Rumbles & Stumbles

Excuses, excuses

2006-08-27T11:07:00.000-07:00

My deepest apologies to my thousands of loyal fans for the recent lack of activity on this blog. Recent days have seen most of my blogging efforts defect to Runnyeggs, a blog three high school buddies and I cooked up a week or two ago.

But, in a thinly veiled attempt to remain thematic, here's a list of upcoming shows I'm going to. And this one's gonna be syndicated, baby!

Tool - Sept 3 - Oakland Arena

Apollo Sunshine - Sept 7/8 - The Independent (the best venue in San Francisco)

Dr. Dog and Cold War Kids - Sept 9 - Cafe Du Nord

Roger Waters - Oct 10 - Shoreline

The Decembrists - Oct 19 - The Warfield

Excuses, excuses

2006-08-27T10:59:00.000-07:00

Excuses, excuses

2006-08-27T10:52:00.000-07:00

The shortest post

2006-08-17T08:25:00.000-07:00

This one will be short. REAL short.

Only one quip. Why does every bus have its troublemaker? Someone's always getting into it with the driver and the poor drivers are getting more and more defensive. It can catalyze psychological ruin, really. You know what it is? People are jealous of the bus driver. He's got a job, and it's one of those jobs you could whistle during. I mean, no one does, but they could. You know? If they didn't have to deal with douchebags all the time?

The Giants feel so small right now

2006-08-13T19:47:00.000-07:00

And so do their fans. I write on the heels of a walk-off home run that sealed the Dodgers' sweep of the Giants down in LA. I think they've now lost 16 of their last 19. Fucking pathetic. I could cry, but I would rather blog, because at least the blogosphere will hear my moans (and taste the salt of my proverbial tears via computer screen).

I mean last year it was easy, because I was traveling for most of their season, so when the Giants gave us hope and then dropped the ball as the playoff race was heating up like they usually do, I didn't really give a shit and I hardly knew what was going on. But now that I'm not stumbling around obscure Bulgarian villages and taking efficient Slovenian public transit to beautiful rainy hill towns, it hurts more. I'm right here in the city, all the time, and I'm paying attention, dammit! Can't the Giants find a way not to suck?

Reggae on the River

2006-08-12T14:50:00.000-07:00

It's taken me a while to get around to writing about it, but this was a festival like nothing I'd ever seen before. I've never been to High Sierra or Burning Man, so just to see tens of thousands of people flooding a common camp and loving it was pretty remarkable.

I'll move from the personal to the practical. The four of us excavated a small rectangle of rock-littered riverside land on which to pitch our tent and began working on the coolerful of BevMo products we'd brought along. We were strategic about our alcohol purchases: a 750 of Herrador and one of Jim Beam, a 30-case of Keystone (for volume's sake) and 30 bottled brews we believed to be tasty, including a 6-pack of Hemp Ale in the name of Northern Cali and in the spirit of reggae.

The days consisted much less of live music and much more of floating down the river ... than we had expected. Chiefly because it took 5 hours or so to float down to our home base from the lagoon out by Cook's Camp, we were too busy to get to the ring of music until nighttime.

Floating down the river is a meditative experience that lets you take in the whole festival as the deep green fluffy forests, the lush colors and the beautiful people slowly pass you by. It's also a wet and drunken task that takes longer than you expect.

Also noteworthy is the fact that I bought a Ghanean djembe on the last day of the festival. It's beautiful. It lives in my room. It needs a name.

I wish I could chronicle why this was such an amazing weekend, but I'm groggy and seem to be missing some wisdom teeth, so I just might continue this later.

Woot.

What is & what should probably continue to be

2006-07-30T19:51:00.000-07:00

North beach is one place I haven't spent nearly enough time in since the city-era of my geographical plight began back in March.

And re-reading that sentence, I can't justify why it's written the way it is, try as I might.

But let's move on with our lives, and our sentences. The North Beach Jazz Festival was a buzzing, sunny little scene that livelied up Washington Square Park and spilled over onto Union St. to accomodate those of us who occasionally spill beer (but mostly drink it). The upside of the festival's being split up into a wet and a no-alcohol zone was that, if you wanted to be right up in front of the stage, all you had to do was hit up the non-alcohol side and there was all the space in the world.

