Tennis - Mean Streets & Game of Thrones (nospoilersinsideipromise!)

The Final Four starts today, and my school, the University of Florida, is playing. Very exciting! Another exciting event this weekend is the premier of season four of Game of Thrones. I did my best to avoid the clutches of the show, because I have no interest in the genre(s). However, the writing, characters, and acting are just too good to ignore. The show is brilliant.

Everyone has their favorite character, and I'm no different. I love Cersei for being the damaged, ruthless ice queen, I love Tywin for being even more ruthless and calculating, and I love Arya for just being the pint-sized badass she is. There are plenty of other great ones, such as Bronn, Daenaryus, Lady Olenna Tyrell, etc. However, it's Final Four weekend, so let's focus on characters that truly embody the personalities of our Final Four teams.

Tyrion Lannister = The University of Florida: While Tyrion is underestimated and disrespected for being knee-high to a grasshopper, UF is also underestimated for not having any huge one-and-done, overhyped stars. However, both display intelligence and determination that make them powerful and dangerous. Hopefully no Florida players are dating prostitutes with anger issues, cause Donovan will come down on them like an exasperated Tywin Lannister digging out deer guts. 

Jamie Lannister = The University of Kentucky: Like Jamie, UK started out with more talent than anyone, but also hampered by arrogance and a false sense of invincibility. However, they have since been taken down a notch or two, which has seemed to force them to mature a bit. Will this be enough to allow them to finally live up to their vaunted family name? Who knows, but one things for sure. Cersei and Callipari have both made some pretty horrified looking faces watching them this year.

Bran Stark = University of Connecticut: They both had a pretty, uh, challenging start to the year, and not many people gave them much of a chance of competing for the Iron Throne. However, as the year went on, Shabazz Napier started playing like a pissed off dire wolf, and other teams started dropping like Stannis' soldiers dipped in wildfire. They've seemingly got less to work with than the other teams, but will their secret weapon roll his eyes into the back of his head and get busy this weekend? Only time will tell.

Hodor = University of Wisconsin: I don't know, every dude on that team just kinda looks like Hodor. When Bo Ryan calls a play for Frank Kaminsky in the huddle, does Kaminsky just laugh goofily and breath out "KAMINSKY!" My guess is yes. 

Tennis was pretty much my favorite band of 2013. Something about their sound-half Belle and Sebastian and half 50's girl group-just gets to me. I finally saw them live for the first time in a club recently, and they were great. So much fun.

HAIM - Days Are Gone

This is my favorite song from 2013. I keep waiting to come to my senses and realize that this is just a corny throwaway pop song, but it's just not happening. This is the ultimate "happy place" song, and it never stops working. I could be in any of the following situations and still smile when this came on: 

- stuck in the DMV all day long with flesh-eating zombies slowing chewing on my ankles, unable to move due to temporary paralysis caused by eating a poisoned Reuben sandwich.

- taking a thirty- five hour long Improv Comedy Traffic School course, surrounded by eighty-three cantankerous octogenarians on trial for vehicular manslaughter for having barreled through a farmer's market yelling, "PESTICIDES FOREEEEVEEEEERRRR!"

- working a double shift at the zoo, assigned to elephant dung clean-up after someone switched out all the elephant food with Taco Bell's new Taco Waffles.

- riding the NYC subway 24 hours straight during a record heat wave with mandatory breaks every three hours during which my only task is to crawl on empty tracks and catch as many rats as possible. 

- working as Toby Keith's personal assistant, my main duty being to point out any males that don't appear to be "Ford Tough," so they can be summarily executed via strangulation by American flags woven out of moldy bread left over from Guy Fieri's last cookout.

I was morbidly curious about Haim after hearing this song the first time, and despite looking like they flew straight from an American Apparel shoot, it turns out they're sisters who have been playing music together since they were small kids. The psychotic bassfaces the one sister makes cements them as the real deal. They apparently co-wrote "Days Are Gone" with Jessie Ware, which makes sense, cause she also rules. 

Yamantaka // Sonic Titan - Whalesong

I've gotten my hair cut the last couple of times at a place a couple of blocks from where I live. The lady is very meticulous, almost to a fault. A haircut with her seems to take about forty-five minutes, an eternity in my world.

I never take out my phone while someone's cutting my hair. It just seems wrong, like if I tilt my head a bit I might throw off the cutter's angle and end up with a Kid N' Play fade. But after she's taken ten hours working on my hair like it's the Sistine Chapel, my mind really starts to wander.

Both times I've gone she's placed the same GQ magazine on the ledge between me and the mirror. At first I thought she was bringing it over for me to point out haircuts, because she did it just as she was asking, in a very serious tone, how I wanted my hair done. She even asked me to show her a picture of the ideal cut on my phone! It was all very stressful, but intriguing in a strange way. I was tempted to show her this picture I took of a chihuahua on MUNI. "Here! Make me look like him!"

Anyway, both times it's a GQ with Michael Fassbender on the cover dressed like an extra from Gunsmoke. Ok, cool, she's obviously got a limited selection to draw from. I don't even think twice about it the first visit, but forty-two minutes into the second cut everything begins to change.

I'm not big on gazing at myself in the mirror, but when I get a haircut I'm a captive audience. Where else is there to look?! So as a haircut goes along, I usually start to feel pretty good about myself. "Here's looking at you, kid!" You know, that kind of stuff. But today, I feel a whole new set of eyes staring me down. FASSBENDER.

