French Love Protest #9
29 March 2006
27 March 2006
Risk everything. There’s nothing to a life lived safe and sane; everyone living that kind of life thinks they’re onto something great but they’re just a bunch of lonely miserable fucks that’d rather live an inconsequential life, work 9-5 for 35 years, fall asleep nightly worrying about their retirement plans, and then they wake up 65 years old, to old to fuck or fight or live. Then they go on trips around the world and stand in front of art and statues and say ‘ooooh’ and ‘ahhhh’ and not once consider that if they took a risk they too could have contributed something great to another person or to mankind. But it’s too late, because now you’re old and infirm and you can’t have anything like the thoughts and energy you had when you were young. The greatest use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it. Risk everything.
26 March 2006
24 March 2006
US witness tells of plot to poison soccer beer
LONDON (Reuters) - A U.S. informant, testifying at the trial of seven Britons accused of planning bombings in the UK, told a London court on Friday one of the suspects had discussed poisoning beer for sale at British soccer matches.
Mohammed Babar, 31, a Pakistan-born American who has admitted terrorism-related offences in New York, said Waheed Mahmood also suggested setting up mobile hamburger vans and poisoning the food before handing it over.
Babar is the key prosecution witness against the British suspects, accused of planning to use ammonium nitrate fertilizer to make bombs for use against targets such as pubs and clubs.
He has admitted in closed U.S. hearings to being an accomplice and trying to acquire the ingredients for what U.S. authorities call "the British Bomb plot," the court was told.
Babar said that Mahmood had raised the poison plots during discussions in Pakistan with himself and two of the other defendants, Anthony Garcia and Salahuddin Amin.
He said they could get jobs as barmen at soccer stadiums and use syringes to poison cans of beer.
LONDON (Reuters) - A U.S. informant, testifying at the trial of seven Britons accused of planning bombings in the UK, told a London court on Friday one of the suspects had discussed poisoning beer for sale at British soccer matches.
Mohammed Babar, 31, a Pakistan-born American who has admitted terrorism-related offences in New York, said Waheed Mahmood also suggested setting up mobile hamburger vans and poisoning the food before handing it over.
Babar is the key prosecution witness against the British suspects, accused of planning to use ammonium nitrate fertilizer to make bombs for use against targets such as pubs and clubs.
He has admitted in closed U.S. hearings to being an accomplice and trying to acquire the ingredients for what U.S. authorities call "the British Bomb plot," the court was told.
Babar said that Mahmood had raised the poison plots during discussions in Pakistan with himself and two of the other defendants, Anthony Garcia and Salahuddin Amin.
He said they could get jobs as barmen at soccer stadiums and use syringes to poison cans of beer.
23 March 2006
22 March 2006
Mazzy Madness - Videos and other Endless Pleasures
1. Flowers In December
2. I’ve Been Let Down
3. Halah
4. Fade Into You
5. She’s My Baby
6. Fade Into You (live)
7. Blue Flower (live)
8. Ride It On (live)
1. Flowers In December
2. I’ve Been Let Down
3. Halah
4. Fade Into You
5. She’s My Baby
6. Fade Into You (live)
7. Blue Flower (live)
8. Ride It On (live)
21 March 2006
Kevin Philips, the author of the new book, American Theocracy, said something on Lou Dobbs last night that has been running through my internal combustion thought engine for months as I've been trying to come to grips with Jesus the Apocalyptic Prophet and this new obsession with the End Times. To paraphrase, he argues that the reason the new Republicans don't care about balancing budgets is that the Return of the Messiah is coming. The Rapture is on the horizon. When George Bush says that his generation probably won't be able to judge the Iraq invasion a success or not, he's speaking in code to his base: we're cleansing the infidels, but soon the rest will get theirs. Dick Cheney says that debt doesn't matter. Of course it doesn't, when there will be no money in the coming Kingdom. All the new Republicans are doing is returning to Jesus's original message. The end is near. The only problem is that Jesus explicitly stated that it would happen in many of his followers' lifetimes. Never mind. The signs are in. Tidal Waves. Floods. Barney and Sponge Bob. The college funds are unnecessary, for all believers will receive their ethereal education when the Kingdom comes. And they really, really believe it's coming. This time, man, The Second Coming will put an end to abortion and evolution and lesbian love and Barbara Streisand. All hail the Righteous! All Hail!
20 March 2006
16 March 2006
I’ll fake it through the day
With some help from johnny walker red
Send the poison rain down the drain
To put bad thoughts in my head
Two tickets torn in half
And a lot of nothing to do
Do you miss me, miss misery
Like you say you do?
A man in the park
Read the lines in my hand
Told me I’m strong
Hardly ever wrong I said man you mean
You had plans for both of us
That involved a trip out of town
To a place I’ve seen in a magazine
That you left lying around
I don’t have you with me but
I keep a good attitude
Do you miss me, miss misery
Like you say you do?
I know you’d rather see me gone
Than to see me the way that I am
But I am in the life anyway
Next door the tv’s flashing
Blue frames on the wall
It’s a comedy of errors, you see
It’s about taking a fall
To vanish into oblivion
Is easy to do
And I try to be but you know me
I come back when you want me to
Do you miss me miss misery
Like you say you do?
With some help from johnny walker red
Send the poison rain down the drain
To put bad thoughts in my head
Two tickets torn in half
And a lot of nothing to do
Do you miss me, miss misery
Like you say you do?
A man in the park
Read the lines in my hand
Told me I’m strong
Hardly ever wrong I said man you mean
You had plans for both of us
That involved a trip out of town
To a place I’ve seen in a magazine
That you left lying around
I don’t have you with me but
I keep a good attitude
Do you miss me, miss misery
Like you say you do?
I know you’d rather see me gone
Than to see me the way that I am
But I am in the life anyway
Next door the tv’s flashing
Blue frames on the wall
It’s a comedy of errors, you see
It’s about taking a fall
To vanish into oblivion
Is easy to do
And I try to be but you know me
I come back when you want me to
Do you miss me miss misery
Like you say you do?
A Eulogy Properly Done - written by a friend for publication in the Tampa Tribune.
