Dawn Powell is much, much funnier than you are. And her hats are cooler than yours, too.

First big release of 2008 is "OK" after first listen

"I asked myself the other day, 'Who else, on so many issues, has been so right so much of the time?' I couldn't think of anyone."

New Hope For The Dead

The King of Kong is the BEST MOVIE EVER

I don't know if you dig the Pixies, but LoudQuietLoud, the documentary of their reunion tour in 2004, cuts. Not for the usual reasons. Nobody's loaded. Nobody gets laid. No voices get raised. Instead you get four uncommunicative people made even less communicative by time and scars and fear thrown back together for various reasons who meet scary waves of obsessive fan love and devotion. Kim Deal is just holding on, trying to stay sober and looking like a Durant Street hooker. Joey Santiago is trying make ends meet for his two small children doing soundtrack documentaries but desperate for diaper money. David Lovering is performing some kind of weird science magic that screams lonely theater and praying to the gods of gay for a moneymaking reunion. Frank Black is bitter over his failed career and ambivalent about going on tour for an adoring audience who only wants to hear the songs he wrote when he was in his twenties. None of them are likeable, but no clear villains emerge, either. You root only for their humanity, even if you struggle to care about them personally. The live clips are perfectly interspersed with behind the scenes and archival footage, and the juxtaposition of backstage ennui moments before entering a stage in front of thousands of zealous devotees has never been rendered more poignantly. Look, if you liked the Pixies or are only entering middle age, get on this. It moves, if only in oddly disconcerting ways. Never has rock and roll been less sexy, but weirdly human. Yea, I'd probably rather watch another VH1 Fleetwood Mac episode, but this works.

Things I Learned at the SAP (it ain't the Firemen's Fund anymore) Open

You can park for free two blocks from the arena without fear, if you can navigate the byzantine San Jose streets and find the frigging place.

A few hundred geriatric types are scattered in the capacity 18000 seat pavillion, but no discounts for kids.

There were more ushers preventing upper deck ticket holders from moving down than there were people in the stands.

The silence was aggressive, interrupted only by Eric Clapton's "Forever Man" or the Violent Femmes' "Blister in the Sun" played during changeovers to produce the vibrant atmosphere tennis is so desperate for. Within the first two minutes, Lucas asked, "Why do we have to whisper?"

Continuing their just say no to kids campaign, only a few food stands were open and none catered to the stomach sizes of small children. That 7 dollar grilled dog was bigger than Lars' arm, and he looked embarrassed when he said he couldn't finish and then, "Am I going to get diarrhea?"

All six singles players hit two-handed backhands, exaggerated western forehands, and aside from one Bobby Reynolds, had names like Guillermo and Jurgen. Great hair, though.

No one chipped and charged. The days of Jeff Borowiak and Erik Van Dillon trading heavily sliced backhands before one sneaks in and dices a crosscourt drop volley are over. The black socks should have tipped me off. Tennis as thinking man's chess is over. Swing that graphite toothpick with all your might on every swing and hope for the best. Only the Fed transcends the power.

65% of those attending wore sweat suits. God, American fashion is appalling.

The number one consumer item was a giant green fuzzy tennis ball, presumably so MIDDLE-AGED MEN could get Bobby Reynolds' autograph on it.

Apparently, 8800 folks showed up for the night session to watch Pete Sampras play an exhibition. Americans love American stars- this passes for insight on a Tuesday morning. Shoot me.

The Holiday Weekend's Receipts

Ugly Things 26 - $7.95

Engine Summer by John Crowley - $2.00

Lord Byron's Novel The Evening Land by John Crowley - $5.99

James Gang - Thirds lp - $5.99

Pretty Things - S.F. Sorrow lp - $8.98

Lou Reed - Legendary Hearts lp - $5.95

Raspberries - Starting Over lp - $7.95

Is it possible to deliver a great ending to a mediocre novel? I've read enough crap ends to say no, but Peter Carey's Theft produces the surprise. No tears, but the gurgle of two. A week's slog gets a Saturday afternoon reward and with daughter in lap, I'll take it. No Oscar and Lucinda, but what is? Now if I can just get my head around lunch with a former college tennis roommate whom I haven't seen in 23 years and who drank two Trumer Pils while telling me the story of his life and the sketches of those I haven't thought about in just as many years I'll have another tear or two. All those lives- most going, some broken, others recovering, and several over. What are 23 years compared to the richness of living when you're young ? How easy to pick it up, and how bittersweet- those years are gone forever. Hope you're holding somebody worth holding.

