Cut And Paste

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Solid State! In honor of this most ridiculous of fake holidays, I'm writing this entire post in an annoyingly green font. And no, I'm not drunk. Yet.

This was a pretty quiet weekend for yous truly. Aside from Thursday night's Moses Atwood show at The Skinny Pancake — which was incredible — I made a point of staying in, getting lots of rest and experiencing South By Southwest vicariously through Paste magazine's online coverage. Here me now and believe me later: next year, I'm going.

Within four hours of each other last Friday, My Morning Jacket, Del The Funky Homosapien, Spoon, Yo La Tengo, Jay Reatard, Bon Iver and Mark Kozalek all played shows in various locations around Austin. And that was just Friday. The keynote speaker of the day? Lou Reed at — drum roll, please — 10:30 in the morning. Does anyone else think this one probably got a late start?

I discovered some other interesting tidbits while geeking out. For example, Tom Waits is touring this summer. I would kill everyone reading this post for but one ticket to any of these shows. OK, maybe not everyone. But two or three of you anyway. I'll even take standing room. When the tour dates are officially announced, watch your back, Solid State.

In other news, Weezer is planning to release its sixth album later this Spring. This of course begs the question: why?

Weezer is one of my all-time favorite bands. I firmly believe that Pinkerton is one of the greatest albums ever recorded and defy anyone to prove otherwise. But frankly, Rivers Cuomo hasn't written a good song in, like, 10 years. I'll admit, The Green Album had its moments. But everything after that, including the gag-inducing Maladroit, has been an affront to the delicate sensibilities of wuss-rocking nerds everywhere. That said, I'll still probably buy the album, 'cuz I'm a sucker. And a wuss. And kind of a closet nerd.

Finally, here's a site guaranteed to waste more of your time than Scramble on Facebook — or I suppose, Solid State (rimshot!). It's called Songkick and it might just usher in the next generation of web-geekery. The premise is basically that the site functions as one-stop shopping for music fans to keep tabs on their favorite bands. You can subscribe to feeds and receive updates whenever your favorite artist does anything. Want to know what Colin Meloy had for lunch? Sign up and find out.

OK, it's not that comprehensive. It does, however, let you know when major artists are swinging through your area. I'm guessing they haven't invested much energy in places like Burlington yet, because all they have for upcoming VT shows are: 311 at Memorial Auditorium (yawn), ZZ Top at The Champlain Valley Fair (I take it The Moody Blues were busy?) and — are you sitting down? — Toby muthafuckin' Keith! I'm working on getting an interview as we speak. No really, I am.

But back to wasting time. The real draw is the site's "Battle Of The Bands" feature which allows you to pit virtually any artists you can think of — provided they have some degree of online presence — against each other to see who is more successful/generating more buzz, either via Amazon sales, blog mentions or MySpace plays and visits. Want to see how Grace Potter stacks up against Vampire Weekend? (hint: not well) You can do it.

I believe it was about a month ago that I suggested MySpace plays are becoming more relevant than chart success in the music biz. Nailed that one!

Before we part ways for the day, I'm pretty sure I promised a podcast debut for last weekend. Um, yeah, about that . . .

I'm still working on it. I'm not what you would call "technically savvy." And even though podcasting is super easy, I'm still working on mine. It's a-comin' though. And it's gonna be good. I promise.

Top O' the evening, folks!

Apropos Of Nothing

Just some random brain dribblings for a Thursday afternoon.

Jack Kevorkian, a.k.a. "Dr. Death," is making a bid for a congressional run as an unaffiliated candidate in Michigan. While that's bizarre in and of itself, here's the kicker: The dude is still on parole. God Bless 'merica.

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Moses Atwood is playing The Skinny Pancake tonight. My adoration of Mr. Atwood's music has been well documented in the pages of Seven Days, as well as on The Radiator. Oddly enough, I've yet to see him live. Expect that to change this evening.

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I just took a look at the latest installment of The Burlington Free Press' effort to appeal to the ever-important young, beautiful and dumb demographic, "Ob-Scene," er, "B-Scene." Seven  Days' readers should be familiar with the new rag because, for some reason, BFP uses our newsstands to distribute it. This, of course, leads to the inevitable misconception that we have something to do with its publication. We don't.

However, if we did, here's what I would do to spice it up a bit:

1. The 100+ pretty pictures of young, attractive white people spending money are all fine and dandy. But I need something that really grabs my attention. The center spread should have a "pop-up" feature depicting drunken What Ale's You revelers in white hats bearing clever phrases like "Cocks." As an aside, whatever happened to those "Co-ed naked" t-shirts?

2. Scratch-n-Sniff sections, especially for the bar pics. Since I can't go to every bar every night, like most folks, I need to live vicariously through pictures. But man cannot survive on visuals alone. To get the full sensory experience, I need sights, sounds and, of course, smells. Who doesn't want a good whiff of RJ's on a Saturday evening to complete their virtual night on the town? Perhaps each issue should come with a gravy fry from Nectar's too.