Last October, some time after learning about his terminal condition, Johnny T, an old friend of my father's, suggested that my dad and I go with him to Barcelona and the French Riviera, to live the good life the way Johnny liked to do. After decades of saying we would go on an adventure together, we finally did. It was his last trip abroad.
By that time the barrel chested, Cheshire grinned force of a man had lost his hair to cancer treatments, but he remained true to character. One evening, after dinner in Barcelona, we went for a walk down an avenue called Gran de Gracia. Johnny put his giant arm around me and said, “Jason, my maaan! You are a great kid, but you can be too uptight sometimes! You gotta loosen up, my son. Otherwise, it goes bad.”
I write today to celebrate the history and contributions of a heroic Tampa soul, so people will know such a big man once thrived here. His name was John E. Tranquillo (a.k.a. Johnny T and John E. T), and he proved optimism could generate a phenomenal lifetime.
Johnny T came to Tampa in 1956, looking to start fresh. At first, all anybody here knew about the enigmatic 22 year old was that he had grown up in Boston’s Italian North End, then a rough and tumble neighborhood. Nobody really knew whether the ruggedly handsome Johnny had witnessed any criminal activity before arriving here, but this only added to his aura of intrigue. After all, he maintained a wise guy demeanor and was even missing two fingertips.
Friends learned fast that this streetwise and fun-loving Sicilian-American charmer left Boston because he wanted to see what he could do with his life. Over a fifty-year period, he moved from “rags to riches” by applying his strong work ethic to real estate investments and business ventures, including bars and hair salons. Along the way he became like a loyal brother and father to hundreds in Tampa and an icon to those who considered him a friend. He served as mentor, partner, guide and protector.
“Widout friends, you got nuttin’”, Johnny often opined. He could electrify a crowd with smiles and bonhomie, making everyone he talked to feel like the most important person in the world. People effortless gravitated to his walk, heavy Boston accent, and theatrical panache.
Johnny possessed extraordinary communication skills and could find common ground amongst differing points of view. Beneath his tough guy exterior, friends found a gentle spirit who would occasionally send little notes and cards to the people he cared for, just because. He got along with nearly everyone, regardless of race, economic status or cultural background. A republican out of appreciation to Ronald Reagan, Johnny liked most democrats just as much. He was a bar of steel wrapped in velvet.
Gorgeous, sophisticated women surrounded him. Wonderful women loved him.
Probably because of his neighborhood experiences, he remained profoundly concerned about the fate of Tampa’s poor and sick children. From volunteering and raising funds for the Shriners’ Hospital, to spending afternoons teaching kids from the Children’s Home how to swim in the pool at the International Inn, Johnny always loved doing a “little something” for others.
Johnny loved to ride his Harley, ski and travel with his friends, and while doing these activities, he would make still more friends. He traversed 4 continents, and no matter where he was in the world, when English did not work, he used his own Sicilian pigeon dialect, accompanied by lots of gestures, to get his points across, and strangely enough, people usually understood, because Johnny wanted to be understood.
He ate with gusto. Legend has it that one evening at a Detroit Hotel, Johnny ate 16 lobsters in one sitting. Remembering the many meals they shared on Sunday afternoons, his friend Lou Caggiano calculated that Johnny had to have eaten over 5,000 meatballs in his lifetime. He also never missed a chance to toast at dinner parties.
Johnny T always had a “can do” attitude, which left many to wonder how much energy it must have taken simply to be him. Johnny knew how to say yes to life, even when it dealt harsh blows his way. He never surrendered to pessimism and remained in the limelight for five decades, well after the sun set on the Rat Pack era in America.
Johnny was one of my father’s best friends for forty years. They became friends when Johnny would let my dad into the Chez Louis (the hippest nightclub in 1950s Tampa where Johnny worked as maitre’d ) even though my dad was not yet 21. When I was born, Johnny told my dad that he wanted to be “my godfather and bodyguard”.
During our European trip with Johnny, we had an unforgettable afternoon lunch on the terrace of Hotel Maeterlinck, nestled atop Nice’s jagged sea cliffs. As we dined overlooking the sparkling turquoise Mediterranean, Johnny T glowed, mesmerized by the moment. The food, the wine, the scenery, the company, the beauty of it all overwhelmed him. He sat there, imbibing the experience like it was his favorite Chianti, breathing in the sea breeze and very, very happy. He conducted a symphony with his hands while saying “this is what its all about”. Several times he simply said, “Wow!” He did not want it to end.
My father says Johnny “never wanted anyone to see that side of him in pain or hurting”. Even toward the very end of his battle with cancer, when people asked Johnny how he was doing, immobilized by physical pain, he would reply, “On a scale from 1-10, I would be about an eight”.
When I visited him at Moffitt Cancer Center, I expressed my gratitude and admiration to him for being himself. I had asked him whether he realized what a tremendous positive difference he had made in the lives of so many people here. He smiled at me, and barely able to talk, responded softly under his breath, “Who knew I was such a big man?”
On March 8, 2006, Johnny T. passed away. His legacy teaches us that optimism is a choice, not chance. If you do not see it that way, as Johnny would say, “what’s the matter with youz?”
Last October, some time after learning about his terminal condition, Johnny T, an old friend of my father's, suggested that my dad and I go with him to Barcelona and the French Riviera, to live the good life the way Johnny liked to do. After decades of saying we would go on an adventure together, we finally did. It was his last trip abroad.
By that time the barrel chested, Cheshire grinned force of a man had lost his hair to cancer treatments, but he remained true to character. One evening, after dinner in Barcelona, we went for a walk down an avenue called Gran de Gracia. Johnny put his giant arm around me and said, “Jason, my maaan! You are a great kid, but you can be too uptight sometimes! You gotta loosen up, my son. Otherwise, it goes bad.”
I write today to celebrate the history and contributions of a heroic Tampa soul, so people will know such a big man once thrived here. His name was John E. Tranquillo (a.k.a. Johnny T and John E. T), and he proved optimism could generate a phenomenal lifetime.
