Tuna's Call Answered
I have now finished Richard Dooling's four-novel tour around America, and I can comfortably say that each is entertaining, smart and flawed. White Man's Grave, which tackles reason vs. superstition, ethical relativism vs. absolutism, and rule of law vs. tribal law, is set mostly in West Africa and explores in painstaking detail the witchcraft that runs prevalent through the Sierra Leone jungle. He delivers some scathing satire on peace corps idealists, PC Nazis and secular rationalists, but the plot often bogs down in the minute details of hoodoo juju. It’s my least favorite, so of course it Dooling’s only National Book Award nominee.
Dooling started his journey with Critical Care in 1992, a nearly plotless peephole into late-night residents desperately trying to keep their descending “veges” from dying on their shifts. Our cynical and sleep-deprived hero-resident gets sucked into a legal nightmare after falling for the model/daughter of one of his “beds,” as she wants to keep her father from suffering by pulling the plug, and she wants him to do it for her. Sleeping with him is offered as enticement. All will eventually be revealed to our blurry eyed protagonist, but along the way Dooling takes his shots at surgeons as gods, heart-hardened hospital “technicians,” and euthanasia supporters. Tied up way too neatly with a wise nun, but worth the short ride if only for the alcoholic Dr. Butz, whose one extended Korsakoff-inspired scene makes it worth the price.
Bet Your Life goes after the insurance industry by illustrating how policies are written to keep Big Insurance from ever paying off. It’s also a techno-thriller that defies plausibility but hums along on its own weird hyperdrive. We’re a long way from the Nebraska of About Schmidt, with drug-popping, tech-savvy Aids-infected anti-heroes dotting the landscape, but it peals back insurance cynicism and reinforced my belief that insurance is a sucker's game. I skip warranties too.
My favorite is Brain Storm, another nearly impossible novel to summarize, so let’s just list. Neuroscientists, white supremacists, hate-crime statutes and big-time law firms all get the Dooling treatment, which means subtle and not-so-subtle skewering. You get black humor and you get folks far wittier and razor-sharp than anyone you’ll ever meet in real life. You get speeches that explain everything, and you get sexy women using their gifts to get what they want. What they want, of course, is never what it first appears to be. If I had to recommend, I’d go Brain Storm, Bet Your Life, Critical Care and White Man’s Grave, but all with reservations.
31 October 2005
27 October 2005
25 October 2005
Happy St. Crispin's Day!
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
24 October 2005
Reading About Lemmy on a Sunny Afternoon
My introduction to college life was the long-haired dude in the dorm room next door blasting Motorhead. It took me a year to trade Eddie Money ("Shakin', whooooaaaaaa, Snappin' her fingers"), for Lemmy, but I finally did, and I've had a soft spot for the wart-faced Brit ever since. Now, "Gimme Some Water" sounds just fine after "Jailbait," and we don't have to make such arbitrary lines in the aural sand. In fact, I'd like to party with both of 'em. Maybe at McNally's. Or The Roundup. Anyway, White Line Fever, Lemmy's autobiography, is a tad disappointing. The Lemster's alleged razor intelligence metalheads headshakingly mention is nowhere in evidence, and he trashtalks just about everybody he discusses. Many of 'em seem like unnecessary cheap shots on folks who can't defend themselves, which leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth, like stumbling in on your parents' friends when they're confessing adulterous crimes. But he is Lemmy after all, so the stories come fast and furious, and you get the standard behind-the-scenes gossip. Even the controversial paragraph about 9/11 that comes at the end just ain't that controversial, though. Overall, this will get ya to pull Ace of Spades out of the cobwebs and it was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, but it ain't no Lords of Chaos.