New Monsoon played a pretty sweet set -- I dig the tabla player, though he doesn't get enough spotlight (reminded me of a two-man tabla and sax act I saw on the beach in Goa back in December) -- and today I went back for an hour or so to catch ALO.

I'd never seen or heard ALO before, but I'd heard of them and was curious. They were actually really good, though not necessarily a show I'd go out of my way to see -- but that's easy to say once you see an act for free in the park (case in point: Cake).

These guys were super solid as far as jambands go. They were just like Phish. And before you get all up in arms about that comment (scenesters of the jamband variety are turning over in their RVs), really think about what the difference might be. The guitar solos, while they're not played by Tre, are surely inspired by him. And the prominence of the keyboard, and the style of songwriting, and the instrumental bits that are held together by little more than 'coming back around' to a rehearsed riff that obviously turned into a rippin' garage session and, in turn, made it onto the stage.

Anyway, part of the fun of the festival for me was figuring out the best way to bike to North Beach from my place. I think I can now make it in a half hour, if, say, a friend called me from North Beach and said, "Dude, you have to come over here RIGHT NOW. Trust me. You will thank me for this for the rest of your life." Or, you know, something less dramatic. Whatever.

Chugging over Russian Hill was a challenge, and I have to be honest that I found the final uphill block of Pacific completely un-bikeable, but other than that, it was a great tour of the city. On the way there I made a mental note to have dinner in that ambigious 'Fillmore' zone of Pac Heights' no man's land. And I got to stop by Rogue Brewery yesterday for a beer and a burger -- although Rogue really deserves at least three pints to count as a visit. But I'll take it. So on the ride back I went through Chinatown (what have we done with all the elderly Chinese people and rowdy markets? ah, yes. here they are) and managed to get into a race with a cable car.

I mean it. We started on Pacific a few blocks short of Van Ness, where the operator yelled, "Wanna race me?" I suppose by beginning to climb the hill right then, I had (inadvertently?) acquiesced. I didn't 'win,' per se, but give me a fucking break. This was a bitch of a hill. One of the worst in the city. Is there literary significance to the fact that I raced a bunch of tourists in a trolley up Russian Hill? You know, in the ... novel of my life, or whatever?

Probably. I bet it's HUGE. I'm missing something if I don't reflect on it for a while.

Anyway, I was doing pretty well for the first leg of the race, because I still had a little energy to burn, and because cable cars are slow to accelerate. But as they slowly plowed by me the chorus of the trolley's passengers chanted "GO! GO! GO!" ... which was awesome, and also slightly condescending, considering they were just fucking standing there while some mechanical bullshit was doing all the work of pulling them up the goddamn hill, but you know, whatever, I'm not bitter or anything.

By the time the cable car made it across the intersection, though, I had caught up with it and we were ready for round two. This time the results were... the same. I think I was a pretty good sport. I didn't fall, or stop riding and walk my bike, or cry, or flip off the tourists, or get my front tire hilariously stuck in the tram track and reap the rewards. Although I thought about it.

Once we made it over the hill and were headed toward Van Ness, I was actually going to show those cable-hoisting motherfuckers who's boss, but the cable car was hogging the whole right side of the road! That's cheating! I told them so, too. Tomatoes were thrown; tempers flared. But anyhow, we all know the little man wins in the end.

So my goal of riding a friggin' cable car like a tourist remains unattained thus far, six months into living here, but I've managed to race one, which, let's face it, is not something just any goon who's willing to wait in a queue the length of a Russian bread line in 1936 can pull off.

The Poop Deck

2006-07-24T22:18:00.000-07:00

By the way, this is a pretty clever little site about Web 2.0 companies likely to go the way of the, uh, the ... you know, some idea that never quite took off. The horse and carriage? I guess that had a good run. WebTV, perhaps.

Anyway, when this ship gets flip-turned upside down, I suppose you wouldn't want to find yourself on the poop deck.

In the throes of live shows and dot com woes

2006-07-24T22:02:00.000-07:00

Well, not woes, really. But I do have some sarcastic remarks to make -- coming later.

Bloggings have become fewer and further between, which is too bad, because I want to keep up on this mf'in blog game, yo.