So I'm in the narcissistic phase of the haircut, thinking that I look pretty sharp, and all of a sudden I notice Fassbender staring up at me from that damn GQ cover. "Oh, you think you look pretty good up there, huh? Well think again, chump. The only place you'd find yourself in this magazine is the before picture for a Bowflex ad. I'm Michael Freaking Fassbender, and don't you ever forget it. There's Fassbender, and there's not-Fassbender. You, my friend, are decidedly not-Fassbender. If you starred in a movie, it'd be called '12 Years A Non-Fassbender.' Enjoy your seventeen day reprieve from staring in the mirror and thinking there's a mushroom on your head, but know this: you will always look in the mirror and know that You. Are. Not. A Fassbender."

So yeah. I'm feeling pretty good about my haircut.


I posted a song from Yamantaka//Sonic Titan's first album a while back, and their new album is just as effective in capturing the elusive prog-rock Kabuki market. I love the drama of it all. I pretty much have no idea what the hell the lead singer is singing, but I know it's EPIC. 

Courtney Barnett - Avant Gardener

So it turns out the ole iPad makes me post YouTube links at the top of posts, thus destroying the aesthetic format I have adhered to all these years. I'll try to recover, somehow. TECHNOLOGY IS SUCH A FICKLE MISTRESS.

Anyway, there's hipsters playing tennis poorly in this music video. I think I like the video, but I'm not really sure. I've completely lost all frame of reference for music videos at this point. When I was a kid, a song and its video were inextricably intertwined. "Welcome to the Jungle" was a badass song, but every time I heard it, I also saw innocent little Axl getting off the bus in Manhattan, ready to get swallowed whole by the city. Sure, "Mr. Brownstone" was a great track without a video, but if there had been one to elucidate the rather thinly veiled omgthebrownstoneisheroin metaphor, then that song would have ceased to be just a solitary song.

Nowadays, I only see videos when I make blog posts. Otherwise, I stick to Spotify or mp3s, because MTV isn't MTV anymore, and nobody really seems to care that much about videos. On the other hand, though, I guess some might argue that a video having thirty- three gazillion hits on YouTube is akin to it being in heavy rotation on MTV. Wait, did I just shoot down my own argument?

So, err, WHAT ABOUT ALBUM ART? WHAT'S UP WITH THAT???!!!


This punny Courtney Barnett song, "Avant Gardner," is pretty great. It's got clever stream-of-consciousness lyrics and Highway 61-ish instrumentation (guess it makes sense that the quasi-chair umpire dude in this video is a Dylan impersonator). I like how the song gains momentum as it goes on.

AMC, I'm here for you.

As the beginning of Mad Men's final season draws near, I can't help but think back to the end of another great AMC drama, Breaking Bad. While I personally thought they did a fairly solid job wrapping up the show, of course many people had complaints. So, as a public service of sorts, I'm going to provide a few alternate endings to give the folks over at AMC an idea of what the public might have preferred. It might help them wrap up Mad Men in a more acceptable manner for the masses.

Breaking Fad: In the last episode, Todd forces Walt to cook one last batch with him at gunpoint. But he's heard through the grapevine that people are getting tired of the blue stuff, so he forces Walt to devise a new marketing ploy. Walt comes up with meth that makes a sound like Pop Rocks when you smoke it. It becomes all the rage, but Todd offs him anyway.

Breaking Plaid: Walt uses his eleven million dollars to quit the meth game, start a line of grunge clothing, and move to Seattle. When he gets there, everyone tells him that grunge ended twenty years ago, his car stopped being cool thirty years ago, and his goatee reeks of overage wanna-be hipster desperation. Walt gets depressed and becomes a meth addict himself.

Breaking Brad: As Walter's megalomania continues to spiral out of control, his bewildered family desperately brainstorms ways to reign him in. They decide that the only way to show Walter the fate that will inevitably befall him is to find someone with an even huger ego. One day, Walter comes home to see his entire house wallpapered with 12 Years a Slave movie posters inexplicably featuring Brad Pitt. Pitt's executive producer-turned-bit actor-turned-star's (?!) eyes seem to stare straight into Walt's soul. Walt realizes the error of his ways and Breaks Good (good meaning fair meaning white meaning Brad Pitt oops back to Brad Pitt damn!).

Breaking Sad: Walt goes to his local salon to get his mid-life crisis goatee touched up and hears "All By Myself" playing on the easy listening Muzak channel. He immediately has an epiphany and realizes how he has completely isolated himself from the people who love him most, specifically his wife Skylar. He dramatically rips off the cape thingie they put on people while they're trimming mid-life crisis goatees and races home to his beloved. He bursts through the front door, only to see Skylar and Jesse making out to Eric Carmen's other classic, "Hungry Eyes."

Breaking U MAD?: Skylar begins to show signs of being pregnant yet again. Although they have only been together once in the past year due to all the meth drama, Skylar nonetheless insists that the child is Walt's. Walt and Skylar decide to settle their beef once and for all, with an objective, wise, and respected mediator present. Once they're booked on the Maury Povich Show for a paternity episode, the stage is finally set for the truth to come out. They sit on opposite sides of the stage, shooting ice cold stares at one another. The studio audience tenses as Maury prepares to read the results: "Walter White, you are... NOT THE FATHER!" Walter jumps up and starts breakdancing in front of Skylar, yelling "Ooooooooh!!!!!!" in her face the entire time. Skylar collapses in a heap on stage as the camera slowly fades to black.