Johnny T came to Tampa in 1956, looking to start fresh. At first, all anybody here knew about the enigmatic 22 year old was that he had grown up in Boston’s Italian North End, then a rough and tumble neighborhood. Nobody really knew whether the ruggedly handsome Johnny had witnessed any criminal activity before arriving here, but this only added to his aura of intrigue. After all, he maintained a wise guy demeanor and was even missing two fingertips.
Friends learned fast that this streetwise and fun-loving Sicilian-American charmer left Boston because he wanted to see what he could do with his life. Over a fifty-year period, he moved from “rags to riches” by applying his strong work ethic to real estate investments and business ventures, including bars and hair salons. Along the way he became like a loyal brother and father to hundreds in Tampa and an icon to those who considered him a friend. He served as mentor, partner, guide and protector.
“Widout friends, you got nuttin’”, Johnny often opined. He could electrify a crowd with smiles and bonhomie, making everyone he talked to feel like the most important person in the world. People effortless gravitated to his walk, heavy Boston accent, and theatrical panache.
Johnny possessed extraordinary communication skills and could find common ground amongst differing points of view. Beneath his tough guy exterior, friends found a gentle spirit who would occasionally send little notes and cards to the people he cared for, just because. He got along with nearly everyone, regardless of race, economic status or cultural background. A republican out of appreciation to Ronald Reagan, Johnny liked most democrats just as much. He was a bar of steel wrapped in velvet.
Gorgeous, sophisticated women surrounded him. Wonderful women loved him.
Probably because of his neighborhood experiences, he remained profoundly concerned about the fate of Tampa’s poor and sick children. From volunteering and raising funds for the Shriners’ Hospital, to spending afternoons teaching kids from the Children’s Home how to swim in the pool at the International Inn, Johnny always loved doing a “little something” for others.
Johnny loved to ride his Harley, ski and travel with his friends, and while doing these activities, he would make still more friends. He traversed 4 continents, and no matter where he was in the world, when English did not work, he used his own Sicilian pigeon dialect, accompanied by lots of gestures, to get his points across, and strangely enough, people usually understood, because Johnny wanted to be understood.
He ate with gusto. Legend has it that one evening at a Detroit Hotel, Johnny ate 16 lobsters in one sitting. Remembering the many meals they shared on Sunday afternoons, his friend Lou Caggiano calculated that Johnny had to have eaten over 5,000 meatballs in his lifetime. He also never missed a chance to toast at dinner parties.
Johnny T always had a “can do” attitude, which left many to wonder how much energy it must have taken simply to be him. Johnny knew how to say yes to life, even when it dealt harsh blows his way. He never surrendered to pessimism and remained in the limelight for five decades, well after the sun set on the Rat Pack era in America.
Johnny was one of my father’s best friends for forty years. They became friends when Johnny would let my dad into the Chez Louis (the hippest nightclub in 1950s Tampa where Johnny worked as maitre’d ) even though my dad was not yet 21. When I was born, Johnny told my dad that he wanted to be “my godfather and bodyguard”.
During our European trip with Johnny, we had an unforgettable afternoon lunch on the terrace of Hotel Maeterlinck, nestled atop Nice’s jagged sea cliffs. As we dined overlooking the sparkling turquoise Mediterranean, Johnny T glowed, mesmerized by the moment. The food, the wine, the scenery, the company, the beauty of it all overwhelmed him. He sat there, imbibing the experience like it was his favorite Chianti, breathing in the sea breeze and very, very happy. He conducted a symphony with his hands while saying “this is what its all about”. Several times he simply said, “Wow!” He did not want it to end.
My father says Johnny “never wanted anyone to see that side of him in pain or hurting”. Even toward the very end of his battle with cancer, when people asked Johnny how he was doing, immobilized by physical pain, he would reply, “On a scale from 1-10, I would be about an eight”.
When I visited him at Moffitt Cancer Center, I expressed my gratitude and admiration to him for being himself. I had asked him whether he realized what a tremendous positive difference he had made in the lives of so many people here. He smiled at me, and barely able to talk, responded softly under his breath, “Who knew I was such a big man?”
On March 8, 2006, Johnny T. passed away. His legacy teaches us that optimism is a choice, not chance. If you do not see it that way, as Johnny would say, “what’s the matter with youz?”
15 March 2006
What Are You Listening To March Madness Version
Bart Ehrmann- Christianity from Jesus to Constantine- this is my third lecture series on the history of Christianity, and this one focuses less on the historical Jesus and his apocalypticism and more on the evolution of the early church, the battles over the canon, and the origins of the bureaucratic hierarchy. Highly recommended- go here www.teachco.com to buy, or bring over some Belgians and we'll fight about faith. Always a pleasant experience.
Pere Ubu- Dub Housing- back when PUNK ROCK meant anything goes, and that meant crude attempts at new aural art. Avoid if a fat man in a beret whelping and hiccuping and shouting, "I have desires" makes you uncomfortable, but I'm digging it.
LiveFastDie-weirdo punk of the modern school that delivers the hooks and cleverly hate-filled lyrics. Favorite tangential War on Terrorism party anthem song title: Getting Bombed Over SixPackistan.
Steve Earle- El Corazon and I'll Be Alright- I don't know why I like this guy- maybe I'm just my kind of hypocrite. Never perfect, as he always seems to ruin at least one song with something overly cheeseball, but plenty of bar rock that actually works.
Angry Angles- singles- Jay Reatard and new girlfriend show that Jay Reatard with almost any chick (or even with the guys!) can do almost no wrong, though I was never a big Lost Sounds fan. More arty punk,, and a pattern appears to be emerging. I'm going hat shopping.
Mind Controls- s/t- new BBQ punk rock effort is just OK- reeks of throwoff, as just not enough hooky hooks to hook ya. Not bad, though.
Brother JT- new one (can't remember title)- again, we get one perfect song, "Cool is the New Warm" and a bunch of damn decent psych pop. JT rules, fool, so shove that close-minded cynicism back into your Swedish cockrock pipe and smoke a bowl of the best Bethlehem, PA has to offer.