3. Words.

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I am already knee deep in freelance submissions resulting from the house ad we ran in this week's paper seeking additional writers for the music section. The ad makes it sound as though I'm overworked, which, to some degree I suppose I am. But who isn't, right? Ironically enough, the idea is to free me up to write even more, particularly on the blog. By the way, expect installment number one of my long overdue podcast series to make an appearance this weekend.

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Finally, here's the latest vid from Jeff Howlett's Howlerman Productions.  The band is local hardcore act Waiting For A Miracle. The tune is called "Dressed To Kill." Enjoy!

Rock and a Hard Place

I can't decide if this is ridiculously awesome or just plain ridiculous, but Hard Rock Cafe — which is basically to music what Hooter's is to, um, food — is unveiling an amusement park this spring, featuring a slew of rock 'n' roll themed rides and other assorted attractions aimed at separating fanny pack-clad morons from their money. I'm guessing they're going after the growing demographic of folks who get their jollies watching fast cars turn left. But I could be wrong.

Based in Myrtle Beach, Hard Rock Park — clever, no? — will open in June with a geezer rock extravaganza of epically lame proportions. Headlining the two-night concert: The Moody Blues and The Eagles. Gag me with a pitchfork, run me over with a rolling stone and spin my head 'till my vertebrae snap. I believe I have a new definition of hell.

However, as with any theme park, the real story is the rides. I have to admit, I am a sucker for roller coasters and "Led Zepplin: The Ride" sounds freakin' great. But I wonder if the ride simulates driving a Rolls Royce into a swimming pool?  And if you throw up, are you supposed to choke on it to get the full experience? So many questions.

Oh, and speaking of The Moody Blues, "Nights in White Satin: The Trip" basically looks like "It's A Small World" for middle-aged folks with flashback issues. Actually, that one sounds kinda fun.

There's also something called "The Magic Mushroom Garden," which, I kid you not, is aimed at toddlers. Nice.

Since it's Friday afternoon and I have nothing else to do at the moment, I thought I'd offer some suggestions for rides and attractions I'd like to see, should I ever find myself in that part of the world, which I can almost guarantee I won't. Feel free to add suggestions of your own!

The Amy Wine-house
This is basically just a bar, and given the likely clientele, probably wouldn't even serve wine. Unless they ran out of High Life and prescription medicine, of course.

The Great White Light Show
Too soon?

Jeff Buckley's Ragin' River
See above.

Britney Spears Day Care Center
For cracked out moms on the go.

George Micheal's House of Wax
Just don't use the restroom.

Aerosmith's Love in an Elevator
Think Disney's "Tower of Terror," only, you know, really crappy.

Aha's "Take On Me" Fun House
Actually, this one would be pretty sweet.

R. Kelly's Wild Ride
You must not be at least this tall to get on this ride.

The Hall of The Presidents of the United States of America
One hit wonder showcase. By the way, what the hell ever happened to those guys?

Man, I need a hobby.

Have a great weekend, Solid State!

You Know It's a Slow Day When . . .

From now on, all of my reviews will be in pie chart form. Or perhaps bar graphs.

Party Gras, Bro

Sweet Jesus. What a ridiculous orgy of drinking the Mardi Gras Parade is. I guess that's not really a shocker, given that the annual bead fest is Magic Hat's biggest event of the year. But to be perfectly honest, we're three days removed and I still feel hungover. Thanks Lucky Kat!

Prior to my employment with Seven Days, I worked for Alan Newman's beer barony in various capacities for close to four and a half years. I started out pouring growlers in the Artifactory, eventually became the store's Assistant Manager (OK, assistant to the manager) and then switched gears, moving behind the scenes to learn the brewing arts. When I left, I was a centrifuge operator, which isn't nearly as interesting as it sounds. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure the only reason I stayed so long was to play on the company softball team. That, and finding a new job takes effort and I'm a lazy, lazy man. But I digress.

During my tenure, I worked through four Mardi Gras parades, but only actually saw "the action" on one occasion. The other three years I was stuck slaving away at the brewery while everyone else got to play. Two years ago was the one and only time I was allowed to ride on the company float. Frankly, it was kinda lame. Oh sure, there was beer. And beads. And throwing beads, before and after drinking beer. But something about tossing cheap plastic baubles to inebriated tourists left me cold. Or maybe it was the actual cold. Who knows? Anyway, my expectations for this year were justifiably tempered by my previous experience.

Boy, was I wrong. The Seven Days parade experience is vastly superior to Magic Hat and it ain't even close.