Kurt Vile-Never Run Away

When I was a kid, I would always get pumped up watching sporting events. After Dwight Gooden baffled hitters for eight innings, I would go play catch with my Dad, successfully imitating Gooden's wind-up while completely failing to imitate any actual pitch in his repertoire. After Jordan went for 52 against *insert helpless team*, I would instantly run out to our hoop and pretend I was him. Granted, I had a 30% shooting percentage and sank awkward layups instead of thunderous dunks, but it was close enough for me. While watching the Dolphins, I would pretend I was Dan Marino and Mark Clayton, lobbing the ball and running under it for a jaw dropping 1/2 yard touchdown reception.

Then came tennis. I started playing way too late to become a successful tournament player, but I love the sport. I started playing during summers in New York, somehow developing strokes resembling the taxi driver mutant from Total Recall whose arms unfold from being halfway tucked under his elbows. Thinking back on it, it makes a bit of sense that I learned/picked up on my forehand style during that time, as players like Sergi Bruguera were very successful using that stroke. I found a slow-motion example of it, and no, it doesn't break my wrist to hit like that.



The rest of my game is pretty flawed. My backhand is erratic due to disuse and lack of confidence, my serve is about as graceful as an obese woman wearing six-inch heels, and my volleying game-while I enjoy it-is only pretty good. If I played tennis-especially singles-more often, I think I could improve all of these things except for my serve. I need surgery or a time machine to improve that.

But this is tennis for me: After a day or week of being inside working and for the most part existing entirely inside my brain, I get to release everything. Cool, refreshing air, green courts with clear demarcations for in and out, and the ability to almost subconsciously use the skills acquired through the years to simply hit. the. ball. It's a great feeling, and even though there is obviously competition involved, there is an almost instant camaraderie built between two or four people hitting tennis balls. The longer rallies go, the more everyone builds off each other. A clear winner down the baseline, a tough half-volley picked up on the way to the net, or a clean ace down the T. These moments are enough to sustain me throughout even the most disheartening of matches. Maybe that's one of the reasons I never got that good. I'm from the Sportscenter generation. As long as get on the Top 10 plays, who even cares if I win!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go watch the end of the Wimbledon final, then pretend all of Great Britain is cheering for me as I dump groundstrokes into the bottom of the net.

Kurt Vile recently came out with a new album. I love his vocals. Looking forward to seeing him live soon.

Neon Neon-Raquel/Super Furry Animals-Sidewalk Serfer Girl

I grew up around art. My dad collected and wrote about art, so we always had it in the house. Beyond the aesthetics of the pieces, they were in a way like members of the family. No matter what happened, or where we moved, Archipenko's Boxers sculpture would always be in the family room, with Bauer's Triptych Symphony and that weird metronome with the creepy picture of the eye. We would pose for pictures standing in front of and mimicking Family Group, or swim in the pool under King Solomon's watchful eye. I'm surprised how strangely emotional it is when I see them these days.

I went to a ton of great museums on my recent trip to Spain, Italy, and Switzerland. Being around art for such an extended period of time brought me back to the days of living with art all around me. Harkening back to my childhood days, I'm going to awkwardly transfer the visual personalities of four of my favorite pieces that I saw into characters. WARNING: This is going to be stupid.




Meet Reed. Reed's a twenty-one-year-old advertising student with a drinking problem and an addiction to online poker. He's a talented art director, but not a talented poker player. Unfortunately, instead of staying up until three am working on campaigns, he's up until three in the morning blowing next quarter's tuition playing Hold 'Em. Last week he got jumped in an alley by three belligerent copywriters.



Meet Florence, a fifty-three-year-old heiress to the Elmer (the glue guy) fortune. She lives in an enormous chateau in the south of France, but derives absolutely no pleasure from the life of leisure her father's money affords her. She continuously pesters her father to let her start a fashion line with their endless supply of money, complaining that glue is "the most boring product ever created." Her father only laughs condescendingly and shuffles her back to the stables.



Meet Larry. He's a 66-year-old retired postal worker with chronic back pain, early onset dementia, and a strained relationship with his only son. He's been married for thirty-two years, but he and his wife Linda have said approximately seventy-five words to each other in the last five years. His dementia results in paranoia, anxiety, and the exacerbation of his already grumpy personality.



Meet Lance. He's a forty-two year old father of two, stuck in a dead-end-job at the Ford Motors factory in Detroit. He wants to quit and find a better, higher-paying job, but he knows that there's nothing better out there for him right now. His ex-wife is trying to take away his kids, and the only peace he ever finds is confined to the hour every day after work when he and his factory pals get to commiserate over lukewarm Coors Light and heartburn-inducing chicken wings at the local pub.


I saw Neon Neon in concert this past Friday. They're a band fronted by the lead singer of Super Furry Animals, a band I've liked for a long time. I'd never heard Neon Neon's music, but they were really fun. The live versions with a full band sound even better than the studio versions. There's two great things about this "Raquel" video: the song itself, and Raquel Welch, the woman the song and video are about.



Here's a great song by Super Furry Animals.

The Patrick Melrose Novels, Tennis, and Barcelona

Three current (new or ongoing) obsessions:


The Patrick Melrose novels:

It was one of those days when he made his secretary say that he was busy, and sat drinking in his club, beyond the reach of fevered children and women who pretended their hangovers were migraines. He liked to drink under the blue and gold ceiling of the morning room, where there was always a ripple left by the passage of important men. Dull, dissolute, and obscure members felt buoyed up by this atmosphere of power, as little dinghies bob up and down on their moorings when a big yacht sails out of the harbour they have shared.