23 October 2005
Gimme Benign Dictatorship, Or Give Me Lobbyists
Fareed Zakaria's The Future of Freedom has a simple thesis, and it's just too bad that the neo-cons have no interest in it. He argues that democracy is no surefire cure for what ails developing nations, and if folks try it too soon, it can be disastrous. He also argues that America has become too democratic, with the subsequent result a country run by special interests supposedly representing populist interests. Zakaria moves quickly around the world to show that only nations with a certain level of per capita income have a likely chance of democratic success. More important, he says, is to develop liberal institutions, even if those come by autocratic fiat. In even plainer language- democracy does not equal freedom, if it does not produce the institutions that can ensure individual rights. The cry of the Left that the only cure for democracy is more democracy is poppycock, Zakaria argues, and he uses California as one of his key examples. The proposition and referendum agenda has been a disaster for the state (hello Prop 13), and the denouncement of elites from all corners puts complex issues into the hands of folks who are ill-equipped to understand them. The book was written pre-Iraq, but there is a short paperback-only chapter that addresses that debacle. Zakaria is writing for the masses, so his prose is spare as is the work- it's a tidy 264 pages. Mothing earth-shattering here, but timeliness is next to secularness. It's just another reminder that screaming "democracy" at the top of your lungs is not always the answer to all complex political problems. Far better to work economic reform, secure order and institutionalize rights that can ultimately lead to democracy. Then, limit the shit out of that system- otherwise you end up with K-street, and who needs to see another 500 million red power ties shooting down beneath turtle-shell horned rims. I don't, that's for sure.
Fareed Zakaria's The Future of Freedom has a simple thesis, and it's just too bad that the neo-cons have no interest in it. He argues that democracy is no surefire cure for what ails developing nations, and if folks try it too soon, it can be disastrous. He also argues that America has become too democratic, with the subsequent result a country run by special interests supposedly representing populist interests. Zakaria moves quickly around the world to show that only nations with a certain level of per capita income have a likely chance of democratic success. More important, he says, is to develop liberal institutions, even if those come by autocratic fiat. In even plainer language- democracy does not equal freedom, if it does not produce the institutions that can ensure individual rights. The cry of the Left that the only cure for democracy is more democracy is poppycock, Zakaria argues, and he uses California as one of his key examples. The proposition and referendum agenda has been a disaster for the state (hello Prop 13), and the denouncement of elites from all corners puts complex issues into the hands of folks who are ill-equipped to understand them. The book was written pre-Iraq, but there is a short paperback-only chapter that addresses that debacle. Zakaria is writing for the masses, so his prose is spare as is the work- it's a tidy 264 pages. Mothing earth-shattering here, but timeliness is next to secularness. It's just another reminder that screaming "democracy" at the top of your lungs is not always the answer to all complex political problems. Far better to work economic reform, secure order and institutionalize rights that can ultimately lead to democracy. Then, limit the shit out of that system- otherwise you end up with K-street, and who needs to see another 500 million red power ties shooting down beneath turtle-shell horned rims. I don't, that's for sure.
19 October 2005
More Books
Musical apathy has thrown me into another reading bender, so let's get on with it-
Lexicon Devil: The Fast Times and Short Life of Darby Crash and The Germs is so goddamned infectious that most of one hungover Saturday went to it and had me pulling out not only GI, but the likes of My War, Group Sex and Los Angeles. This oral biography demystifies the cult legend that's grown around Darby since his suicidal overdose, illuminating the forces that led to his demise. Evidently, living alone with your 270 pound schizophrenic mom, attending one of the nation's first school-within-a-schools featuring the loving strategies stolen from EST and gestalt therapy, ingesting drugs blindly and at great pace and quantity, exploring mostly texts dealing with manipulative power and how to get folks to do what you want them to, denying publicly homosexuality that you are really, really ashamed of, and you have the basic elements of Darby's rise and fall. This book is so well organized, however, that it becomes much more than just a rehash of decadent stories. It puts the evolution of LA punk into historical perspective and clearly shows how the aesthetics of anything goes, DIY early punk gave way to the dogma and violence of hardcore, and it sadly illustrates the sordid lives of so many of that early p-rock circle. Even if you've never heard of Darby Crash or have run screaming from a party with GI on the turntable, you should still be riveted by this one.