For starters, everybody dresses up. If you didn't see it, our float had a circus theme and we went all out. There were lions, tigers and gorillas ("oh my!"). We had a ringmaster, a strong man, a mime, a stunt man and clowns. We even had a bearded lady, who may or may not be writing this very blog post . . . ahem. In fact, our float was so good that we technically received the most votes for the "best float" competition as voted by the revelers. But since we're a sponsor we can't actually win . . . we got robbed!

Secondly, the beer is the same. The cool part is that if you're not affiliated with MH, you can choose to drink their beer or — gasp! — something else. Plus, we had jell-o shots. My pinky is still purple from scooping.

But the piece de resistance, the coup de grace, the bees mutha-effin' knees was none other than Burlington garage-rawkers Cave Bees who rocked and rolled from the Hood Plant parking lot, down Main Street, up Church Street, down Cherry Street and all the way back to Seven Days' offices. There were plenty of other bands playing on floats, but Cave Bees blew 'em all out of the water.

I still found the actual bead tossing somewhat off-putting. Grown men boxing out small children for 3 cents worth of plastic crap is nothing short of pathetic. However, thanks to my time playing second base for MH, my aim is impeccable. Vengeance was mine as beads, frisbees and moon pies flew straight and true, frequently finding their targets — i.e. the foreheads of overaggressive louts jockeying with kids for position. That part, I have to admit, was waaay too much fun.

In closing, I have to say I had a blast — though I could have done without the drunken tool-fest downtown during the parade's aftermath. Plus, I'm told this year set record highs in donations to the Women's Rape Crisis Center, which is really the point, right? Well, that, and binge drinking. But mostly it's the charity.

Bloggity Bloggity Bloggity

Whew! What a weekend.

Friday night, I finally got a chance to catch local ska revivalists Husbands. What a hoot! I won't delve too deeply into my impressions as you'll be able to read all about it in tomorrow's paper. But talk about a flashback. The band is still fairly new on the scene and as such are a bit rough around the edges. It's forgivable. I haven't been to a good ska-punk show in probably close to ten years and goddamn if it wasn't fun. The whole night kinda made me long for my saddle shoes and checkered suit jacket. Ah, memories.

Saturday night, I acted as a judge for the Higher Ground Comedy Battle. Again, you can read more about this tomorrow. But I have to say that I went in with fairly minimal expectations. Stand-up comedy is sort of like karaoke in that it's only fun if it's either really good or REALLY bad. For the most part, the 11 contestants fell in line with the former. Color me pleasantly surprised.

The winner was a 20 year-old creative writing major at Johnson State College named Roger Miller. Honestly, if this guy doesn't pack his bags and head for NYC after graduation, something is horribly wrong with the world. Dude was hysterical. I think my favorite observation dealt with port-o-lets at music festivals — part of a larger, equally funny bit about drugs, hippies and jam bands. To paraphrase, you know something is truly disgusting if it's too nasty to piss into. Indeed.

Sunday night, I had every intention of pulling the Higher Ground two-fer and checking out Neko Case. But sometimes life gets in the way of the best laid plans. Unfortunately, my girlfriend threw out her back skiing at Jay Peak — on her second run of the day — and I ended up playing nurse all night, which is nowhere near as fun as playing doctor. Whoa!

Anywhoo . . .

I'm not a huge Neko Case fan, but I was really looking forward to seeing Eric Bachman. I dug both of his old(?) bands — Archers of Loaf and, in particular, Crooked Fingers. But alas, no soup for me. I hear it was a pretty sweet show though.

However, I did find myself in a rather strange position on Sunday afternoon as it was the first Sunday with no football since September. I've never put much stock in the whole "Cabin Fever" thing. But I'll be honest: I was kinda losin' my shit. I would have settled for the Toronto Argonauts versus the Montreal Alouettes . . . seriously, the Alouettes? That might be the lamest name in professional sports.

The funniest?  A tie between former Detroit Lions defensive back Harry Colon and Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher Randy Johnson. And once again, I digress. 

Fortunately, my sports junkie fix came in the unlikely form a Chuck Klosterman article on ESPN.com. The piece deals with the New England Patriots pursuit of perfection with a win in this Sunday's Super Bowl and how the team's legacy — and more specifically that of quarterback/golden boy Tom Brady — would actually be more enduring were they to choke and lose. Essentially, the premise is that Americans, on the whole, identify with failure more closely than they do success. It's more humanizing to watch someone like Brady suffer defeat than it is to watch him continue to be virtually perfect. I think it's the same reason American Idol is still on the air — it's fun to watch people fail.

Though I vehemently disagree with his conclusion that Pats should lose, the argument makes sense. Frankly, Brady is a god among men. He's got model looks. He's the best player on the best team at the most high-profile position in sports. He dates one of the most beautiful women on the planet, Gisele Bundchen. And he recently fathered a child with another, actress Bridget Moynihan. If I didn't love him, I'd hate him.

Regardless of your interest in football, it's an intriguing read. Check it out. Except for you, Casey. I know how much you love Klosterman. And football.