When I read writing this good, I kind of want to flip out.



Tennis (not new, but I can't shake them):

My favorite song right now. I thought it would pass, but it just isn't. The guitar melody, her voice, 1:55, and the lyrics "we could be good but we don't live the way that we should." Gah. So good.



Another really good Tennis song, with a great video.





Barcelona: I only spent three and a half days there, but I loved it. Gorgeous, and seems like an exciting but livable city.

Happy Mother's Day! The Mount Rushmore of Weird White Women

Let's get one thing straight right off the bat. Superman 2 is the best Superman film ever. You agree, right? Ok, good. Well, remember that scene where Zod and friends change the faces on Mount Rushmore? Totally awesome, right?



In honor of Mother's Day, I'm going to do my own defacing of Mount Rushmore. Cause really, who isn't tired of George's dour mug staring at us all day long? I'm going to replace those four old white dudes with four middle-aged white women! Why? Because they represent everything that is right with our fair land, even if only one of them is actually from here.

Bjork is a-how do I put it- slightly overprotective mom. Here's some video evidence:



She's also a tiger mom, but not in the figurative sense. I guess you could say she's more a bald-mom-that-morphs-into-a-cyber-liger-mom. Makes for interesting parent-teacher-conferences.




Kate Bush wrote one of the greatest pop songs ever when she was thirteen, so she's got very high expectations for her children. Sure, you've got straight A's, but where's the #1 single????!!! Get it together, kid.




PJ Harvey is probably the best mom here. She's weird, for sure, but very accepting of her children's eccentricities. She actually signs her kids up for primal scream therapy. She says it gets out any repressed anger that might be held over from a past life. Below is one of her personal sessions.




Liz Phair is a TMI mom. When her daughter was ten, she was telling her stories about one-night stands and college experimentation. She's a great storyteller, but an ABORT button would be useful at times.




Have a happy Mother's Day, and be nice to your Mom. No matter how tense your relationship might be at times, at least she's not Ursa from Superman 2.

Ursa's cold as ice! You invite her to Planet Houston for Mother's Day dinner, and she brings over this big hairy lug who keeps trying to set the meat loaf on fire by shooting lasers out of his eyes. You send a floral arrangement to show her your love, and she laughs at the pathetic sentimentality of humans. She never truly accepts Lois as a member of the family, and you even get the feeling she's jealous of your relationship. That's without even mentioning Uncle Zod, who rides you so hard that you inevitably start throwing each other into billboards. I swear, it's like they're from another planet!

Chromatics-Kill For Love/Yeah Yeah Yeahs-Down Boy (Live on Letterman)

The Outside Lands lineup was finally announced a couple weeks ago, and it's actually really good. Here are some of the acts I'm most excited about (I'm gonna try and rank them in my head, in case there are any time conflicts):

- Jessie Ware: Really dig her last album.
- Kurt Vile & the Violators: Really liked the Smoke Rings For My Halo album, need to listen to his new album.
- Phoenix: Saw them live once. They put on a solid concert, and they have a lot of good songs. They have a new album out that I haven't listened to yet.
- Yeah Yeah Yeahs: I only really like some of their songs, but I think Karen O is really fun to watch perform.
- Paul McCartney: He would be on the top if I hadn't already seen him live. He was great, and I'll see him again if there isn't some crazy conflict/the stage is COMPLETELY swamped.
- Daryll Hall & John Oates: This is not ironic. They legitimately rule.
- The National: Really solid rock band. Seen them before, will see them again. They also have a new album out.
- Chromatics: Haven't heard too many songs, but I really like a couple. Definitely want to check them out.
- Nine Inch Nails: I loved Pretty Hate Machine and a few assorted tracks in high school. I never listen to them anymore, but it'd still be a trip to see them.
- Wavves: I like what I've heard, which admittedly isn't that much. I'd definitely check him out.
- Jurassic 5: Good (but not great, in my opinion) rap group. Definitely want to check them out, though.
- Grizzly Bear: Solid band. Saw them live once, and they didn't blow me away. They have some really good songs, though, so I'm down to see them again.
- Red Hot Chili Peppers: Never was a huge fan, but they obviously have some good songs. I saw a snippet of their Coachella performance, and they actually seemed to be rocking out pretty hard. I feel like some of their languorous early 2000s songs might come off a bit better live.
- D' Angelo: He's probably solid live. I'm gonna try and check him out.
- The Tallest Man on Earth: I really liked The Wild Hunt for a bit, then I kinda got over it. He's ok, though. Time slots will dictate whether I see him.
- Band of Horses: Used to really like a few of their songs, but they were kinda boring live, and none of their new stuff has really captivated me. Time slots will also dictate whether I see them.


Totally on the fence about:

- Willie Nelson: I feel like I should like him more than I do? Meh. It'll probably be a sh**show at his stage, so I'll probably pass on this one. Hope he doesn't croak on stage.
- Camper Van Beethoven: Ok, these guys are actually a really classic indie band. I d/led an album a long time ago, and just didn't listen to it. I'm gonna listen to some of their stuff, and I have a feeling I'll be seeing them.
- A-Trak: I know he's really talented, but there's a pretty decent chance he'll be playing crap music. And it'll be hipsterpacolypse 2013 in his tent, anyway.
- Youth Lagoon: I kinda like the couple songs I've heard. We'll see.
- Yeasayer: People like them? I think? I've never heard them. I'll check them out before the festival.