Francis Wheen's Idiot Proof is one Brit's attempt to decapitate stupidity and serve its lopped off head on a platter of the Complete Works of Kant to Descartes. Wheen is just the latest in a series of curmudgeons bemoaning the descent of reason in public debate and culture, and this surly curmudgeon can only applaud. Yes, the proverbial ducks in the barrel get water in their eyes, as astrology, Princess Di mourners and Deepak Chopra put their necks under the blade. But Wheen is not just a sardonic pop cultie man, as he strangles post-modernists (Foucault and Derrida go unloved here), lashes globalists (Tom Friedman lovers beware) and slaughters cabalists (Noam Chomsky, you blindly hating punk). The essays are erudite and funny, and after 100 pages you feel like you've just settled in with a favorite uncle in front of the hearth who keeps plying you with bourbon and then illuminates the proper way for a drunken gentleman to live in the world. I didn't agree with everything, but he was always sharp and crackling and entertaining. Idiot proof I am now not, bumbling up the stairs post-Sharks debacle, but I can pretend.
Mark Reisner's A Dangerous Place: California's Unsettling Fate is the scariest book I've probably ever read. I'm guessing most of America digested this account of what could happen in the next big Cali quake with secret or open glee, praying that the Vegas beachfront property would finally be theirs oh theirs and that the fucking fruitbaskets dragging down the GOP electoral vote would finally be resting in the watery grave they deserve, but I just poured drinks and sweat. Reisner didn't really finish the book, as he was dying of cancer when he wrote it (what kind of sad and sick irony is that? desperately trying to finish a book to warn folks about massive death and destruction while you're going down yourself), but he made clear to folks that he wanted what he left behind published in some form, and some form is what we get. It comes in two parts: the first is a brief history of the forces that shaped California, divided once more, as we like to do here in the Bay Area, into North and South. Reisner's mini-history is colorful and full of haveachuckle details, and it makes a solid case for how the character of each region came to be what it is. Gears grind quickly, however, in part two, as Reisner narrates a what if scenario about the Bay Area if the Hayward Fault (that's right kids, we sit astride it right here in ultra-overpriced Rockridge) were to deliver the kind of seismic friction scientists predict is on its merry way. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that Oaktown don't fare so pretty, and the resultant power outages, floods, freeway collapses, communication breakdowns, fires, water shortages, etc., paint an Armageddon portrait that this grizzled ostrich is failing to repress. If there is a thesis, it is this: the quake is coming, and it will fuck things up unlike anything we've seen. Living here means accepting some potentially unimaginable ramifications, so enjoy the view while it lasts. Thus, I ask you: if I get the barn studio in Portland, will you come?
Musical apathy has thrown me into another reading bender, so let's get on with it-
Lexicon Devil: The Fast Times and Short Life of Darby Crash and The Germs is so goddamned infectious that most of one hungover Saturday went to it and had me pulling out not only GI, but the likes of My War, Group Sex and Los Angeles. This oral biography demystifies the cult legend that's grown around Darby since his suicidal overdose, illuminating the forces that led to his demise. Evidently, living alone with your 270 pound schizophrenic mom, attending one of the nation's first school-within-a-schools featuring the loving strategies stolen from EST and gestalt therapy, ingesting drugs blindly and at great pace and quantity, exploring mostly texts dealing with manipulative power and how to get folks to do what you want them to, denying publicly homosexuality that you are really, really ashamed of, and you have the basic elements of Darby's rise and fall. This book is so well organized, however, that it becomes much more than just a rehash of decadent stories. It puts the evolution of LA punk into historical perspective and clearly shows how the aesthetics of anything goes, DIY early punk gave way to the dogma and violence of hardcore, and it sadly illustrates the sordid lives of so many of that early p-rock circle. Even if you've never heard of Darby Crash or have run screaming from a party with GI on the turntable, you should still be riveted by this one.
Francis Wheen's Idiot Proof is one Brit's attempt to decapitate stupidity and serve its lopped off head on a platter of the Complete Works of Kant to Descartes. Wheen is just the latest in a series of curmudgeons bemoaning the descent of reason in public debate and culture, and this surly curmudgeon can only applaud. Yes, the proverbial ducks in the barrel get water in their eyes, as astrology, Princess Di mourners and Deepak Chopra put their necks under the blade. But Wheen is not just a sardonic pop cultie man, as he strangles post-modernists (Foucault and Derrida go unloved here), lashes globalists (Tom Friedman lovers beware) and slaughters cabalists (Noam Chomsky, you blindly hating punk). The essays are erudite and funny, and after 100 pages you feel like you've just settled in with a favorite uncle in front of the hearth who keeps plying you with bourbon and then illuminates the proper way for a drunken gentleman to live in the world. I didn't agree with everything, but he was always sharp and crackling and entertaining. Idiot proof I am now not, bumbling up the stairs post-Sharks debacle, but I can pretend.