Well, folks. That's all I've got for now. In the meantime, the story I wrote last week about teaching kids to play guitar using Guitar Hero has been getting some attention on reddit.com. And as a result, it's the second most popular story ever on Seven Days' new website. It's even prompted a snarky discussion about my work outside the friendly confines of Solid State. Neat-o! 

Six Degrees of Politics

Did everyone watch the State of the Union last night?

I was happy to hear Bush admit that the system of care established for our nation's Veterans needs some tweaking. I was even happier that this was his final address. After all, admitting a problem and fixing a problem are two different things, and the latter is a skill this man clearly lacks. I wouldn't be surprised if a lot of our country simply tuned him out this eighth time around.

Luckily, next year's address will come from a brand new president. Who? Well, we don't know yet.

Obviously.

Hence the crazed campaigning and extreme endorsing slamming us from all branches of the media.

Earlier yesterday evening while running my little butt off at the gym, I focused on one of the TV's up front. CNN was reporting on all of the most unusual candidate endorsements after breaking the news of Senator Kennedy's recent endorsement of Barack Obama.

I wasn't fully concentrated on the story as my ipod was blaring Soulja Boy's "Crank Dat" into my ears [KIDDING], but suddenly Kevin Bacon's face filled the screen and it was all I could do not to fall off my elliptical.

I have no idea how I missed this until now, but apparently Kevin Bacon endorsed John Edwards back in December. Endorsed him with music.

Wait, no, that didn't do it justice. Endorsed him WITH FOOTLOOSE.

Skip in about three minutes for the good stuff. And don't get too excited. Playing guitar kind of restricts the famous Kevin Bacon Footloose dance moves. Which I will be happy to demonstrate to you if you're not aware how awesome they are. Just approach me at the Monkey after one Tequila Sunset.

By the way, this is in no way an endorsement of John Edwards. This is solely an endorsement of Kevin Bacon. Who has officially made the political world just one degree of separation away from stardom.

I Hate The Internet

Sweet merciful crap! I got hacked. Well not me, per se. But my MySpace page. I feel so . . . violated.

Apparently, someone or something cracked my password and has been sending weird messages and bulletins to all of my "friends" with links to — drum roll, please — adult websites! Awesome. Nothing like being a semi-public figure and having your name attached to porn. Guess I won't be running for office any time soon. No Obama-Bolles ticket in '08. Sorry, folks.

In case we're not MySpace buddies, the posts looked a little something like this (minus the web address):

All of our friends should know about this...

Kardashian did an video before Keeping up w/ the Kardasians

This is the only place you can see it for free

If you can not click on the address

myspace can be really gay sometimes

type it in, trust me it is worth it!

you need to be 18 and have a visa or mastercard

other videos are also there.

I'm no Hemingway, but come the fuck on! "Did an video?" "Can not click?" "Myspace can be really gay?" Do you mean that MySpace is really happy and fun? Or do you mean that . . . ohhhh, I get it. You're a moron.

I know the socially inept virgins who devote their time to devising these sort of hacks and cracks rarely leave the dingy confines of their parents' basement and can't be bothered with the finer subtleties of the English language. And I'm sure the half-wit who devised this particular gem didn't know he was hacking someone who writes for a fucking living — it's far more likely this is a generic hack than a specifically targeted hit. But if you're going to try and pose as someone's friend — especially a friend pimping a porn site — wouldn't you at least make an attempt to sound believable? I know third graders with a better grasp of grammar.

In any event, thanks to those who brought this to my attention. I actually hardly use my MySpace page anymore — I'm all about Facebook now, mostly because Scrabulous rocks! — so who knows how long this bullshit could have gone on?

So in closing, the lesson of the day is update your passwords regularly.

Speaking of videos, here's one from local metal chaps — and I do mean "chaps" — Amadis, filmed by Jeff Howlett of Howlerman Productions. It ain't porn. But it's close.

Witch Hunt

I was all set to let fly with some serious musical bloggery today. But then I realized what day it was. Today is Thursday, December 13. Or, the day baseball died.

Before we continue, those with a thirst for "rants and raves of the musical kind" should head over to False 45th and check out the latest batch of 2007 Year End Music Survey results, including submissions from The Jazz Guys, the estimable Contrarian himself, Casey Rae-Hunter and yours truly. Have fun and we'll see you tomorrow.

For those who don't know, at 2 p.m. today, retired Senator George Mitchell releases the findings of his over-arching and controversial inquest into the use of performing enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball. After 20 months and $60 million, the distinguished gentleman from The Great State of Maine will answer, in explicit detail, how widespread steroid and HGH use is in America's Pastime. And he's naming names.