Wire- Chairs Missing- finally, the genius of Wire is revealing itself to me. That's right, sucker, more ART PUNK DAMAGE but with major league gazombo hooks. Hooks. Got it? Like, easily digestible. Pop. But not quite. God I'm annoying.
Persuaders- st- finally got these guys this week, too, as something just clicked and all of a sudden the skies opened and the Lord revealed to me alone that these are the most hate-laden blasts of minimalist trash (next to the Reatards) still being delivered for reuniion gigs at a festival near you. "Heart of Chrome" is perfect.
Dwarves- Lick It- if you haven't heard the first incarnation of the Dwarves, you are really missing something EVIL. They may be the best 80s band doing sixties trash, because unlike those mimics in the bowl doos and striped pants playing the note-for-note, these guys made it wicked. Fantastic collection that will make Satan your rightful master again, complacent stock quote checker.
Bart Ehrmann- Christianity from Jesus to Constantine- this is my third lecture series on the history of Christianity, and this one focuses less on the historical Jesus and his apocalypticism and more on the evolution of the early church, the battles over the canon, and the origins of the bureaucratic hierarchy. Highly recommended- go here www.teachco.com to buy, or bring over some Belgians and we'll fight about faith. Always a pleasant experience.
Pere Ubu- Dub Housing- back when PUNK ROCK meant anything goes, and that meant crude attempts at new aural art. Avoid if a fat man in a beret whelping and hiccuping and shouting, "I have desires" makes you uncomfortable, but I'm digging it.
LiveFastDie-weirdo punk of the modern school that delivers the hooks and cleverly hate-filled lyrics. Favorite tangential War on Terrorism party anthem song title: Getting Bombed Over SixPackistan.
Steve Earle- El Corazon and I'll Be Alright- I don't know why I like this guy- maybe I'm just my kind of hypocrite. Never perfect, as he always seems to ruin at least one song with something overly cheeseball, but plenty of bar rock that actually works.
Angry Angles- singles- Jay Reatard and new girlfriend show that Jay Reatard with almost any chick (or even with the guys!) can do almost no wrong, though I was never a big Lost Sounds fan. More arty punk,, and a pattern appears to be emerging. I'm going hat shopping.
Mind Controls- s/t- new BBQ punk rock effort is just OK- reeks of throwoff, as just not enough hooky hooks to hook ya. Not bad, though.
Brother JT- new one (can't remember title)- again, we get one perfect song, "Cool is the New Warm" and a bunch of damn decent psych pop. JT rules, fool, so shove that close-minded cynicism back into your Swedish cockrock pipe and smoke a bowl of the best Bethlehem, PA has to offer.
Wire- Chairs Missing- finally, the genius of Wire is revealing itself to me. That's right, sucker, more ART PUNK DAMAGE but with major league gazombo hooks. Hooks. Got it? Like, easily digestible. Pop. But not quite. God I'm annoying.
Persuaders- st- finally got these guys this week, too, as something just clicked and all of a sudden the skies opened and the Lord revealed to me alone that these are the most hate-laden blasts of minimalist trash (next to the Reatards) still being delivered for reuniion gigs at a festival near you. "Heart of Chrome" is perfect.
Dwarves- Lick It- if you haven't heard the first incarnation of the Dwarves, you are really missing something EVIL. They may be the best 80s band doing sixties trash, because unlike those mimics in the bowl doos and striped pants playing the note-for-note, these guys made it wicked. Fantastic collection that will make Satan your rightful master again, complacent stock quote checker.
14 March 2006
Speaking of the importance of timing when picking up a book, I went through John Fante's Ask the Dust yesterday and it lay their flat on the page like last night's vomit on the kitchen floor. I felt almost nothing and thought even less. I read it because his name keeps showing up on message boards as somebody everybody loves, and then Robert Towne just directed a movie version of it that got panned. Bukowski is always calling the guy his seminal influence, and the damn protagonist doesn't even drink! Am I missing something, or is there nothing there?
William Gass's The Tunnel gets inside a single human being more honestly, brutally and hilariously than any novel I've ever read. As a seemingly unmediated expression of human consciousness, however, that also means it is plotless, circular and filled with steaming hot bile. I loved it. Of course, timing is everything, and perhaps I just hit it at exactly the right time. You could pick it up, read 100 pages and demand my dismissal from the human race. I couldn't defend myself. But if you're tired of banal domestic stories delivered with all the playfulness of an English Department meeting agenda recitation, or if you wouldn't mind luxuriating in the language of a man trained in philosophy but who defies that personal history by being relentlessly funny, or if maybe you just want some inspiration for delivering words in ways you'd never considered, Gass is the man. Yes, you'll have to endure interminable rants on his tiny peepee insecurities, interminable rants on the size of his wife's breasts and her unwillingness to sleep with him, and interminable rants on just about everything else, from his alchie mom to his bitter, arthritic dad to his colleagues (whom he loathes, all for different reasons) in the History Department, to his exploration of Germanness and the Nazi character, to his one great romantic encounter, to his office hour trysts, to, well, just about anything else that modern life has on display for him to rant about.
I can certainly understand why folks would hate this book and this author for writing it. Gass is the anti-Austen. He has no interest in linearity, in storytelling (in a classical sense, anyway- the book is strewn with stories, but they take the circuitous route), or in holding back anything in the name of common decency. It is a foul book, but it gets so many things right and in such delicious language that it's probably going to ruin other books for me for awhile. The Tunnel is one-of-a-kind and not for everyone, but if you'd like to see the inner depths of your miserable psyche delivered in ways certain to make you cringe and crack-up, then start digging.
I can certainly understand why folks would hate this book and this author for writing it. Gass is the anti-Austen. He has no interest in linearity, in storytelling (in a classical sense, anyway- the book is strewn with stories, but they take the circuitous route), or in holding back anything in the name of common decency. It is a foul book, but it gets so many things right and in such delicious language that it's probably going to ruin other books for me for awhile. The Tunnel is one-of-a-kind and not for everyone, but if you'd like to see the inner depths of your miserable psyche delivered in ways certain to make you cringe and crack-up, then start digging.
13 March 2006
Woman Gets Beer From Her Kitchen Faucet
OSLO, Norway (AP) -- It almost seemed like a miracle to Haldis Gundersen when she turned on her kitchen faucet this weekend and found the water had turned into beer.