Mark Reisner's A Dangerous Place: California's Unsettling Fate is the scariest book I've probably ever read. I'm guessing most of America digested this account of what could happen in the next big Cali quake with secret or open glee, praying that the Vegas beachfront property would finally be theirs oh theirs and that the fucking fruitbaskets dragging down the GOP electoral vote would finally be resting in the watery grave they deserve, but I just poured drinks and sweat. Reisner didn't really finish the book, as he was dying of cancer when he wrote it (what kind of sad and sick irony is that? desperately trying to finish a book to warn folks about massive death and destruction while you're going down yourself), but he made clear to folks that he wanted what he left behind published in some form, and some form is what we get. It comes in two parts: the first is a brief history of the forces that shaped California, divided once more, as we like to do here in the Bay Area, into North and South. Reisner's mini-history is colorful and full of haveachuckle details, and it makes a solid case for how the character of each region came to be what it is. Gears grind quickly, however, in part two, as Reisner narrates a what if scenario about the Bay Area if the Hayward Fault (that's right kids, we sit astride it right here in ultra-overpriced Rockridge) were to deliver the kind of seismic friction scientists predict is on its merry way. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that Oaktown don't fare so pretty, and the resultant power outages, floods, freeway collapses, communication breakdowns, fires, water shortages, etc., paint an Armageddon portrait that this grizzled ostrich is failing to repress. If there is a thesis, it is this: the quake is coming, and it will fuck things up unlike anything we've seen. Living here means accepting some potentially unimaginable ramifications, so enjoy the view while it lasts. Thus, I ask you: if I get the barn studio in Portland, will you come?
News of the world missed since Saturday's flu...
Iraqi's have a constitution, guaranteeing everlasting peace in that wonderful country. Palestinians killed 3 Israelis and Abu Mazan issued "harsh" criticism. A woman runs Germany. The Raiders suck. The Niners suck. The White Sox are a good ball team. Nick and Jessica may be having marriage troubles. There was an earthquake of somesorts in Pakistan. "Home for Orphnas" gets better with each spin. Murder is somewhat constant in Contra Costa County. The last 2 short stories in the New Yorker (by Eugeneidies and Drury) were first rate. Gavin Newsom is probably gay. Old people are annoying. Falafel causes unbelieveable gas. Tomatoes are no longer ripe. Judith Miller is a sellot. Karl Rove is a bitch. Harriet Miers has not had sex in 35 years. Parking is impossible at times. My head still hurts.
Thank you for reading...
Iraqi's have a constitution, guaranteeing everlasting peace in that wonderful country. Palestinians killed 3 Israelis and Abu Mazan issued "harsh" criticism. A woman runs Germany. The Raiders suck. The Niners suck. The White Sox are a good ball team. Nick and Jessica may be having marriage troubles. There was an earthquake of somesorts in Pakistan. "Home for Orphnas" gets better with each spin. Murder is somewhat constant in Contra Costa County. The last 2 short stories in the New Yorker (by Eugeneidies and Drury) were first rate. Gavin Newsom is probably gay. Old people are annoying. Falafel causes unbelieveable gas. Tomatoes are no longer ripe. Judith Miller is a sellot. Karl Rove is a bitch. Harriet Miers has not had sex in 35 years. Parking is impossible at times. My head still hurts.
Thank you for reading...
18 October 2005
14 October 2005
A Week of Apocalyptic Thinking
About two weeks ago, the New York Times Sunday magazine printed an excerpt from Joan Didion's new book, The Year of Magical Thinking, which recounts the sudden death of her husband while her adopted daughter lay comatose in a hospital bed from septic shock. Perhaps I read the piece at a vulnerable time, but it moved me like nothing I've read in ages. It captures that most obvious truth, the fragility of life, in a way that does not let you shove your head back in the sand. Her prose pierces through the defenses of denial so effectively that even John Leonard, in this week's New York Review of Books, can barely contain himself. So, will somebody read the book and tell me if I can handle it? I'm an awfully fragile bitch.