So that's 16 acts I'm at the least fairly excited to see, probably 17 in the end. Not bad for a medium-sized festival in the city I live in. I'm pumped!


Here's a good Chromatics song.




And watch this Yeah Yeah Yeahs clip. It's not even an amazing song, but look!! She's actually performing! She has stage presence! And charisma! Doesn't happen often these days. Watch Dave at the end. He absolutely won't let go of her hand. Stalkward!

Clinic-Without You/The Equaliser

I found out this week that my favorite NFL team, the Miami Dolphins, are changing their logo. Not a big deal, right? WRONG. They have one of the most classic NFL logos ever. Now, after a long and storied history of success with this great logo, the Dolphins are trying to become "current" (read: sell more jerseys). Here is their new and old logo side by side:




The old logo (on the right) was great because the dolphin was anthropomorphized. It had a pissed off expression on its face, and it was even wearing a helmet! This new one is lifeless and boring, obviously part of the trend of trying to make logos look more "techy" and futuristic. Screw that. Another example of this is the Patriots' logos. Here they are side by side.



The old logo on the left is amazing. It's like an angry Paul Revere ready to spring into action and beat your ***. Pays homage to New England's history and looks really cool. The new one is just like the new Dolphins' logo: streamlined but antiseptic, completely devoid of character and personality. This is why I love the games where they wear the throwback jerseys.

Being a former advertising guy, I love well done logos. Here are a few of my other favorites.


Classic, clean, and fits (what I perceive to be) the brand personality. Love it.


Amazing. The colors are great, the picture is perfect, and the bubbly font evokes a fun brand that doesn't take itself too seriously. It positions itself as a contrast to a lot of the other snooty coffee/breakfast chains.


This one is simple, but it's well done. Clean, classic font, vivid colors, and it perfectly sets up all the topical variations that Google does throughout the year.

I might not be in advertising anymore, but cool design still makes me happy.

Clinic has a new album, and though I've kind of lost interest in them a bit, there's some promising tracks on it. And they worked with the awesome Daniel Lopatin (Ford & Lopatin, Oneohtrix Point Never) on it, which is endlessly intriguing. Here's a cool track on their new one, and an older track that I love.

The Knife-Full of Fire

Some of my friends have an all-female book club, and I've been jealous about this for a while. So this year, partially out of spite, I decided to start an all-male book club. It was started for the secondary reason that I don't get to do much pleasure reading during the school year, and it's been really great in that respect. We're on our seventh book, and so far there's only been one clunker. And regardless of the quality of the book, it's always fun to just hang out.

We've read a good variety of books, but there are certain genres we tend to keep our distance from. Here is a list of some hypothetical titles (with short "descriptions) of books we will definitely not be reading:

Trudy Johnson and the Orange County Divorcees Hit Rodeo Drive: Trudy Johnson, a recent divorcee of Peter Reynolds, hedge fund manager extraordinaire, has just received a $75 million settlement for the humiliation of walking in on Peter and his administrative assistant "putting together an annual report." No longer tied down by her $35,000 a week allowance, she is ready to shop! In this captivating account of one woman's quest to purchase an entire block of gaudy couture in one fell swoop, our heroine overcomes seemingly insurmountable obstacles like slow valet attendants, Armani dress size limitations, and flustered high end retail workers.


Spun Out: The Rise and Fall of Billy Joe Williams, Nascar Wunderkind: Publisher's note: wunderkind-one who succeeds in a competitive or highly difficult field or profession at an early age. This electrifying memoir charts the journey of Billy Joe Williams from skid row to pit row and back again. Billy Joe describes his childhood in Waldo, Florida, where he passed the time wrasslin' alligators and romancing distant relatives. He charts his meteoric rise to the top of the Nascar world, as well his long-time addiction to huffing nitrous oxide. Publisher's Weekly says that "Spun Out will blow your tire and run over the pit crew in your heart.'


Blood Lust 3: Forty Shades of Burgundy: In this steamy tale of vampire erotica, Rod Magnum has blood, and love, on his mind. He meets Mindy Starr on a late-night "fast food run," and she becomes the next victim of his insatiable lust for human flesh. She happily steps over to the dark side, where as a couple they stalk their victims in strip malls and large retail stores. Pretty soon the entire town is turned into a blood-sucking, bargain-hunting pack of nymphomaniacs. People magazine calls Blood Lust "even bloodier and bolder than its predecessors... sure to leave you thirsty for more."

Finally there's a new Knife album!

John Talabot-When The Past Was Present

I've seen some really dumb commercials lately. Really dumb. I know there are good commercials being made, but unfortunately the large majority of them aren't shown on mainstream American television.

At one point in my life I made the decision to switch from being an advertising writer to an English teacher. It was a good decision for me, but every once in a while I still think about the fun I occasionally used to have writing ads. So what if I could somehow combine my current job and my former job? It would of course entail coming up with products that could be used by the characters in the books I teach. I'll come up with a brand, then write a little ad copy for it.


Macbeth's Super-Strength Industrial Hand Soap: Got a little blood on your hands?! Well, sometimes you need a little more than just Neptune's oceans and the perfumes of Arabia to get out the really nasty stains. Now you can clean your hands and cleanse your conscience with the greatest of ease. Will these hands ne'er be clean?! Yes they will, Lady Macbeth. Yes they will. Macbeth's Super-Strength Industrial Hand Soap. Now available in multitudinous seas size.