After years of speculation and public discontent, Mitchell's report will shed a harsh and unforgiving light on the darkest corners of the game. Already, hours before the official press conference takes place, names have begun to leak and whispers of full-scale complicity from the Commissioner's Office to the bat boys can be heard around the country. The first name tossed to the wind? Roger Clemens, arguably the greatest pitcher in the history of the game.

Mitchell's report is rumored to contain as many as 80 names, many of them high-profile players. Of particular note, "several prominent players" from the New York Yankees are said to be implicated in the Senator's findings. But it's unlikely any team will emerge unscathed.

Without question, the validity of the ex-Senator's report will immediately be placed on trial. Mitchell was not granted subpoena power and relied heavily on word of mouth and, potentially, hearsay from a variety of sources around the league. As such, access to players and league executives was likely limited at best. Additionally, Mitchell serves on the Board of Directors for the Boston Red Sox. Many have already questioned the wisdom of employing an investigator so intimately involved with not only the game, but one particular team. It's certainly a fair question.

Baseball commissioned Mitchell with the admirable intent of clearing the game's good name. The pall cast on baseball by the looming specter of cheating has been nothing short of a black eye for nearly a decade. But are Major League Baseball and George Mitchell opening Pandora's Box?

Ironically, steroids likely saved the game. Following 1994's bitter labor dispute which led to the cancellation of more than 900 games and the World Series, baseball was on life support. Then in 1998, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa's epic race to break one of the game's most hallowed records, Roger Maris' single-season mark of 61 home runs, sparked a resurgence of interest, rescuing baseball from a slow and painful demise. But as any fan of the game knows, McGwire and Sosa cheated. They were juiced.

While Mitchell's report will almost certainly nail some of the game's biggest stars, the question remains whether or not he'll bite the hand that feeds him and address the underlying and perhaps criminal issue of complicity from baseball's higher-ups. Does anyone really believe that Commissioner Bud Selig was completely ignorant to the cancer ravaging his sport? If so, what does that say about his competence to govern the game? Selig made a deal with Devil. It appears that payment may be coming due.

Judgment day may well be on the horizon for the game itself. Mitchell's report is merely the beginning. Players, owners, management and executives should all be held accountable for their crimes against the game. If they are, will anyone be left standing?

I Like Strippers

Happy GWAR day, everybody!

These comic strips showed up in my inbox this morning and I thought of you, Solid State. They come from an artist named Jeff Noise and appear in about a half-dozen alt-weeklies in Canada and the US. On his website, Mr. Noise bills his work as "the world's first and only comic strip record review." Nifty.

We're not accepting new submissions at the moment, which is too bad. But I figured y'all might dig 'em.

Here you go (click the thumbs for a larger version!):

     

WARNING: This post contains subject matter of an athletic nature. More music tomorrow.

You knew it was coming. Regardless of the outcome, you knew that I wouldn't let the opportunity pass to write about my beloved Red Sox in the World Series. To be fair, I waited as long as I possibly could. But the time has come. If it bothers you, I apologize in advance. Check back tomorrow and I promise we'll be back on track. The rest of you can feel free to continue reading and bask in the afterglow. Shall we?

For the three of you who are still reading, it's actually kind of sad, isn't it? Seven months and 176 games after we started, it's all over. To be sure, the outcome could not possibly have been better. A division title, another post-season collapse in the Bronx, a thrilling championship series and an absolute rout to capture our second title in four years. And still, it's bittersweet.

For me, and legions of fans of all (pin)stripes like me, baseball really is a pastime. Due to the marathon length of the regular season, rabidly following a team through all its ups and downs is a recipe for madness. As such, baseball is a game that rewards the casual fan. Seven innings here. A few innings there over dinner. Joe Castiglione's familiar nasal timbre crackling through a car stereo on a Sunday afternoon. In many respects, the game itself becomes part of the fabric of summer. But, as Dane Cook obnoxiously pointed out roughly 13,474 times in the last three weeks, "There's only one October." And now it's over. Presumably, so are those asinine commercials — so we've got that going for us, which is nice. But I sense a disturbance in the Force.

On more than one occasion in the last few days, I had this conversation:

Red Sox fan #1: "You know, it'd be really great if the team would lose a couple games so that they could finally win one at home."

Red Sox fan #2: "Yeah. Totally, dude."

Dan: "Fuck you."

Ultimately, the exchange points to the emergence of a new breed of Sox fan, spoiled by the team's recent successes — and likely those of their football counterparts in Foxboro. It used to be that we were cursed. Now we're entitled.

Could you imagine that statement being uttered in 2004? Or, God forbid, 1986? We've gone from America's beloved underdog, to something much, much worse: we've become Yankees fans. And perhaps, the Evil Empire is much closer to home than we ever thought.

I was only three months old when Bucky "bleepin'" Dent broke the hearts of Red Sox Nation — decades before the faux-nationalism concept even existed. But I'm pretty sure I experienced it through osmosis. I do, however, remember Bill Buckner. And I still have nightmares about Aaron 'bleepin'" Boone. I remember the last time the Red Sox won their division. And how they promptly collapsed in the playoffs, swept by none other than the Cleveland Indians.