Stern Grove is a phenomenal venue, even if it's frequented by a bunch of textbook San Franciscans. And I don't mean to call it out like it's a bad thing. But it's certainly a thing.

Anyway, I saw Jackie Greene and Mavis Staples there, and I didn't stay for more than 5 or 6 songs of Mavis, but she is a fiesty aging but youthful gospel singer with a soul 'o gold. What I did see of her was great. She even covered The Band.

Jackie Greene, on the other hand, was a disappointment. He and his three cronies cranked out one "hit" after another and played almost exclusively new songs, with the exception of "Mexican Girl" and maybe two other songs from his other three albums. This kid is incredibly talented. He could be one of the best vocalists in contemporary folk and blues. He writes fantastic tunes. But now he's got three dudes to play behind him and each one makes him sound more and more hackneyed and uninteresting and 'rockstar' just like everybody else.

I'm a huge fan of "Sweet Somewhere Bound" and "Gone Wanderin'" and though my familiarity with his first album, "Rusty Nail," is more limited, it's pretty bloody good too. But now... well, now I don't know.

At least the show was free, guy. You'd have had hell to pay, selling out like that.

From music to the Internet: not a quantum leap anymore. Check out this startup, Jangl.com. It's dating for people who are uneasy about giving out their phone numbers. So if I meet a girl, and she's cute, and I want to maybe see her again, but I'm hesitant about sharing personal information with a stranger, I can use Jangl to communicate with her until we decide to ... you know, move things forward.

That's a great idea.

Or actually, I think it isn't. Sure, the scenario is usually the opposite. It's the girl who isn't so sure about handing out her number, which is understandable.

But who needs the cell phone equivalent of a Craigslist-anonymous email address in order to communicate with someone we might want to date? Are we really thinking about going out with people who are so mysterious, so potentially shady, that we can't offer them the very digits we indiscriminately punch into online purchase forms and scribble on napkins to please friends of friends and fleeting acquaintances?

Who knows, maybe there's a niche out there for everything. But to me, it just seems like another brilliant idea brought to you by Web 2.0, for which there is no realistic demand or utility.

Then again, I'm just another blogger. What the hell do I know.

If you've got a Jangl ID, though, post it as a comment. Please, I encourage you. It's not like you're giving out your phone number or anything.

Live music is so hard

2006-07-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

Man, I have a lot of catching up to do.

Bloggage has been lacking. So this will be an exercise in terse writing.

Sleepytime Gorilla Museum performed in a tiny, grungy cellar in Oakland called The Metro. They played two nights. I only saw one. The openers included a bass clarinet quartet (reminiscent of Apocalyptica) and a band that, lord knows why, fake-played their instruments to a poor-quality tape recording of bad music in the background.

But Sleepytime was dark, cryptic and well orchestrated. Those painted boys and girls can certainly play some rock music, especially the drummer on the kit and the lead guitarist and singer. Their timing makes no sense, so they've gotta be good.

I saw Mason Jennings at the Fillmore last week, and I didn't know a single song he played until an hour and a half into the show. It was my first time at the Fillmore -- and I've been there before, but never inside, because of my staunch membership in the 'miracle ticket' school of concertgoing (which, I should add, was extremely effective for many years until I got a full-time job and stopped caring). Great venue.

Mason is a much better guitar player than his records can tell you. One or two bluesy solos, short, sweet and punctuated, and he had me at F sharp. But his show was only excellent if you are his biggest fan. Otherwise, he sang a lot of good songs and performed with a smile. It doesn't matter, though: my opinion of the show as a concert, versus other concerts out there. I enjoyed it. And I happened upon a not-so-long lost college buddy who now works at Google.

Friday night there was quite a bit topping the bill. After work I went down to the Irish Bank for Bastille Day -- don't ask me any questions about history here. I know it doesn't make sense. But it was drunken, loud, full of Frenchy Le Freak and young girls looking as if they'd recently left a professional environment for this.

Luckily, the only one that hit on me was thirty-six and wanted me to Google some Mexican movie star she thought I looked like. Fan-friggin'-tastic.

