotel California" playing in the background, but that is not Glenn Frey singing. That is most definitely a redneck!
KARAOKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The second thing I notice is that in the short corridor one must pass through to get to the sweet libations and karaoke machine in Back Porch II Lounge, there appears to be a black prostitute, lying flat on her back, passed the fuck out. Standing above her is another black prostitute who is making out with a white guy with a mullet. She is slowly and (I guess) drunkenly massaging his crotch. I step over the prone prostitute, give the mullet guy a high five, and step into my Mecca.
The Back Porch II lounge is very dark. What light there is is neon. It could have been noon outside for all the patrons knew. I walked up to the bar and addressed what I thought was the bartender. He looked like a mid-thirtysomething ex-Georgia Southern style fratboy wearing a khaki visor. He was severely intoxicated. He belched some kind of words at me, and I assumed that he was taking my order. I started barking out commands for him to get me and my friends drunker than we were, but this is where I'm a little confused about the story: this guy was behind the bar, but I don't think he worked there. He started handing everybody beers, but he was completely unable to deal with any sort of transaction. I told him to give me a piece of paper so that I could start a tab for us. Of course, only about half of what we ordered wound up on the list because I am smart, awesome and poor.
It occurred to me once we had received our first round that the bar was in the process of closing up. It was a little after 2 at this point, when the frat dude/semi-bartender asked me the fateful question: "So, do you guys have a room here."
"No sir," I replied. "We have THREE of them."
A muffled cheer went up in the little bar. Apparently, be it local ordinance or just hotel rules, if a guest comes into the bar, of which there were none before we arrived, they put a sign on the door that says "private party," and they stay open indefinitely. AWESOME!
It seems like the karaoke machine is only being used by one kinda stoner guy who kept singing shit like "Fly Like an Eagle" and "Green-Eyed Lady." Of course, this would not do. My group took control, and in no time we had burned through some halfway decent versions of "Africa," "Sailing," "Maneater," "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road," "Islands in the Stream," "Another Brick in the Wall Pt. 2" and "Bohemian Rhapsody."
I took Daniel aside in the bar and made a declaration that this could very well be the best night of our lives, and that if I died, I would die happy. He concurred, and we bought more beer. Now, I don't know exactly how this happened, because I am very, very, very drunk by this point, but I realize around 4:30 or so that I am the only member of my party still in this bar. I realize, however, that there is a time and a place for truly excessive partying, and that time and place were then and now. I took control of the karaoke machine and played to the audience.
"Stairway To Heaven" - FUCK YEAH!!!
"Piano Man" - HELL FUCKIN' YEAH!!!!!
"Hey Jude" - MAN, THIS GUY IS THE FUCKIN' MAN!!!
I've got everybody eating out of the palm of my hand, and I'm getting drinks bought for me. It is about now when I meet Sherry. Sherry is a 43 year-old divorced mother who was crunk as hell, and only knew how to do that stripper dance where you put your hands on the floor and then try to grind your ass skyward. Amazing. At one point, and I can't recall what prompted this, she handed me her bra (which I threw away in the mens room toilet and scrubbed the shit out of my hands). After one last karaoke tune, a duet of "Carwash" which I sang with the club's owner, Ginger, where we changed the lyrics to "Back Porch," I decided it was time to head back to the room, as Sherry's advances were becoming less and less veiled.
I get back to the room to find the crew still partying, and I proceed to drunkenly berate them for leaving me at the bar where I could have been raped. Much to my surprise, a couple of them want to go back there. Somehow, we muster the coordination to grab a bottle of champagne (which was chilling in the bathtub) and head back down there. When we arrive, the few remaining patrons are suprised to see us, but overjoyed that we come bearing gifts. I announce to everyone in there that we are celebrating our band's 5th year anniversary, to which Daniel and Ian quickly call bullshit on me. Stabbed in the back by my friends!!! Not a good situation. Luckily, no one really cared that I was lying, and an excuse for these dumbass rednecks to drink champagne at nearly 6 in the morning was wholly unneccessary. We had our nightcap, bid adieu to our new friends, refused an offer to smoke weed in a van with the karaoke master and headed back to the room.