Two flights down, employees and customers at the Big Tower Bar were horrified when water poured out of the beer taps.
By an improbable feat of clumsy plumbing, someone at the bar in Kristiandsund, western Norway, had accidentally hooked the beer hoses to the water pipes for Gundersen's apartment.
"We had settled down for a cozy Saturday evening, had a nice dinner, and I was just going to clean up a little," Gundersen, 50, told The Associated Press by telephone Monday. "I turned on the kitchen faucet and beer came out."
However, Gundersen said the beer was flat and not tempting, even in a country where a half-liter (pint) can cost about 25 kroner ($3.75) in grocery stores.
Per Egil Myrvang, of the local beer distributor, said he helped bartenders reconnect the pipes by telephone.
"The water and beer pipes do touch each other, but you have to be really creative to connect them together," he told local newspapers.
Gundersen joked about having the pub send up free beer for her next party.
"But maybe it would be easier if they just invited me down for a beer," she said.
OSLO, Norway (AP) -- It almost seemed like a miracle to Haldis Gundersen when she turned on her kitchen faucet this weekend and found the water had turned into beer.
Two flights down, employees and customers at the Big Tower Bar were horrified when water poured out of the beer taps.
By an improbable feat of clumsy plumbing, someone at the bar in Kristiandsund, western Norway, had accidentally hooked the beer hoses to the water pipes for Gundersen's apartment.
"We had settled down for a cozy Saturday evening, had a nice dinner, and I was just going to clean up a little," Gundersen, 50, told The Associated Press by telephone Monday. "I turned on the kitchen faucet and beer came out."
However, Gundersen said the beer was flat and not tempting, even in a country where a half-liter (pint) can cost about 25 kroner ($3.75) in grocery stores.
Per Egil Myrvang, of the local beer distributor, said he helped bartenders reconnect the pipes by telephone.
"The water and beer pipes do touch each other, but you have to be really creative to connect them together," he told local newspapers.
Gundersen joked about having the pub send up free beer for her next party.
"But maybe it would be easier if they just invited me down for a beer," she said.
12 March 2006
10 March 2006
09 March 2006
08 March 2006
The best song I've heard on the way to work this year exploded out of my tiny speakers this morning, Wednesday, March 8, a day after Donna's birthday and an hour before I would suffer through another Department Meeting of PETTY GRIEVANCES, in which I would sit, lost in reverie, transported to March 29 at The Independent, with the kids safely tucked in, and oh yes the frothy beer shall flow like Isadora Duncan across the floor down my throat while young men make discordant sounds atop a large stage and self-consciousness will be defeated, and we will drink ourselves twentysomething, and that song was
"Uncontrollable Urge"
(tomorrow, the best way I've buttered my bread this semester)
Ship to Shore
It’s 1979 and a chemical tanker is anchored outside the San Francisco bay. The crew, a worn bunch of miscreants, is antsy for shore leave, but the Coast Guard adjunct onboard the Tarshish isn’t about to let the vessel in harbor. The ship is a battered wreck, a WWII holdover. She’s got tanks brimming with petrol and acids, and she’s more likely to kill marine life by her un-ballasted presence than by the skilled angling acumen of any salts onboard.
Snow, the ship’s boatswain, is a Richmond native, and he’s signed up a new ordinary without meeting him. Maciel, a religious nut (and a USF grad!!!) with a penchant for self inflicted wraps with the cat-o-nine tails, boards from a water taxi and Snow gets the correct drift that young turk has never set foot on a working barge. Snow is beholden to Maciel’s long dead grandfather, so he takes the kid under and shows him deckhand basics. The ship can’t offload in SF, so they settle for the nearest vice region willing to pay for toxics, Panama.
David Masiel’s The Western Limit of the World is a thin story thrown into overdrive with amped, heinous characters. The book takes the Tarshish and crew from SF to Namibia, and along the way hell breaks loose on and off shore. It’s a rough world of rough men at sea, and the addition of Rotterdam hottie Lisabeth to the action only sets tempers higher. If the Tarshish is the ship one must take across the Styx, it is definitely Hades bound.
Masiel does a fair job with story and dialogue. He is derivative of McCarthy (think of the subtitle of Blood Meridian and you get his title’s cadence) and lesser Conrad, yet the thinness of this quick 300 pager makes for quality entertainment. The heights of antagonism and treachery are exemplified in the mate, Bracelin, a Queequeg with spite on his mind. Bracelin’s battles with Snow and Maciel and just about everyone else he encounters make for the best reading, as does the nighttime undoing of the crew’s unity onshore in Monrovia.
Masiel may or may not know about hard life asea. He does well with scenes showing the conflict of men pressed together, but he often cheats the reader of viable resolutions. I liked it better than London’s The Sea Wolf, which is still a good, lightweight seafaring adventure.
I’m ready to get back on land. I’m ready for The Tunnel; screw lightweight entertainment!
It’s 1979 and a chemical tanker is anchored outside the San Francisco bay. The crew, a worn bunch of miscreants, is antsy for shore leave, but the Coast Guard adjunct onboard the Tarshish isn’t about to let the vessel in harbor. The ship is a battered wreck, a WWII holdover. She’s got tanks brimming with petrol and acids, and she’s more likely to kill marine life by her un-ballasted presence than by the skilled angling acumen of any salts onboard.
Snow, the ship’s boatswain, is a Richmond native, and he’s signed up a new ordinary without meeting him. Maciel, a religious nut (and a USF grad!!!) with a penchant for self inflicted wraps with the cat-o-nine tails, boards from a water taxi and Snow gets the correct drift that young turk has never set foot on a working barge. Snow is beholden to Maciel’s long dead grandfather, so he takes the kid under and shows him deckhand basics. The ship can’t offload in SF, so they settle for the nearest vice region willing to pay for toxics, Panama.