Anyway, Lee's birthday party was next on the agenda and I had to yank my co-workers out of the bar to join me because they were having -- I won't say even less luck with girls than I was -- but anyway, sticking around was far from necessary. So we went to Lee's and did the thing where we act like three wierd dudes who are sort of funny and impersonate Borat a lot. It was a pretty good time, no doubt.

By the time I was pretty well inebriated and the B-Side Players show had already started, it seemed like a good idea to stop by Fly Bar for a pitcher of sangria.

And perhaps it was.

All I know is, when we got to the show and the opener had finished, I had swapped my coworkers for Ashwin, Jen and Hayes. B-Side put on an awesome show. I'm not going to pretend I was sober enough to absorb its complexities, but the singer is a phenomenal frontman, the percussionists are genuine virtuosos and their guitarist quietly glues the gang together with solid groove that we only got to see in the closing minutes of the show when the mics freed up.

I should mention these guys didn't play a damn song I knew either (I'm only familiar with Movement) aside from "Spill the Wine" and a pair of Bob Marley covers that were, as Katchafire might have said (in a Kiwi accent), "sweet arse!"

By Saturday, I was worn out enough from going to shows and bouncing around town that I pawned off my Pearl Jam ticket and took it easy (which equated to a game of trivial pursuit and a short stint at a random Nob Hill house party).

Tonight, I'm going to do nothing, and I hope it's everything I dream it can be and more.

Shows, shows and more shows

2006-07-08T15:35:00.000-07:00

Who'd have thought Steel Pulse would sell out the Independent?

I guess it crossed my mind, but not lingeringly enough to compel me to buy a ticket, so I have no reggae to blog about.

I am, however, seeing Sleepytime Gorilla Museum in Oakland today. These guys are a more superlative, 'Shrek meets death metal' type of quirky.

They play a strange and theatrical brand of heavy industrial rock. This should be fun.

Apollo Sunshine

2006-06-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

How often do you go to a local show and not one of three bands lets you down?

Such was my fortune last night when what started as a whimsical $12 experiment at The Independent turned out a shrug-inducing success.

Backyard Tire Fire brought with them every decibel of the dirty southern country rock their name suggests. Beneath the superficial hillbilly charm of this flanneled three-piece gang lay superior songwriting, unpretentious vocal talent and a fresh, diverse 45-minute set.

Frontman Ed Anderson's ripping guitar solos reminded me why I bought a Les Paul. Look out for this fella -- his talent across more than a handful of instruments and the band's crisp, seasoned sound could launch these guys out of the backyard and into the forefront any day now. Oh, and they'll be at High Sierra this weekend.

Despite their strange name and stranger website, Cold War Kids also impressed. The blonde duo on guitars and piano struck some unlikely harmonies and played a great, varied set. All four of these guys definitely had stage presence, even if the bassist merely seemed to be too-frequently trundling to stage left and back in a drug-induced daze.

The headliners, Apollo Sunshine, were "Indie enough" to roll your eyes at, but far from cliche. Singer and guitarist Sam Cohen wailed with energy and talent into mic and amp alike. These guys definitely listened to a healthy mash of Jimmy Page and Brit pop growing up -- not to take anything away from the originality they exhibited during their stellar set last night. Bassist and lead singer Jesse Gallagher made it through the first few songs before decidedly losing the burgundy sweater vest that topped his circa-1967 English schoolboy uniform. Drummer Jeremy Black is the glue that gives coherence to his bandmates' raw rock 'n roll energy.

I should mention that I've never been to a show before where the bassist asks if anyone needs a beer, cracks open a case of Heineken and proceeds to dish out the goods. Nice touch.

Their excellent set aside, these gentlemen can jam. And save for about 30 seconds just before they came back on for a brief encore, they didn't lose me in the weeds of their prolonged jam sesh. Suprisingly -- because I'm a pretty harsh critic when it comes to covers, especially of over-covered songs -- their cover of "Helter Skelter" was nothing short of awesome. As if to read my thoughts about their Zep influence, Apollo Sunshine closed with their take on "Whole Lotta Love," where the best bit came as Cohen banged out Page's trademark solo in the bridge.

All in all, despite a slight knack for over-dramatization and VAGINOR ("Violence Against Guitars In the Name of Rock") -- I left with a really good feeling about these guys and would definitely see them again.