But I also remember how the Sox battled back in 2004 to do the unthinkable and take four straight against the rival Yanks and then blow through St. Louis en route to their first title in 86 years. And I'll remember this season just as fondly — and graciously.

It doesn't get any better than it is right now, folks, regardless of where the team actually wins. And there's no shame in hopping on the bandwagon. Just be sure you know the road it's traveled before you do. We take nothing for granted, here in the Nation.

So baseball is over, and summer with it. And now, just like everyone else, we too have nothing left to do but to wait 'till next year. And that's just fine with me.

    

Dan Bolles: Superspy!

I knew it! I'm a fine piece of ass and now I have proof. And no, I don't mean the "homeless Trey" silhouette adorning the header of Sound Bites — I've really got to do something about that. Anywhoo . . .

Whether they choose to admit it or not, the first section of Seven Days that most people turn to on Wednesday is "I Spy" — and usually on the can. The latter fact actually helps me put my job into humbling perspective; It's hard to get too worked up about angry letters to the editor when you realize that most were likely formed in the author's most personal moment of the day. But I digress.

I'm not sure how long "I Spy" has been running in the paper. But I'll come clean that prior to my employment with the paper, I religiously scoured the section hoping upon hope that someone, anyone, had thought enough of me in one fleeting moment to to put pen to paper and call me out. Week after week, month after month and ultimately year after year, no dice. As Harvey Pekar might put it, it's been a reliable disappointment. Until now.

Let it be known that I've been happily involved with the same woman for over two years. That said, my inner narcissist has generally refused to go a week without at least checking to see if I'd been spied. However, since I began writing for the paper, I've focused less on personals and horoscopes and more on what my colleagues are producing on a weekly basis — who knew they had articles in this rag?

Anyway, I'd all but given up on ever being spied until a friend pointed this out to me last weekend. I was shocked.

REDHEADS UNITE
Red-bearded Red Sox fan walking your white dog at Battery Park, Oct. 3, morning. I rode by on my bike and we shared a smile. We also share a team and a hair color. What else?
When: Wednesday, October 3, 2007. Where: Battery Park, Burlington. You: Man. Me: Woman.

Sweet Jesus. I got spied.

Over the years, there have been a few close calls, but nothing that I could ever say for certain was me. I vaguely remember the incident with the red-haired girl — how delightfully Charlie Brown! My girlfriend, however, would really like to know just what the hell I was doing smiling at bicycling redheads in the park. Ummm . . . I'm just a happy guy? Hoo boy.

In closing, if you're out there red-haired girl, thank you. You made my week. I'm sorry it won't work out, but we'll always have Battery Park.

Beantown Ho!

Hey there, Solid State. How's it going?

Yesterday, I promised I'd let you get into my Pants, but I'm afraid you're just going to have to wait.

I'm headed to Boston for the weekend — I have tix to tomorrow's Sox-Yanks game at Fenway. Woo Hoo! — and in my haste to wrap up as much of next week's Music Section as I could, the day simply slipped away and I've run out of time to do the promised post justice. Sorry.

Anyway, here's a new video from my good friends Stuckey & Murray in NYC:

If you're easily offended, please don't press play.

Have a great weekend!

Higher Ground?

Earlier today, I was typing the URL for Higher Ground's website into my trusty Firefox browser and absentmindedly left the word "music" out of the address. Since I visit the site approximately 47 times a day and have their calendar bookmarked, I was more than a little surprised when I was directed here.

Scary.

Poop Bags

One of my favorite parts of the day is my morning constitutional with my mildly-retarded, baby-eating half-pit bull, Buckley. Buck is an odd little fella with myriad idiosyncrasies and personality quirks. For example, he's obsessed with his tail. Like, Captain Ahab - Moby Dick obsessed. And no, he doesn't really eat babies. Yet.

When he really gets going, he's an unstoppable tornado of white fur, tearing though the apartment as if it were a Midwest trailer park. He'll catch his tail and in true pit fashion, simply won't let go. If you call him, he'll rotate toward you and will even ascend and descend staircases, never loosening the death-grip on his rear appendage. Maybe this is why most of his breed have bobbed tails? But I digress.

This morning we strolled through Battery Park, as per our usual routine. And as there often are on pleasant days, a few homeless people were sleeping on various benches and plots of grass throughout the park. It's just part of its charm, I guess.

Now, one of my biggest pet peeves — pardon the pun — is people who don't pick up after their dogs. It's an ongoing problem in Burlington and many a morning — and shoe — have been ruined by errant footfalls.  It's gotten to the point that I've actually confronted fellow dog owners when I catch them in the act — though I'll usually offer an extra plastic bag.