David Masiel’s The Western Limit of the World is a thin story thrown into overdrive with amped, heinous characters. The book takes the Tarshish and crew from SF to Namibia, and along the way hell breaks loose on and off shore. It’s a rough world of rough men at sea, and the addition of Rotterdam hottie Lisabeth to the action only sets tempers higher. If the Tarshish is the ship one must take across the Styx, it is definitely Hades bound.
Masiel does a fair job with story and dialogue. He is derivative of McCarthy (think of the subtitle of Blood Meridian and you get his title’s cadence) and lesser Conrad, yet the thinness of this quick 300 pager makes for quality entertainment. The heights of antagonism and treachery are exemplified in the mate, Bracelin, a Queequeg with spite on his mind. Bracelin’s battles with Snow and Maciel and just about everyone else he encounters make for the best reading, as does the nighttime undoing of the crew’s unity onshore in Monrovia.
Masiel may or may not know about hard life asea. He does well with scenes showing the conflict of men pressed together, but he often cheats the reader of viable resolutions. I liked it better than London’s The Sea Wolf, which is still a good, lightweight seafaring adventure.
I’m ready to get back on land. I’m ready for The Tunnel; screw lightweight entertainment!
07 March 2006
FINAL EDITION: The Good Fight
Thanks for the great emails. Hip me to the next cool deal or two at Parkside and I'll wander by. And I'll buy you the beer.
------------------------------
Joel,
"New music and old music belong together now in ways they never did in the past."
Compeltely agree, but there is some heavy lifting that needs to be done to convince the public this is true. For years I was a dyed in the wool classic rock guy, and then a friend started talking about new bands, and another friend bought that club near your house. I started going there, hanging out, meeting bands. The kids out there are really turning out some amazing stuff, and to credit your quote: the best music in the indie rock/pop world is totally derivative, but it's so new and refreshing and urgent that I haven't had to listen to any of the old war horses in 5 years. Local acts like Hank IV, Flakes, Genghis Khan, Harold Ray Live in Concert, Lamps, Pets, and a dozen others just get people moving. Outside the Bay, when a touring band like Reigning Sound or King Khan BBQ Show comes through, it's a sell out crowd at small venues and the audience is damn appreciative.
I was lucky to have fallen into this world, and I know most Chron readers would rather sit around and listen to Rush records and reminisce about ill fated cocaine adventures at the 1983 US Festival. Music doesn't mean much to people as they grow old and bitter, but perhaps it could. There's a handful of us out there who would support you in any effort to spread the word.
Best,
Mike
-----------------------------------
Your email could be the subject of a long and thoughtful conversation. I have never noticed people who read the Chronicle -- and I've been working there a few years now -- have the slightest interest in up-and-coming bands. I know that sounds weird. After all, what's a newspaper supposed to do? But we don't cover much minor league baseball either. I've spent many long hours listening to bands nobody cared about and writing lengthy and passionate articles about their plights. But it's never an article that either my editors or the readers pay very much attention to. Van may or may not be relevant to the music scene today, but he is still taking up a lot of people's time, attention, care and money, even if "Astral Weeks" was a long time ago.
Actually, and this is where our conversation could get really interesting, I've come to believe that the element of time has changed totally in the pop scene in the recent past. New music and old music belong together now in ways they never did in the past. Van Morrison is as important to today's rock music as the Impressionists are to today's painters. Or something like that.
Anyway thanks for the note.
-----------------------
Cheers Joel,
Re boomer crap, I've nothing against the likes of Van Morrison. I own almost all his stuff on vinyl, from Blowin' Your Mind upwards. He's a hero of mine. I just dont think he's doing anything relevant for new/modern music.
New bands out there bust their ass and cant cover their tour expenses. If you have any sway with Phil B or whoever calls the shots, I'd suggest taking the line that the Chron should cover not what people want but what they need: info on the up and comers trying their hardest to get an audience.
Yeah, coverage of an indie show wont get you a bunch of letters to the editor, but it will get the Chron some respect, and that's always needed.
Best,
Mike
-------------------
Thanks for the note. I hope to take you up on that beer sometime. I live around the corner from the Parkside and eat there on occasion, so who knows?
The Chron doesn't cover a lot of club shows. Hell, we don't even cover a lot of concerts anymore. I used to practically live in the clubs -- and had the drinking problem to prove it -- but now I'm looking for stories elsewhere.
Peculiar issue -- what does the Chron readers give a shit about? Not sure and I should know. The big response always comes from what you called the boomer crap. Things are up in the air in our culture these days. We do have Noise Pop on our radar.Anyway, I appreciate the feedback.
------------------------
Joel,
Almost every show I see in SF/Oakland is around $5; Stork, Mama Buzz, Hemlock, Parkside, BOTH, and 12 Galaxies have sane cover charges. It seems that the Datebook show coverage leans toward boomer crap, and no one I know who reads the Chron cares about that nonsense.
Free is outstanding. I recommend you check out this gig at the Independent on March 29:
Noise Pop 2006
The Dirtbombs
Black Lips :: The Lamps :: The Sensations
$15 to see 3 of the best bands going. I don't know the Sensations, and they might be good too. I've nothing vested in this, other than I love these bands and would love to see ink on them in Chron. It will be a barnburner of a show. First beer is on me.
Best,
Mike
--------------
>
>What concerts cost less than $20 these days?
>
>I have a piece running Thursday about a singer I saw in a bar for free --
>does that count?
----------------
Hi Joel,
Do you ever review shows that cost lest than $20?
Best,
Mike
Thanks for the great emails. Hip me to the next cool deal or two at Parkside and I'll wander by. And I'll buy you the beer.
------------------------------
Joel,
"New music and old music belong together now in ways they never did in the past."
Compeltely agree, but there is some heavy lifting that needs to be done to convince the public this is true. For years I was a dyed in the wool classic rock guy, and then a friend started talking about new bands, and another friend bought that club near your house. I started going there, hanging out, meeting bands. The kids out there are really turning out some amazing stuff, and to credit your quote: the best music in the indie rock/pop world is totally derivative, but it's so new and refreshing and urgent that I haven't had to listen to any of the old war horses in 5 years. Local acts like Hank IV, Flakes, Genghis Khan, Harold Ray Live in Concert, Lamps, Pets, and a dozen others just get people moving. Outside the Bay, when a touring band like Reigning Sound or King Khan BBQ Show comes through, it's a sell out crowd at small venues and the audience is damn appreciative.