What are You Listening to February? Nothing new, apparently.

The Teaching Company- WWII- the Holocaust so dominates most references that the Pacific was mostly names and chants (Banzai!) for me- jesus, over 300,000 Russians died in the Battle of Berlin alone.

Blue Ash- No More, No Less- big pop done Big Star-style just not quite as good

Cosmic Psychos- Go the Hack- "you got one chance in life to get drunk and full, now I'm sounding philosophical"

Ray Davies- Other People's Lives- just got this on vinyl and it sounds glorious at three songs a side- it just gets better and better

Fleetwood Mac- S/T- Haas, you fucker, what demon seed have you planted?

Slade- Slayed- the 70's won't quit

Dinosaur Jr- You're Living All Over Me- the guitar that makes crusty bastards weep

Ain't much happening here- ya got anything?

She could be your next first daughter- Meghan McCain.

The Weekend

Why are you such an asshole? I can't say- I've been on my feet for over 16 hours and the babysitter has braces. Why do we have to leave right this very minute? I've got half a beer and I'm trying to get down with the rich guy. Because I'm crashing down the mountain of my middle age exhaustion upon a glass shard parachute of enough. Bring me to my castle. Love negotiations can be made elsewhere. I have breakfast to make for toddlers in less than six hours and a little league meeting to attend in less than eight. George (I Guarantee It!) Zimmer is the coach. Ain't second go-rounds grand? I watched a documentary about suicides from the Golden Gate Bridge in 2004 and wept buckets of oddly burning tears that left pockmarked scars on my poofy cheeks and I'm wondering if there's some kind of special stigmata for athiests that takes you back to high school and prepares you for the worms. I watched a documentary about the 2004 presidential election in Ohio that gave hope, common decency and fair play several swift kicks in the floppy pants. I'm trying to watch a documentary about a Dutch guy who follows Alan Lomax's trips around the world to capture (10,000 field recordings!) world folk music but I keep pausing it to wonder how many levels we're removed from the real thing. I feel like the Kevin Bacon of viewers. I ate tikka masala tonight and drank one beer, a Stone Ruination IPA that was overpriced and left me with nothing but lemonade to wash back the chicken pakora. Have you ever seen 25 5-year olds running wild through a Pump It Up party at 10:45 on a Sunday morning? You think that Babtist church slumming action at that Glide place is music, come down to the inflated rubber pulpit of the screaming mee mee mosh pit of big sweaty small boy energy. More Pizza! More cake! Hey, that dad snubbed me again, just like at that last suicide-inducing fundraiser! And then it all fades into dust as you whizz down the slide with a screaming Amy whose bliss ain't no bliss you can ever remember.

It is the cycle of life, motherfuckers- can you dig it?

Things I (Re)Learned Watching Chris Webber's Return and Waking Up to the Chronicle

Pot makes you fat.

Caring about a regular season NBA game reveals a gaping hole in your life's priorities.

Your own sick children are the sweetest creatures on the planet.

The Warriors can be the worst team in the league on any given night.

The season is way too long.

Mark Morford is a cliche machine.

Sometimes, two beers just bores and bloats.

Sabbath rules.

Scratchy records sound better than MP3's.

I need a Richard Yates break.

Frozen enchiladas must be defrosted before baked, or else you get Mexican mush.

Chris Evert and Greg "The Shark" Norman are an item- this is Evert's third athlete husband. Scott Ostler tells us she's in terrific shape. These are important facts. Study them. Know them. Live them.

Vinyl found for under 2 bucks at Rasputin's new location in Concord-
Black Sabbath- Sabbath Bloody Sabbath
The Kinks- Muswell Hillbillies, Arthur
Rolling Stones- Now!
Nick Lowe- Labour of Lust, Pure Pop for Now People
Fleetwood Mac- first one, Rumours
Steppenwolf- double live
Charlie Louvin record and few others

Not great, but "Monday Morning" sounded good with coffee and a chocolate chip bagel this morning.

In other news, the good folks of our administration will not allow students at basketball games to stand, taunt, yell "air ball" or do anything else that might suggest excitement or enthusiasm.

Security concerns, the fear of lawsuits and a death-denying preoccupation with health is seriously cutting into young people's fun. Let's prepare them for adulthood by not allowing them to do anything.