About two weeks ago, the New York Times Sunday magazine printed an excerpt from Joan Didion's new book, The Year of Magical Thinking, which recounts the sudden death of her husband while her adopted daughter lay comatose in a hospital bed from septic shock. Perhaps I read the piece at a vulnerable time, but it moved me like nothing I've read in ages. It captures that most obvious truth, the fragility of life, in a way that does not let you shove your head back in the sand. Her prose pierces through the defenses of denial so effectively that even John Leonard, in this week's New York Review of Books, can barely contain himself. So, will somebody read the book and tell me if I can handle it? I'm an awfully fragile bitch.
12 October 2005
11 October 2005
Choose
I don't know about you, but I've always thought that if you're gonna believe in God, you better go all the way. Whether it's heaven and hell, the resurrection as atonement, Calvinist elites, salvation through grace or works, whatever your ticket to the holy- shouldn't it be the single dominant force in your life? How can you buy into an Old Testament God without shuddering at the immensity of his fiery wrath? Shouldn't you be cowering in corners a good part of the day, waiting for the theophonous whirlwind to pronounce your human punyness? How can you accept the New Testament without trying to imitate JC? Shouldn't you be throwing out your worldly possessions and taking that message to the streets, turning cheeks at the mocking secularists in their low-riding pants and Enter Here above-ass tattoos? If it isn't all or nothing, then your belief has got to be suspect, and that's why my favorite Christian writer has always been Soren Kierkegaard. The man refused to let folks poopoo their faith, and he spent his life attacking what he contemptuously referred to as Christendom, what he considered a mealymouthed institutionalized Christianity that required no action and kept its leading figures in velvet robes and diamond-studded hats. For Kierkegaard, you must choose between an aesthetic life and an ethical one, and that choice must be a total commitment. You are either for God or you are not. Kierkegaard, after being publicly ridiculed for years for his refusal to soften his attacks on Denmark's state church, pinned all his hopes for the future of Christianity upon the awakening of the common man, whom he wanted to help first out of the deceptions of the pastors and thereafter into an environment of sincerity and honesty- God would surely take care of the rest. He further refused to call himself a Christian, arguing that the only salvation is honesty and the admission that one is humbled, crushed under the weight of the New Testament ideal. Thereafter, the only things remaining are grace and God's mercy.
I chose the aesthetic life a long time ago, but I've always admired Kierkegaard's courage as that of the true Jesus freak. For more, check out Jorgen Bukdahl's tidy 130-page volume, Soren Kierkegaard and the Common Man. Bukdahl places Kierkegaard in his historical context (like a tiny version of Frank's Dosty bio) to show how the life affected the work and visa versa. Check it out here www.eerdmans.com, or bring a 12-pack to my house, and we can wallow in our aesthetic commitment together.
I don't know about you, but I've always thought that if you're gonna believe in God, you better go all the way. Whether it's heaven and hell, the resurrection as atonement, Calvinist elites, salvation through grace or works, whatever your ticket to the holy- shouldn't it be the single dominant force in your life? How can you buy into an Old Testament God without shuddering at the immensity of his fiery wrath? Shouldn't you be cowering in corners a good part of the day, waiting for the theophonous whirlwind to pronounce your human punyness? How can you accept the New Testament without trying to imitate JC? Shouldn't you be throwing out your worldly possessions and taking that message to the streets, turning cheeks at the mocking secularists in their low-riding pants and Enter Here above-ass tattoos? If it isn't all or nothing, then your belief has got to be suspect, and that's why my favorite Christian writer has always been Soren Kierkegaard. The man refused to let folks poopoo their faith, and he spent his life attacking what he contemptuously referred to as Christendom, what he considered a mealymouthed institutionalized Christianity that required no action and kept its leading figures in velvet robes and diamond-studded hats. For Kierkegaard, you must choose between an aesthetic life and an ethical one, and that choice must be a total commitment. You are either for God or you are not. Kierkegaard, after being publicly ridiculed for years for his refusal to soften his attacks on Denmark's state church, pinned all his hopes for the future of Christianity upon the awakening of the common man, whom he wanted to help first out of the deceptions of the pastors and thereafter into an environment of sincerity and honesty- God would surely take care of the rest. He further refused to call himself a Christian, arguing that the only salvation is honesty and the admission that one is humbled, crushed under the weight of the New Testament ideal. Thereafter, the only things remaining are grace and God's mercy.