Radiohead at the Greek

2006-06-26T23:43:00.000-07:00

I magically happened upon a ticket to the Saturday show (not really - Jon Wirt came back from Italy and had lucked out during the clickfest of the morning tickets went on sale). I wish I could have gone to both, as the setlists were totally different and both absolutely awesome.

Let me preface by saying that I, too, feared that live Radiohead was over-hyped.

It isn't.

First of all, the Greek Theater is one of the greatest, most accessible venues I know of -- even if you have to sit up in the grass behind the seating area, jousting for space with die-hard Yorke worshippers, bleary-eyed from camping out on the stone steps and from Jeebus knows what else.

Radiohead came on with more energy than you'd ever imagine if you're quite familiar with some of the sleepier and creepier records of the Kid A/Amnesiac era. Their sound was nearly divine. I mean, pure nectar. Thom Yorke's voice is every bit as astouding as it is on record, and the guitar, drums and piano colored every song with satisfying force. I was surprised at how much of the drumming was actually replicated live, in some cases with two drummers. Also contrary to my expectations, the songs heavy on synth were some of the most phenomenal-sounding numbers they played.

Enough generalities. Here's a setlist, Greek Theater, Berkeley, 6/24:

1. Airbag
2. 2+2=5
3. Where I End and You Begin
4. 15 Step
5. Kid A
6. Dollars & Cents
7. Down Is The New Up
8. Nude
9. Paranoid Android
10. No Surprises
11. The Gloaming
12. All I Need
13. Climbing Up The Walls
14. Go Slowly
15. Myxomatosis
16. Bangers 'n' Mash
17. How To Disappear Completely

Encore #1

18. Fake Plastic Trees
19. Arpeggi
20. Black Star
21. True Love Waits
22. Everything In Its Right Place

Encore #2

23. Bodysnatchers
24. The Tourist

The acoustic 'Fake Plastic Trees' was a treat, as I didn't think they played that one much anymore. All in all, excellent representation of every album, and it was refreshing to hear so many new songs. It takes a lot of confidence to play nearly 10 brand new songs on a tour that has nothing to do with their new album (not to mention that the album has no release date and it's unclear when it will be finished).

The songs sounded pretty bloody finished to me. Radiohead's 'next' sound has a few ounces of Hail to the Thief in it, but all in all it's a new groove with slightly more coherence but just as many eyebrow-raising, convention-defying harmonies, twists and chord changes as the Radiohead we know and love.

'No Surprises,' a song that doesn't land in my top 10, was outstanding live, Thom's subtle acoustic strumming layered like frosting over the dominant music-box riff.

'Paranoid Android' nearly started a riot it was so good.

I expected to hear 'There, There' and would've loved to hear 'Lucky' and 'Bones,' all of which they played at the Friday show.

Alright, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Choice.

2006-06-23T00:34:00.000-07:00

Well, did anyone know Hobson's Choice had 113 bottles of rum behind the bar?

Because they do, and if you order a "flight," you get the delight of tasting 3 of them and taking in all the bartender can tell you about each, all for $8.

Subsequently, I am drunk and blogging, a combination not often seen on this here Internet-o-sphere, despite the fact that most of this blog is about bars and drinking.

So that's all I got for ya.

Oh, and last night we made it to the Rockit Room and Alpha Bar, both of which impressed me. I was never expectant of a formidable Richmond night scene, but these two spots featured equally luxurious spaces and pleasant company.

Rockit Room offers live music upstairs and brews, pool tables and foosball at the street level. There's even a cozy enclave for board games and end-of-night debauchery should you choose to geek out and be quarantined with your boozy homies slouching about.

The Alpha Bar had some space to fill early on a Wednesday night, but I could see a very packed pseudo-pick-up scene unfolding once the turntables get some love in the later hours. I liked the bartender. Despite expensive mixed drinks and a thing for competitive poker in sexy company, I'm intrigued and happy to come back to this bar.

On a random note, it's too bad the US was eliminated and all, but go Ghana! Talk about the underdog -- any team that's in the world cup for the first time, especially as a third world African nation, has my support to go all the way.