I was lucky to have fallen into this world, and I know most Chron readers would rather sit around and listen to Rush records and reminisce about ill fated cocaine adventures at the 1983 US Festival. Music doesn't mean much to people as they grow old and bitter, but perhaps it could. There's a handful of us out there who would support you in any effort to spread the word.
Best,
Mike
-----------------------------------
Your email could be the subject of a long and thoughtful conversation. I have never noticed people who read the Chronicle -- and I've been working there a few years now -- have the slightest interest in up-and-coming bands. I know that sounds weird. After all, what's a newspaper supposed to do? But we don't cover much minor league baseball either. I've spent many long hours listening to bands nobody cared about and writing lengthy and passionate articles about their plights. But it's never an article that either my editors or the readers pay very much attention to. Van may or may not be relevant to the music scene today, but he is still taking up a lot of people's time, attention, care and money, even if "Astral Weeks" was a long time ago.
Actually, and this is where our conversation could get really interesting, I've come to believe that the element of time has changed totally in the pop scene in the recent past. New music and old music belong together now in ways they never did in the past. Van Morrison is as important to today's rock music as the Impressionists are to today's painters. Or something like that.
Anyway thanks for the note.
-----------------------
Cheers Joel,
Re boomer crap, I've nothing against the likes of Van Morrison. I own almost all his stuff on vinyl, from Blowin' Your Mind upwards. He's a hero of mine. I just dont think he's doing anything relevant for new/modern music.
New bands out there bust their ass and cant cover their tour expenses. If you have any sway with Phil B or whoever calls the shots, I'd suggest taking the line that the Chron should cover not what people want but what they need: info on the up and comers trying their hardest to get an audience.
Yeah, coverage of an indie show wont get you a bunch of letters to the editor, but it will get the Chron some respect, and that's always needed.
Best,
Mike
-------------------
Thanks for the note. I hope to take you up on that beer sometime. I live around the corner from the Parkside and eat there on occasion, so who knows?
The Chron doesn't cover a lot of club shows. Hell, we don't even cover a lot of concerts anymore. I used to practically live in the clubs -- and had the drinking problem to prove it -- but now I'm looking for stories elsewhere.
Peculiar issue -- what does the Chron readers give a shit about? Not sure and I should know. The big response always comes from what you called the boomer crap. Things are up in the air in our culture these days. We do have Noise Pop on our radar.Anyway, I appreciate the feedback.
------------------------
Joel,
Almost every show I see in SF/Oakland is around $5; Stork, Mama Buzz, Hemlock, Parkside, BOTH, and 12 Galaxies have sane cover charges. It seems that the Datebook show coverage leans toward boomer crap, and no one I know who reads the Chron cares about that nonsense.
Free is outstanding. I recommend you check out this gig at the Independent on March 29:
Noise Pop 2006
The Dirtbombs
Black Lips :: The Lamps :: The Sensations
$15 to see 3 of the best bands going. I don't know the Sensations, and they might be good too. I've nothing vested in this, other than I love these bands and would love to see ink on them in Chron. It will be a barnburner of a show. First beer is on me.
Best,
Mike
--------------
>
>What concerts cost less than $20 these days?
>
>I have a piece running Thursday about a singer I saw in a bar for free --
>does that count?
----------------
Hi Joel,
Do you ever review shows that cost lest than $20?
Best,
Mike
06 March 2006
Random Oscar Blabbing
I know you highbrow types wouldn't deign to watch the Oscars, but am I alone in thinking that Crash is filled with cliches, absurd coincidences and stock characters drawn from the most obvious stereotypes? Hey, I was pulling for Matt Dillon as a substitute for the theft of his rightful award for Drugstore Cowboy, but other than that, even Terence Howard didn't impress me in Crash, and he was robbed when voters fell once again for mimicry over actually creating something out of nothing. I like Philip Seymour Hoffman, but we need a break from biopics. Howard filled Hustle and Flow not with schtick, but with painful and desperate longing, a performance so good that even the sellout ending couldn't tarnish his act. Jessica Alba wins dress and body award. Oh my god. Jon Stewart bombed his monologue but came back with some solid one-liners along the way. Sure glad we got to see the Sound Editing Award but they cut off the Best Picture winners' speech so that the writer/director had no chance to speak. Why is Jack Nicholson still the king when he hasn't done anything great in ages? And what's with Robert Altman being gracious? He hates 99% of the bastards in the auditorium, but something about that hall and event breeds cloying humility. "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" is the best winner and the best speech that no one could understand a word of, but I have to say that Dolly Parton delivered with full confidence. All in all a total bore, with just the shock of a Best Picture victory that was totally undeserved.
At least now The Daily Show will come back.
I know you highbrow types wouldn't deign to watch the Oscars, but am I alone in thinking that Crash is filled with cliches, absurd coincidences and stock characters drawn from the most obvious stereotypes? Hey, I was pulling for Matt Dillon as a substitute for the theft of his rightful award for Drugstore Cowboy, but other than that, even Terence Howard didn't impress me in Crash, and he was robbed when voters fell once again for mimicry over actually creating something out of nothing. I like Philip Seymour Hoffman, but we need a break from biopics. Howard filled Hustle and Flow not with schtick, but with painful and desperate longing, a performance so good that even the sellout ending couldn't tarnish his act. Jessica Alba wins dress and body award. Oh my god. Jon Stewart bombed his monologue but came back with some solid one-liners along the way. Sure glad we got to see the Sound Editing Award but they cut off the Best Picture winners' speech so that the writer/director had no chance to speak. Why is Jack Nicholson still the king when he hasn't done anything great in ages? And what's with Robert Altman being gracious? He hates 99% of the bastards in the auditorium, but something about that hall and event breeds cloying humility. "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" is the best winner and the best speech that no one could understand a word of, but I have to say that Dolly Parton delivered with full confidence. All in all a total bore, with just the shock of a Best Picture victory that was totally undeserved.
At least now The Daily Show will come back.