I chose the aesthetic life a long time ago, but I've always admired Kierkegaard's courage as that of the true Jesus freak. For more, check out Jorgen Bukdahl's tidy 130-page volume, Soren Kierkegaard and the Common Man. Bukdahl places Kierkegaard in his historical context (like a tiny version of Frank's Dosty bio) to show how the life affected the work and visa versa. Check it out here www.eerdmans.com, or bring a 12-pack to my house, and we can wallow in our aesthetic commitment together.
10 October 2005
Inquiries from a seaside town
Is there a better life than beach bum?
Does a better deal exist than $4 domestic pitchers at Avenue Bar?
Is the ashtray the perfect dinner table centerpiece?
Will the bikini ever lose sex appeal?
Is anything more stimulating than a courtside lounge chair at a doubles women’s volleyball tournament?
Why can’t I tan?
Should Santa Cruz change its city motto to “Terribly kind to drunks”?
Will the Sharks break .500?
Is snogging on a hillside balcony overlooking the sky and ocean the perfect way to view the dusk?
Will the carnie that pulled the plug on our visit to “The Great Water Race” (shoot the water gun into the clown’s mouth) after twelve of us turned our guns on eachother and engaged in the mother of all water battles please take a walk off a high cliff?
Is it ok to feel 15 at 35?
Having spent 30 minutes in front of a TV with cable, madly flipping, is there a better show than “Breaking Bonaduce”?
Why aren’t all breakfasts served in bed?
Why are UCSC college girls so young and pretty?
Are suede boots here to stay? Please?
Are Avenue Bar barmaids the most seductive women in state?
Is there a more perfect intersection than Pacific and Laurel (Avenue Bar, Taco Haven, Foster’s Freeze, Asti, Pelegrosi’s)?
Isn’t it wonderful when the tourists stop coming?
Why do hippy chicks age better than non-hippy chicks?
Is any man’s singing voice better than that of a woman’s?
Why does one take vacations if returning from them is so damn miserable?
Was the gay guy who played five T Rex songs after he hogged the jukebox and assented to my request pissed he didn’t get any off me?
Are the Pogues translatable to any kind of American music? It’s all two chords, right?
Why was the surprise party Friday night actually surprising and wonderful?
Kind, conniving women are wonderful, no?
Will 512 Second Street be there forever?
Will the bus strike continue? If it does, will everyone still walk everywhere in bikinis and flip-flops?
Will life keep getting better?
Is there a better life than beach bum?
Does a better deal exist than $4 domestic pitchers at Avenue Bar?
Is the ashtray the perfect dinner table centerpiece?
Will the bikini ever lose sex appeal?
Is anything more stimulating than a courtside lounge chair at a doubles women’s volleyball tournament?
Why can’t I tan?
Should Santa Cruz change its city motto to “Terribly kind to drunks”?
Will the Sharks break .500?
Is snogging on a hillside balcony overlooking the sky and ocean the perfect way to view the dusk?
Will the carnie that pulled the plug on our visit to “The Great Water Race” (shoot the water gun into the clown’s mouth) after twelve of us turned our guns on eachother and engaged in the mother of all water battles please take a walk off a high cliff?
Is it ok to feel 15 at 35?
Having spent 30 minutes in front of a TV with cable, madly flipping, is there a better show than “Breaking Bonaduce”?
Why aren’t all breakfasts served in bed?
Why are UCSC college girls so young and pretty?
Are suede boots here to stay? Please?
Are Avenue Bar barmaids the most seductive women in state?
Is there a more perfect intersection than Pacific and Laurel (Avenue Bar, Taco Haven, Foster’s Freeze, Asti, Pelegrosi’s)?
Isn’t it wonderful when the tourists stop coming?
Why do hippy chicks age better than non-hippy chicks?
Is any man’s singing voice better than that of a woman’s?
Why does one take vacations if returning from them is so damn miserable?