Lennie's Extra Strength Stuffed Animals: Have you been getting in trouble by inadvertently killing small animals? Are you just a big ole lug that's incapable of playing nice, due to oversized hands and an undersized intellect? We all know that sometimes the best intentions end in small fractures and big mistakes, so we've created Lennie's Extra Strength Stuffed Animals. They will always be there for you, because they're composed of 100% cotton and are even less ambitious than George. So squeeze away, big guy, cause these stuffed animals can take it!


Holden Caulfield Truth Serum: Are you a pathological liar? Do you compulsively "chuck the crap," even when you don't want to? Does this leave you feeling sad, isolated, and obsessed with duck migration? Then try the new Holden Caulfield truth serum. Just one swig and you'll be telling Mrs. Morrow how much of an ass her son really is. You'll be able to tell Mr. Spencer that you don't really have to go get your equipment, but that his house reeks of Vicks and death. Sure, it might be a bit more awkward in the short term, but in the end you'll feel a lot better. Trust me, and trust yourself, with Holden Caulfield Truth Serum.


Piggy Comeback Generator: Are you constantly being made fun of for your portly physique? Do you keep digging yourself holes by mentioning incriminating nicknames and helicopter aunts? Then you need the Piggy Comeback Generator. When Jack starts in on you for being a lazy good for nothing, the Piggy Comeback Generator will spout a "ginger" crack to cut him down to size. When Ralph starts making fun of your unfortunate nickname, the Comeback Generator will snap back that it's more likely that his Dad is at the bottom of the Atlantic than he's going to swoop down and rescue the boys. You see, it's not that you're overweight, it's that you have the wit of a sea turtle on Prozac. That's why you need the Piggy Comeback Generator.


This John Talabot song is a grower.

Stevie Nicks-backstage singing "Wild Heart"/Fleetwood Mac-Sara; Gypsy

Stevie Nicks must have joined Narcotics Anonymous at some point. I have a feeling, however, that she was probably a reluctant participant. Here's how it might have gone:

Stevie: Must we really do this?
Assistant #1: Now, Stevie, you know that cop on Wilshire Boulevard said that the only way you were going to get out of your eighth cocaine possession charge was to go to at least three of these. Maybe there's a sign-up sheet we can find, so Adrian can just forge it for you the next two times.
Stevie: What, you think people won't know I'm not actually here?! I'm f*cking Stevie Nicks! Maybe Christine [McVie] could get away with that, but I sure can't. Where is Adrian, anyway?
Assistant #2: Right here, Stevie! Do you need anything? Can I get you a drink? It's Narcotics Anonymous, but no one said anything about alcohol.
Stevie: Yeah, just dump out a Coke can and pour it in there. I want them to at least think that I'm taking this seriously.
NA guy: OK, everyone, let's get started! I'm very proud of you all for being here. I see many familiar faces, but we at the Beverly Hills Home for Wayward Celebrities pride ourselves on exercising the utmost discretion. Your secrets are safe with us!
Stevie: These people may be celebrities, but they have really let themselves go. Sure, I almost blew a hole in my nose from doing so many lines, but I never left the house without makeup on and at least three top dollar shawls wrapped around me.
Assistant #4: Now, Stevie, we must keep in mind that not all of these people have what you have. I mean who else could have ripped out the hearts of two male band members and juggled them in front of a less good-looking and talented female band member, all the while belting out some of the most memorable soft rock songs ever?
Stevie: Well... you do have a point there.
NA guy: Ok! You, in the back, Ms. Nicks, would you like to introduce yourself to the group?
Stevie: Sure. Hello, my name is Stevie, and I'm the most incredible female rock vocalist ever.
Assistant #5 (whispering): Uhh, Stevie. I think you're supposed to say that line everyone says at the beginning of meetings about being an addict.
Stevie: Oh! Sorry! My name is Stevie, and I'm an addict. A really talented, beautiful, slightly tormented addict. With eight #1 hits. And five gold records. And a better house than you. And... oh, just let me play some clips...








I don't know how people can call Fleetwood Mac "easy listening." Stevie Nicks has a voice that could start wars, bring corpses out of their graves, and cause grown men to become drug mules for Fleetwood Mac world tours.

Lower Dens-Brains

There are 130 Crayola crayon colors listed on Wikipedia, and frankly, I feel like that's too much. You can tell that they're stretching it by the names of the colors. Some of them sound more like Garbage Pail Kids than crayon colors. In fact, I'm going to see how many Garbage Pail Kids I can match with Crayola colors. Why? I HAVE NO IDEA.


Crayola color: Screamin' Green
Garbage Pail Kid: Screaming Mimi


"Screamin'Green" is a flourescent-ish version of green, and thus has a positive connotation of fun and excitement.
"Screaming Mimi" is a young girl fleeing in agony from a colony/pack/herd/flock (wah?) of bees. Let the record show that this ingenious card was released before My Girl, the Macaluay Culkin film where pretty much the exact same thing happens to him (the bees catch up). There's probably a lawsuit there.


Crayola color: Blizzard Blue
Garbage Pail Kid: Blizzard Blake


"Blizzard Blue" is basically sky blue. So kick that color to the curb.
"Blizzard Blake" is a poor little skier kid trapped inside a snow cone. A claustrophobic's hypothermic nightmare! This one's pretty powerful.


Crayola color: Laser Lemon
Garbage Pail Kid: Laser Ray


"Laser Lemon" is yellow. Killing me, Crayola.
"Laser Ray" isn't a cool sounding name. I mean I get the link between laser and ray, but it just falls flat. In terms of the visual, Ray obviously just lost a friendly (or not so friendly, judging by the background) game of laser guns backyard fun-time. Meh.