05 March 2006
04 March 2006
03 March 2006
UPDATED: Wrongs make a right
Hi Mike,
I am confident that the Coco DA's office considers charges irrespective
of media reporting, especially in high-profile cases like these. If you
look at some of the filings by attorneys on both sides of the case,
(http://contracostacourts.org/specialaccess) you'll see that the lawyers
are intent in trying the case in court and not in the media. There is
also a gag order in the case, as you are probably aware.
Henry Lee
SF Chronicle
-----Original Message-----
Hey Henry,
Thanks for your response. I realize the charge has been as an adult, but
also that you all ran his name and pic before the charge. It upsets me
to think the media's sensationalism (by no means the Chron's alone) might
have influenced the prosecution's decision to seek adult charges.
Best,
Mike
-------------------
Hi Mike,
Thanks for your e-mail. The defendant, his age notwithstanding, has been
charged as an adult. As such, we will continue to be using his name. The
mere recitation of facts and testimony does not constitute mud-dragging,
so long as all points of view are duly reflected in stories.
Regards,
Henry Lee
SF Chronicle
-----Original Message-----
Henry,
Please stop printing the name of the 17 year old accused of this crime.
The crime is bad enough; so is your dragging a minor's name through the mud.
He is innocent until proven otherwise. I realize Phil Bronstein is probably
the one deciding to run the boy's name and picture, but please stand up for
decorum and common decency.
Best,
Mike Dabrasha
Hi Mike,
I am confident that the Coco DA's office considers charges irrespective
of media reporting, especially in high-profile cases like these. If you
look at some of the filings by attorneys on both sides of the case,
(http://contracostacourts.org/specialaccess) you'll see that the lawyers
are intent in trying the case in court and not in the media. There is
also a gag order in the case, as you are probably aware.
Henry Lee
SF Chronicle
-----Original Message-----
Hey Henry,
Thanks for your response. I realize the charge has been as an adult, but
also that you all ran his name and pic before the charge. It upsets me
to think the media's sensationalism (by no means the Chron's alone) might
have influenced the prosecution's decision to seek adult charges.
Best,
Mike
-------------------
Hi Mike,
Thanks for your e-mail. The defendant, his age notwithstanding, has been
charged as an adult. As such, we will continue to be using his name. The
mere recitation of facts and testimony does not constitute mud-dragging,
so long as all points of view are duly reflected in stories.
Regards,
Henry Lee
SF Chronicle
-----Original Message-----
Henry,
Please stop printing the name of the 17 year old accused of this crime.
The crime is bad enough; so is your dragging a minor's name through the mud.
He is innocent until proven otherwise. I realize Phil Bronstein is probably
the one deciding to run the boy's name and picture, but please stand up for
decorum and common decency.
Best,
Mike Dabrasha
01 March 2006
Predictions for the next 12 Months
George W. Bush will be impeached, and the Republicans will lose a majority in at least one seat of Congress.
Finley, Bonds and Alou will spend more collective games on the DL than on the field.
Bradley will get married.
Tuna's wife will get pregnant.
House will stumble on a stray train engine and break his ankle- he will be thus be 200 pounds next February.
No one will have Soulseek on his computer.
Iraq's civil war will spread to at least two neighboring nations.
Someone will be murdered at an abortion protest rally.
Myspace will be the subject of a Congressional investigation.
CD sales will plummet and be well on their way to becoming an obsolete technology- vinyl sales will continue to increase, as will flea market turntable sales, thus driving up the price.
Jonathan Franzen's new novel will be met with a collective yawn, driving him to write many essays on the rise and fall of fame and what it does to a man's self-consciousness.
Derr will still be reading The Tunnel.
The A's will win the World Series and hold their celebration at Cafe Van Kleef. Barry Zito will pull out the guitar late in the evening and serenade a Pablo hooker with a poignant version of "Oral Ain't No Thang." She will actively concur, at 15th and Telegraph, while the fans roar once more.
The Warriors will fire Mike Montgomery after Baron Davis demands to be traded, a request they will oblige in exchange for the number 3 pick in the draft which they will use to take a Serbian center who will be killed by a pipe bomb shortly before the season begins. Two days later, the Warriors will have a fire sale and announce that this will be a rebuilding year.
The world's collective suffering will increase, but Barclay's will not raise its prices and IPA's will still be 7%. See ya there.
George W. Bush will be impeached, and the Republicans will lose a majority in at least one seat of Congress.
Finley, Bonds and Alou will spend more collective games on the DL than on the field.
Bradley will get married.
Tuna's wife will get pregnant.
House will stumble on a stray train engine and break his ankle- he will be thus be 200 pounds next February.
No one will have Soulseek on his computer.
Iraq's civil war will spread to at least two neighboring nations.
Someone will be murdered at an abortion protest rally.
Myspace will be the subject of a Congressional investigation.
CD sales will plummet and be well on their way to becoming an obsolete technology- vinyl sales will continue to increase, as will flea market turntable sales, thus driving up the price.
Jonathan Franzen's new novel will be met with a collective yawn, driving him to write many essays on the rise and fall of fame and what it does to a man's self-consciousness.
Derr will still be reading The Tunnel.
The A's will win the World Series and hold their celebration at Cafe Van Kleef. Barry Zito will pull out the guitar late in the evening and serenade a Pablo hooker with a poignant version of "Oral Ain't No Thang." She will actively concur, at 15th and Telegraph, while the fans roar once more.
The Warriors will fire Mike Montgomery after Baron Davis demands to be traded, a request they will oblige in exchange for the number 3 pick in the draft which they will use to take a Serbian center who will be killed by a pipe bomb shortly before the season begins. Two days later, the Warriors will have a fire sale and announce that this will be a rebuilding year.
The world's collective suffering will increase, but Barclay's will not raise its prices and IPA's will still be 7%. See ya there.
Spun
Tuna's former employer bought Spin magazine. Not sure if this means a BL tribute issue is in order, or if more Bright Eyes features are on tap.
Tuna's former employer bought Spin magazine. Not sure if this means a BL tribute issue is in order, or if more Bright Eyes features are on tap.
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