When we arrive, we see that the others whom we had left behind had made it to the free continental breakfast. Unfortunately for them, they had not realized that frozen waffles are not delicious when they are still frozen. For some reason (you have to understand, details of this point of the evening are incredibly fuzzy), Daniel and I decide that, by God, those guys are going to get some toasted waffles. We make our way for the lobby, but are stricken with the most horrific case of the giggles I have ever experience. We twice contemplate going back to the safety of the room, but realize that we must soldier on for the benefit of our friends. We are still laughing uncontrollably when we arrive in the breakfast room which is quickly filling up with old people who are probably on their way to early morning church services. It dawns on me that I have been drinking whiskey, beer, and all manner of things for over 12 hours, smoking like a chimney, and I smell like shit. I also am punctuating everything that comes out of my mouth with a wide variety of curse words. We are not welcome in the breakfast room, but Daniel and I will be damned if our friends do not get to enjoy their waffles.
We try our best to hold it together, but I absolutely lose it when Daniel asks these two young girls where they are from. They tell him they're from Michigan, and he keeps shaking his head and asking himself aloud, "Michigan...? Michigan? What are they doing here? Michigan? What on earth are they doing here? Michigan? Really? What are they doing here?"
I fall down. I realize I need to get back to the room, or there is going to be trouble. We stack some waffles on a plate and get some orange juice and try to get back to the room. Though it is only about 50 or 60 yards through the hallways to get back to our rooms, we stop twice to fall down laughing. I made it back to room 255 with a quarter of a glass of orange juice. Daniel walked in with a banana hanging out of his zipper and one waffle. This may be the only time in my life that I actually laughed myself to sleep.
Obviously, Sunday was a complete waste. I felt like I was going to fall of the face of the earth, I was so hungover. I deserved it, but goddammit, I had the best time of my life. It is important for all of us to remember to take advantage of situations as they present themselves, not worrying about the consequences if they do not seem to apply. The only thing that could made my night any better is if you guys were there to share it with me. I thought of you all, at different moments in the night, and wished you could be there to witness the glory. I tried to do each of you proud.
I love you guys so much...
--Jeff
Monday, March 06, 2006
Memo to Tom Shales: You're Why People Hate Critics
I missed the first hour or so of the Oscars last night, so I've no idea how the monologue went. From what I did see, though, Jon Stewart seemed to do a fine job.
Of course, Tom Shales doesn't think so.
Who's Tom Shales? Why, he's the television critic for the Washington Times. He's also probably my least favorite critic of all time. Yes, worse than Michael Medved, Renee Graham, and any of the writers at the Boston Phoenix. Worse even than all of them combined. It's not that Shales is necessarily a bad writer, but that he permanently oozes that sort of smugness that has given critics a bad name. Also we disagree almost all the time. Wait, let me rephrase that: he's totally full of shit and has no idea what he's talking about, ever.
So in his Oscars review Shales tears Stewart apart, knocking not just Stewart himself but all of basic cable in the process. I'm not surprised; Shales was at the vanguard of Chris Rock-bashing after last year's Oscars. Rock wasn't great, but when you're being compared to Whoopi Goldberg and Billy Crystal it'd be pretty difficult to not come out looking good. Although I remember a number of positive reviews the day after last year's show, it's apparently now common wisdom that Rock was awful and a flop and doesn't deserve to ever host the Oscars again. Shales, maybe the most prominent television critic in America, hated Rock as the host, and I assume this negative review is disproportionately responsible for the general dismissal of Rock's performance.
I suspect Jon Stewart's hosting gig will be widely viewed as a failure, too, despite a number of good reviews, and despite the fact that he kept me fairly well entertained during those few moments when he actually got to say something. And if this does occur, it might again be significantly because of Shales' review.
So what sort of host would Shales like to see, anyway? Exactly what you'd expect. In that Chris Rock review Shales writes, "perhaps Billy Crystal will come riding in on a white horse again and rescue the show with a zippy performance as host." 'Cuz that's all this interminably long and self-congratulatory vaccuum of a show needs, a miserable old hack plying schtick that'd make even Bob Hope grimace.
I missed the first hour or so of the Oscars last night, so I've no idea how the monologue went. From what I did see, though, Jon Stewart seemed to do a fine job.
Of course, Tom Shales doesn't think so.