This morning, I happened to spy a girl in her early-twenties walking her German Shepard. She was cute and her dog was handsome. And apparently incontinent — the dog, that is. I noticed the pair just as the Shepard was kicking his hind legs, proudly spreading the scent of its discharge.  He finished and without batting an eyelash, the girl turned and began to lead the dog away from the scene of the crime. I rolled my eyes and reached into my pockets for a spare bag.

As I did, an older black gentleman, lying on a bench, raised his head from a makeshift pillow and shouted from across the park, "Hey! I wouldn't shit your bedroom! Pick up after your goddamn dog, lady!"

The girl's expression was priceless. A mix of disbelief and embarrassment crossed her face as she frantically searched her jeans for a bag we all knew wasn't there. Smirking, I held up one of mine as Buck and I made our way toward her. She took the bag and whispered to me, "What the hell is his problem?" I merely smiled and shrugged my shoulders as she bent down to scoop the poop. "Have a nice day, and thanks for cleaning up after your dog," I said turning to walk away. "Uggh," she replied in disgust, daintily attempting to pick up the pile.

As I strolled past the gentleman on the bench, he addressed me, "Hey buddy?" I began to reach into my pocket for spare change or a loose dollar. "You got any more of those bags? You wouldn't believe how often this happens." Taken aback, I reached in my other pocket and produced two more bags. "Thanks, man," he replied. "No sir," I said. "Thank you."

I tipped my Sox hat and began to walk away. "I wouldn't shit in her bedroom," he said again, readjusting his pillow and laying his head down.

A-Hole

I know, I know. This is supposed to be a local music blog and I keep writing about stuff that has nothing to do with music, local or otherwise. But I heard this little nugget on my way to work today and thought it was pretty interesting. I promise this will be the last time I write about sports for a while. But stay with me because this is weird.

Last night, New York Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez hit his 499th career home run. For the uninitiated, this is kind of a big deal because every player with 500 home runs is in the Hall of Fame and A-Rod would be the youngest player in history to achieve the mark. Plus he's a total douche.

Tomorrow the Yankees will play the Baltimore Orioles to conclude a game originally played on June 28th which was suspended in the 8th inning due to rain. Should Alex Rodriguez homer in the resumed game, it will have statistically occurred on June 28th meaning that his 499th home run — hit last night — would actually be his 500th. Where's Doc Brown when you need him?

On an absolutely unrelated note, here's yet another reason why I hate drum circles:

Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs — Part 1

As I get older, birthdays become less and less important. As a kid, I remember being shocked whenever I'd ask my dad what he wanted for his. "It's just another day . . ." he'd sigh, staring off in the distance at what I can only assume was his waning youth, before cracking open a Miller High Life and lighting a Marlboro.  Ah, childhood.

It defied every sensibility I possessed at the time not to lie awake every night for two weeks prior to the big day, dreaming of the loot I was sure to acquire if I didn't burst from anticipation. I just couldn't comprehend my father's depressing indifference.

In many respects, my 29th birthday was the worst ever — however, the trip to the dentist when I turned 10 comes close. Not only am I now watching days fly off the calendar in an irrevocable descent into Thirtydom — although according to the NY Times, 30 is the new 21. So I've got that going for me, which is nice — I spent the day slaving over a column and a feature, and the evening praying that sweet death would rescue me from my flu-like malaise. Nothing like celebrating the last birthday of your twenties with a bottle of NyQuil and a comforter . . . in July.

Physical ailments aside, gift-wise, I made out like a bandit. The crown jewel was tickets to a Sox-Yankees game at Fenway in September, but my friend Ben came through with a close second.

I'd never heard of Chuck Klosterman until Ben introduced me to Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. Being as culturally aware as many of you are, I'm sure at least a few of you are familiar. However, I have only recently become enamored with Klosterman's witty brand of criticism. Page by page, he's becoming my favorite pop-culture analrapist. Thanks, Ben.

One of my favorite pieces of the book is the list of 23 questions he asks everyone he meets to determine if he can really love them. Since I can't make up my mind about most of you, I thought I'd give it a shot.

Question the first:

Let us assume you met a rudimentary magician. Let us assume he can do five simple tricks--he can pull a rabbit out of his hat, he can make a coin disappear, he can turn the ace of spades into the Joker card, and two others in a similar vein. These are his only tricks and he can't learn any more; he can only do these five. HOWEVER, it turns out he's doing these five tricks with real magic. It's not an illusion; he can actually conjure the bunny out of the ether and he can move the coin through space. He's legitimately magical, but extremely limited in scope and influence.

 

Would this person be more impressive than Albert Einstein?

Whaddya say, Solid State?

Roid Rage

Those of you who know me personally are likely aware that I'm a bit of a sports nut. It's a passion  I rarely indulge in local hipster circles, but if I have to choose between going to Metronome to see a great band or watching a Red Sox - Yankees game at Nectar's, you'll find me downstairs almost every time.