Was the gay guy who played five T Rex songs after he hogged the jukebox and assented to my request pissed he didn’t get any off me?
Are the Pogues translatable to any kind of American music? It’s all two chords, right?
Why was the surprise party Friday night actually surprising and wonderful?
Kind, conniving women are wonderful, no?
Will 512 Second Street be there forever?
Will the bus strike continue? If it does, will everyone still walk everywhere in bikinis and flip-flops?
Will life keep getting better?
07 October 2005
06 October 2005
I’m through with white girls
Fuck Warren Hellman. The Chronicle today ran another glorification kiss ass piece of the Bay Area’s loveable billionaire capitalist rapist, and I still cant find the charm in the man. It certainly wasn’t on scene last Saturday, when girl and I found a little nook on the slope of the rooster stage to watch Patty Griffin blow the doors off the bluegrass festival. The lily white crowd was only 5% hippy, and this sucked cause I dig that vibe and presence. When sets began, we were told to “sit down!” by a reclining Lafayette bitch-type who decided to sit right behind us in our secluded area. Who are these up tight Merlot sippers, and what causes them to try to take command of a free show? My “come on, get up off your ass and watch the show” glare didn’t motivate anyone, so we found another place where we could listen, sway, and juggle the soccer ball while the goings on got on. Others of our ilk (the girl’s ilk, as I have no look save 1985 preppy) joined us, and one had a guitar, and I went over Greg’s “If you cant give me everything”, which won wide praise, and caused said LB to approach as we wound down and apologize for her gruffness. I said nothing; girl said thanks. What’s a jackass to do when surrounded by such chaos? Why are there rules and protocol at free shows? Ride out for the weekend with a newly shaved head and a friend in town from WA state, you say? Will do. I have limited empathy these days, and I’m through with white girls on the upside of 40.
Fuck Warren Hellman. The Chronicle today ran another glorification kiss ass piece of the Bay Area’s loveable billionaire capitalist rapist, and I still cant find the charm in the man. It certainly wasn’t on scene last Saturday, when girl and I found a little nook on the slope of the rooster stage to watch Patty Griffin blow the doors off the bluegrass festival. The lily white crowd was only 5% hippy, and this sucked cause I dig that vibe and presence. When sets began, we were told to “sit down!” by a reclining Lafayette bitch-type who decided to sit right behind us in our secluded area. Who are these up tight Merlot sippers, and what causes them to try to take command of a free show? My “come on, get up off your ass and watch the show” glare didn’t motivate anyone, so we found another place where we could listen, sway, and juggle the soccer ball while the goings on got on. Others of our ilk (the girl’s ilk, as I have no look save 1985 preppy) joined us, and one had a guitar, and I went over Greg’s “If you cant give me everything”, which won wide praise, and caused said LB to approach as we wound down and apologize for her gruffness. I said nothing; girl said thanks. What’s a jackass to do when surrounded by such chaos? Why are there rules and protocol at free shows? Ride out for the weekend with a newly shaved head and a friend in town from WA state, you say? Will do. I have limited empathy these days, and I’m through with white girls on the upside of 40.
05 October 2005
Ride the Men in Teel Tonight
It's the first day of hockey season, so now that the strike is over and we've all had a year of counseling to work through the trauma of the Sharks' loss to Calgary in the Conference Final, it is time to hunker down, gear up and get high for six months of Teel victories. The rule changes (no red line, meaning no prohibition on two-line passes; stricter penalties on holding and interfering in the neutral zone; shootouts instead of ties) could favor the Sharks, who feature a very young and very fast roster. Thuggish defensive traps are out (sorry Red Devils!) says the commissioner; up and down, European-styled skills-on-display, high-scoring action is in, and all the experts in hockey-land are looking to the South Bay and nodding affirmatively before dragging on their Molsons. There is no better way to get over this year's Bay Area baseball fiasco than to hop right back on that Zamboni and ride. Action starts tonight at 5:00 in Nashville on FSNBA- that's channel 40 on your digital cable dial, so get a pack of Mooseheads and come on over. I'll be the guy in the Patrick Marleau jersey on the couch with a supersized bag of Funyons between my legs and a stupid smile on my face.
04 October 2005
01 October 2005
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