Who's Tom Shales? Why, he's the television critic for the Washington Times. He's also probably my least favorite critic of all time. Yes, worse than Michael Medved, Renee Graham, and any of the writers at the Boston Phoenix. Worse even than all of them combined. It's not that Shales is necessarily a bad writer, but that he permanently oozes that sort of smugness that has given critics a bad name. Also we disagree almost all the time. Wait, let me rephrase that: he's totally full of shit and has no idea what he's talking about, ever.
So in his Oscars review Shales tears Stewart apart, knocking not just Stewart himself but all of basic cable in the process. I'm not surprised; Shales was at the vanguard of Chris Rock-bashing after last year's Oscars. Rock wasn't great, but when you're being compared to Whoopi Goldberg and Billy Crystal it'd be pretty difficult to not come out looking good. Although I remember a number of positive reviews the day after last year's show, it's apparently now common wisdom that Rock was awful and a flop and doesn't deserve to ever host the Oscars again. Shales, maybe the most prominent television critic in America, hated Rock as the host, and I assume this negative review is disproportionately responsible for the general dismissal of Rock's performance.
I suspect Jon Stewart's hosting gig will be widely viewed as a failure, too, despite a number of good reviews, and despite the fact that he kept me fairly well entertained during those few moments when he actually got to say something. And if this does occur, it might again be significantly because of Shales' review.
So what sort of host would Shales like to see, anyway? Exactly what you'd expect. In that Chris Rock review Shales writes, "perhaps Billy Crystal will come riding in on a white horse again and rescue the show with a zippy performance as host." 'Cuz that's all this interminably long and self-congratulatory vaccuum of a show needs, a miserable old hack plying schtick that'd make even Bob Hope grimace.
Best Quote From Last Night...
"If you are keeping track at home, that's: Martin Scorsese - 0 3-6 Mafia - 1"
-John Stewart
"I just cant stand this type of music - its so sleezy and mumbly. I mean what are they even saying, can you understand them? TRANSLATOR PLEASE!! hahahah"
-Lady sitting next to me at the Oscar party we went to during the 3-6 performance
"If you are keeping track at home, that's: Martin Scorsese - 0 3-6 Mafia - 1"
-John Stewart
"I just cant stand this type of music - its so sleezy and mumbly. I mean what are they even saying, can you understand them? TRANSLATOR PLEASE!! hahahah"
-Lady sitting next to me at the Oscar party we went to during the 3-6 performance
Friday, March 03, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
The Losticity.
(I suppose I could've nicked "The Lostness", since that seems retired, but the above works fine enough for me.)
I hope y'all watched LOST last night, 'cuz it was really good. Like the "tailies" episode, they twisted the flashbackery up a bit, as Claire gradually regained her memories of those two weeks she was held captive. No boring bullshit about how "my dude left me and now I'm single and pregnant so let's dwell on that and maybe the behy-bee would be better off with another family and hey aren't I just the least important and likable character on the show", etc., etc. Nothing but a solid hour of island-based hi-jinks, including the return of Ethan Rom, Spaceknight, and the discovery of a new Dharma structure, and the revelation that the chief hobo "Other" sports a fake beard and bears a resemblance to various other silver-haired old white men who've appeared on the show. Also the first substantial bit of Eko Adebisi in like two months, thank God. So a few new questions, and a few answers (mostly to questions we weren't even asking), and some good momentum heading into the final third of the season, which momentum of course will be immediately squandered as it's reruns 'til the 22nd.
(I suppose I could've nicked "The Lostness", since that seems retired, but the above works fine enough for me.)
I hope y'all watched LOST last night, 'cuz it was really good. Like the "tailies" episode, they twisted the flashbackery up a bit, as Claire gradually regained her memories of those two weeks she was held captive. No boring bullshit about how "my dude left me and now I'm single and pregnant so let's dwell on that and maybe the behy-bee would be better off with another family and hey aren't I just the least important and likable character on the show", etc., etc. Nothing but a solid hour of island-based hi-jinks, including the return of Ethan Rom, Spaceknight, and the discovery of a new Dharma structure, and the revelation that the chief hobo "Other" sports a fake beard and bears a resemblance to various other silver-haired old white men who've appeared on the show. Also the first substantial bit of Eko Adebisi in like two months, thank God. So a few new questions, and a few answers (mostly to questions we weren't even asking), and some good momentum heading into the final third of the season, which momentum of course will be immediately squandered as it's reruns 'til the 22nd.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