Baseball was my first love. I discovered the pure joy of swatting a small leather ball with a wooden stick long before I paid any attention to girls and years prior to diving into music. From the time I was 6 until I turned 13, all I ever wanted to be was the starting left-fielder for the Sox. Unfortunately, a lack of size and/or any appreciable baseball talent prevented me from living that dream beyond riding the pine in middle school. C'est la vie.

Though my aspirations of becoming a pro ballplayer eventually faded, my adoration of the sport never did. I love baseball at every level, from the sandlot to the majors, so it should come as no surprise that I tuned in for Tuesday's MLB All Star game.

Unless you live in a complete bubble, you're likely aware of the ongoing steroid/HGH controversy currently ravaging professional sports.  At the heart of  the scandal is San Francisco Giants slugger Barry Bonds, who is presently 5 home runs away from breaking Henry Aaron's long-standing career mark of 755 and is widely believed to have used performance enhancing drugs to get there. Follow the link at the end of the previous post to learn more.

This year, the mid-summer classic happened to take place in San Francisco — do you think the announcers said anything about the controversy?

Hardly an inning went by that some idiot Fox broadcaster didn't bring it up and boldly put in their two cents on the issue — or Fox's anyway. Since Fox shares broadcasting rights with ESPN, both networks are sleazily trying to gloss over the scandal to create some air of purity around the embattled player's impending achievement — and of course, boost ratings.

While there was no shortage of inanity streaming from the TV, perhaps the most intellectually vapid and morally bankrupt argument came from Ken Rosenthal, who prefaced his entire argument that Bond's record should stand even if he is found guilty of cheating with the cornerstone phrase of Fox News spin tactics: "Some people say . . ."

Rosenthal claims that "some people" say 70 percent of MLB players are, or were, on steroids during Bonds' run for the HR crown. Just which part of Rupert Murdoch's ass did you pull that number from, Ken?

His point was essentially that because so many players were allegedly on drugs — including pitchers — we need to view Bonds in the historical context of the Steroid Era and therefore, it's OK that he cheated.

Bullshit.  If everyone jumped off a bridge . . .

Rosenthal's logic is ethically flawed and entirely based on an assumption that's impossible to prove. But he may actually have a point — though it's not the one he was trying to make.

Do we view Babe Ruth's 714 with any less reverence even though he never faced a Black, Hispanic or Asian pitcher? Is Henry Aaron's mark less impressive because it took him nearly 800 more games to do it than Ruth? We routinely give our heroes contextual free passes. Perhaps we should do the same with Bonds. Not as an athlete, but as an entertainer.

Major League Baseball — or any professional sport, really — is entertainment. Fans pay hundreds of dollars per game to see overgrown freaks play a child's game at its highest level. Just like we'll pay through the nose to see drugged out musicians or artificially enhanced movies. When I go to a MLB game, I want to see gargantuan brutes hit baseballs 500 feet. When folks would see Phish, they'd want the band to be as high as they were. Performance-enhancing drugs are not solely the realm of sports and to malign athletes for trying to conform to a climate created by the public's appetite is disingenuous at best.

In 1998, Major League Baseball was on life support after barely surviving a fierce labor dispute. That summer, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa's epic home run battle revived a dying game — with the help of performance-enhancing drugs. McGwire has all but admitted as much. A much smaller Sosa returned to the game this year after two seasons of physical breakdowns.

The prolific sluggers' race to break Roger Maris' single-season HR record of 61 wasn't baseball. It was drama and it captivated millions of fans and revitalized the sport. Now, as Barry Bonds nears his own record, the country recoils in horror as it becomes more and more apparent that growing three and a half shoe sizes at the age of 37 just ain't natural.  This is a monster we created, folks. Don't act so surprised.

There is no purity left in the game of Major League Baseball and maybe there never was. If you want to see pure hardball, go to a minor league game, or better yet, find a sandlot. And when Barry Bonds breaks Hank Aaron's record, tip your cap, 'cuz it's been a good show.

Friday declaration.

I call classic rock day!

Go to Spitting Out Teeth and rank your favorite Stones LPs.

Listen to "Heart of the Sunrise" by Yes and stop making fun of them forever. Make sure to clear your mind of Vincent Gallo and, um, guns first.

Do you use LastFM? Find out how "mainstream" your tastes are by percentage. I'm around 15%. I think Steely Dan killed me.

Finally, a question of my own: When do *alternative* or *indie* bands become classic rock? There's no right answer, I'm just looking for opinions.

Stopgap post.

I'm having a "business lunch" today, can you believe it? Nor can I. I think it might be my first one ever.

Actually, I gotta split and go to it now. But I'm posting to say that I'll likely post again a little later. So keep your heads together until then.

In the meantime, check out this Japanese War Tuba.