Crayola color: Hot Magenta
Garbage Pail Kid: Hot Rod


Yeah, I don't even know what "Hot Magenta" is, though it seems like it's just magenta with a marketing plan.
"Hot Rod" is riding backwards in a souped up baby carriage at a rate of speed that's making his eyeballs plunge out of the sockets. Plus his tongue is hot magenta. Nice bit of synchronicity there. Surely this is a metaphorical plea for the minimum driving age to be raised.


Crayola color: Electric Lime
Garbage Pail Kid: Electric Bill


"Electric Lime" is a pretty cool color. I'd have probably made some sick dinosaurs with this crayon when I was a kid.
"Electric Bill" is rather disturbing. Once again, Garbage Pail Kids tackling the weighty issues. Should juveniles be tried as adults for serious crimes? WE KNOW WHERE GARBAGE PAIL KIDS STANDS.


Lower Dens has a really great song called "Brains." Sounds very influenced by Neu!, an awesome krautrock band. Somebody tell that lead singer to crack a smile, though. Give her some crayons or something.

My Bloody Valentine-Soft as Snow (But Warm Inside); Only Shallow; In Another Way

It was a normal Friday morning. As I slept peacefully in my bed, my dreams were colored by the pleasant notion of the oncoming weekend. I slept the sleep of the content, subconsciously looking forward to one last productive day before a weekend of fun and relaxation. But this was to be no ordinary morning.

I do not often remember my dreams. But in this one I began to feel pain, a sharp pain that I couldn't exactly place. As the dream receded and the pain increased, I woke up with a start. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that this pain was no figment of an overactive imagination. It was real. There was a mangy cat gnawing on the side of my right ear! Half asleep, I instinctively grabbed it by the tail and flung it off my ear. The feral feline let out a gargled, "MMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW" as it flew across my room, and it hit the wall of my apartment with a sickening thud. I jumped to my feet and grabbed the side of my ear. Blood dripped down the side of my head, slowly saturating the side of my shirt.

I ran to the bathroom and washed off my ear. Visions of bad Steven King novels began to race through my head. Would I get rabies? Would I start foaming at the mouth and eventually begin chewing off the ears of unsuspecting passersby? All I knew was that I had to get to a hospital before I found out. I didn't want to be the beginning of the zombie apocalypse. Not here. Not now.

The cat. What was the cat doing? I crept back into my bedroom, unsure of what to expect. The cat lay huddled in a heap in the corner, whining softly. It had to be feral, for it had no resemblance to a normal household cat. It was gaunt, with two large black eyes set too deep in their sockets. The cat didn't seem to be too hurt, except for a leg that lay curled under its stomach. Now that I was awake and alert, my fear and anger subsided. Sure, it was by no means a fluffy cat, or even a domesticated, halfway civilized one, but a cat it was. As long as it wasn't going to transform me into a flesh-eating zombie, I bore it no ill will. Suddenly my morning was transformed from a peaceful day of work and Friday afternoon relaxation to a trip to the emergency room and animal control.

Nibbles the Feral Cat and I obviously had a rocky start to our relationship. But the moment he sunk his teeth into my unsuspecting cartilage, an unbreakable bond was forged. Once I learned that he was not a danger to himself or society, he stopped being a threat. And he seemed to develop a kind of Feline Stockholm Syndrome, and as I prepared to leave him behind at animal control, he gazed at me with the saddest, most beseeching eyes I have ever seen in a feral cat in all my days. So I kept him. And day by day, steroid-infused bowl of Sheba by steroid-infused bowl of Sheba, Nibbles is becoming less feral and more fiery. Now I know that the only ears that Nibbles is gonna be gnawing on are that of intruders and enemies to his master.

Out of nowhere, My Bloody Valentine has a new album out! The follow-up to their 1991 (!) masterpiece Loveless. I've just started listening to it, but so far it's very intriguing. I'll post great songs from their three albums below.

Love-Alone Again Or

I need a room to write in. Living in a studio apartment means that I only write in places that are usually used for relaxing. I have a desk in the kitchen, but my kitchen is small and drab, with white walls, a white refrigerator, white countertops, and white cupboards. If the KKK ate marshmallows while having a cotton ball fight in there, it'd go perfectly with the decor.

I either write on my couch or in bed. I try to sit up, but inevitably I'm leaning back against the wall or couch in a semi-prone position. Certainly this can't be good for my writerly work ethic! What I need is a small desk to put in my bedroom/living room. Or a smaller couch. My sectional, in all its blue leather glory, monopolizes the space in my apartment. Needless to say, I have some serious interior decorating conundrums to tackle.

Writing in a cafe is okay, but there's too many distractions. One of my favorite cafes has one major drawback. The door is large and wood, and apparently the hinges are constantly hosed down with WD-40. Whenever anyone comes in, it slams shut loudly enough to wake Abraham Lincoln from the dead in time to watch the premier of his new movie. I try to brace myself, but, inevitably, every time it slams I am jolted out of whatever tenuous concentration zone I have managed to wriggle myself into.

Another local cafe is a viable option, but it also has a couple serious drawbacks. It gets busy, and sometimes the only seats are by the window. These seats are pulverized by the sun, and within minutes I'm sweating like I'm picking oranges in the Florida sun. The cappuccino machine is also impossibly loud, with a sudden loud sucking sound that seems like it could yank my brains out through my ear. That leaves about four seats, perfectly positioned far enough away from both the windows and the kitchen, that are safe for me to sit in and write.

Stephen King said in On Writing that a comfortable writing space is essential for a writer. Hopefully, once I get that, I can circumvent certain other "necessities" such as attention span, consistent work ethic, and significant talent.

Miguel-Adorn

We both have exams tomorrow. We've reached that point of stress where we can't even comprehend the stress anymore. We're numb to it. All those days sitting in the back of a 400 person lecture hall, squinting our eyes to make out the professor droning on in the front of the class. European History 1680-1820. Exactly how do they decide how to demarcate these years? Maybe I'd know if I'd studied harder. All I know is nothing interests me until about 1880, and even that's a stretch.

I stare fiercely at my notes, trying to instantaneously set to memory approximately 73,000 facts. I feel like the blockhead villain from Superman II trying to set a branch on fire with his eyes. If I just concentrate hard enough, focus enough energy straight down at the page, all this information I should have been slowly committing to memory over the past four weeks will be sucked into my brain like errant pennies into a vacuum cleaner.

I look over at Jimmy, and he looks as clueless and burnt out as I do.

"Man, we're screwed," I say, leaning over and punching him on the shoulder.

"No, YOU'RE SCREWED. I'm merely on the verge of being put on academic probation if I fail this dumb*ss class."

"That sucks. Guess it's Five Star Pizza, a two liter of Mountain Dew, and Napoleon's bloated corpse to keep us company tonight."

"Awesome..."


Five hours later, we have both consumed approximately six greasy slices of Five Star Pizza, and our triumphant belches indicate that the Mountain Dew supply has been depleted. Our greatest accomplishment, however, is not becoming experts on the Napoleonic Wars. Instead, the early morning sun shines in on an 8 X 10 foot wall of our apartment newly wallpapered with rave flyers.

Florescent planets orbit around a bubble font, announcing DJ Stylus, one of our favorites, spinning from 12-2 am at Firestone. A hippie flower font celebrates a set by Superstar DJ Keoki, sure to produce enough cacophonous house music to precipitate a migraine headache. Fisher-Price men represent breakbeat DJs, set against a kindergarten binder paper background for a reunion flyer. A picture of a kid chewing on a record proclaims a big night at Simon's with all the residents. Twenty-five flyers, meticulously taped to the wall for no other reason than to continue our epic procrastination session.

"Man, that looks pretty dope."

"Yeah."

"How many hours we got left?"

"Well, it's 6:!5 now. Class is at 10:40. I'm gonna sleep for an hour, study for two, then see what the hell happens."

"Eh. If I go to sleep I'll never wake up. I'll be out here..."

I can't for the life of me remember what we got on that test, but we tore down the wallpaper within about two weeks.

Ty Segall Band-I Bought My Eyes

My grandmother just kept repeating my last name over and over. We didn't have a language in common, so I guess that's all she could think of to say. She was in her late eighties, and as a nineteen-year-old I was meeting her for the first time since I was an infant. The hotel she lived in in Lucern was very glamorous, with impossibly high ceilings and gold stairway railings. My grandmother, though hunched-over with withered skin, was made up like a thirty-year-old. Her lipstick was a vibrant red, and her expensive-looking jewelry dangled loosely on her tiny arms.

When I walked into her room, all I saw were pictures and paintings of my mother. A Warhol-type painting of my mother's face, mostly black with outlines of pink and bright green. A soft-looking photograph where she gazed contentedly into the camera. A picture of her in a bright orange sun dress, walking a Yorkie through the streets of Paris. An abstract painting of my mother's profile, but with the distinctively soft features and short bob of red hair.

I didn't know what to make of this room. Was it a moving tribute to her deceased daughter, or a sad indication of a woman that had never been able to move on? It seemed like the room was haunted by a beautiful ghost, and although I couldn't communicate with my grandmother, I felt like I could feel her sadness permeating the air. All I could do was hug her and smile.

My grandmother passed away soon after I visited, and I can't say I felt much sadness. I didn't really know her at all, and she had seemed so old already. The sadness I felt was thinking that she might have looked at those beautiful pictures every day and not rejoiced in the memory of her daughter, but instead questioned what she could have done differently.

Television-Guiding Light; Tennis-Guiding Light

I'm finishing up a weekend at Asilomar, an English teacher conference in Pacific Grove. The majority of my time has been spent in a Creative Nonfiction breakout group, and it's been really amazing. I've read incredible pieces, talked to and heard from inspiring people, and had the opportunity to do my own writing and share it with others. It's really been great, and I just hope I can come back next year and do it again.

In the midst of a busy school year, it can seem difficult to justify a weekend without a lot of time set aside for grading essays, writing letters of recommendation, etc. However, I feel so pumped up to bring these lessons back to my students, and so excited to just have the opportunity to be an English teacher and a writer (d****eb*g alert, I know, but I'm using the definition of writer simply as "one who writes").

There were "fireside chats" as well, about "Memoir as History" (totally up my alley) and "Technology in the Classroom" (needs to be up my alley). The two sessions were completely different, but the people I heard speak were so passionate, and had such strong views-it really sparked some great conversations and food for thought.

I'm sure I sound like I've drank some serious teacher Kool-Aid, but I don't care. F*ck cynicism. This weekend ruled, and teaching rules. And Television rules! And Tennis' cover version rules, though to a slightly lesser extent than the original, like a movie made out of a great book! BAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!