Show at Shoreline, June 18

2006-06-19T18:14:00.001-07:00

A coworker invited me to a concert at Shoreline -- my least favorite venue in the entire world -- to see three bands I didn't really know.

Because I love going to shows, especially to see bands I haven't heard before, and because it was Father's Day, I killed two San Jose birds with one stone and made my way down there.

Actually, my trip was initially delayed because I missed the 1 pm Caltrain and had to wait around for the 2 pm. Why did I miss the train? Let me rant about that for a moment, because it's my blog and I'll rant if I want to:

I asked my roommate for a ride to the station just as all the half-drunk, half-hungover parties residing in my living room were beginning to rise and recounting the hazy, violence-laced events of the night before. She agreed, and four of us hopped in her Passat; I use the verb 'hopped' loosely, as some of us made it across the street more languidly than others.

Anyway, we had 19 minutes to get me to the SOMA and some of those were burned taking home a certain friend of her's who awoke briefly at 5 a.m. to perform some functions on our coffee table that I won't detail here. My roommate filled me in just as we left so I didn't really have time to be as angry as I would have liked, but I digress.

Some speeding and an illegal left turn later (fuck Market Street), we rolled up to the station at 12.58 p.m. and I bolted in to buy my ticket. Zone 1 ... 1 ticket ... One way ... "Your card could not be authorized." ... "FUCK!" ... fumbling with my wallet and my debit card, I produce a Visa ... same bullshit ... "FUCK!" Scrambling, I reluctantly feed a $20 bill to the ticket machine, knowing that fifteen dollar coins would clang and sprinkle down into slot along with my ticket. I shovel my winnings into my pocket and sprint down to the doors that lead out to the platform. The farthest bloody platform.

A moustached, gray, bitter old man in a Caltrain jacket dictates my fate. I argue frantically. My arms flail. I point to the train, which is right there, ten strides away. He talks for a while, he reprimands my tardiness, assures me there's nothing he can do, shuts the doors in my face and walks away shaking his head and muttering about my lateness like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. My train finally rolls away. The anger sets in. I want to tell him he's an asshole, but instead I buy a Father's Day card at the Safeway across the street, write in it, accept defeat, read my newspaper, make some phone calls and kill an hour.

Anyway, this post was supposed to be about the show Sunday night. The Drive-By Truckers opened up and played a decent 45-minute set. They played a roasty southern brand of rock 'n roll in the waning Mountain View sunshine.

Next, a band I'd never heard of -- Robert Randolph and the Family Band -- played an impressive gig. I expected something like the Allman Brothers but they were more like da Allman Brothas. Randolph, an African-American electric zither (?) guru in a Mets jersey, heads up the group. His cousin, LA-ed out in a Detriot Tigers cap, played his 6-string fretless bass like he'd mastered it in the womb. These fellas rocked the place in style, with sort of turbo-charged 'Booker T and the MGs' flavor, and they closed with a mean rendition of "Voodoo Child." I will get some of their stuff for sure.

Once the sun had set, the Black Crowes turned on the juice. This is a band that you'd think I would be familiar with if you know my familiarity with the genre, but I really wasn't, so if they rock your socks, I'm sorry, ok?

But if it's any consolation, I thought they played a solid set and came off like bona fide rockstars. Chris Robinson, whom my coworker described before he took the stage as looking like he weighs about 84 pounds, can certainly wail with every ounce. If you've seen Almost Famous recently enough to remember what the lead singer of Stillwater looked like, it sort of reminded me of that guy singing "Fever Dog." I was surprised to hear them cover Bob Dylan's "Forever Young" and the Beatles' "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away."

Pick: as a newbie to the Crowes, I have to choose "Hard to Handle" -- the only song I recognized, although I didn't then know what it was called.

The Battle of Nob Hill

2006-06-11T22:14:00.000-07:00

It's been a long and eventful weekend, but let me start with Wednesday, which is sort of where the weekend began.

Nob Hill is tough to tackle in one crawl, but we made a hearty effort. Kicking things off, Bacchus Kirk was actually a really cool little spot. The highlight, and this wasn't meant to be punny when I initially typed it, was the lighting. You'll see what I mean. A neat layout dotted with glowing red lamps under the rafters create a log cabin feel. Brits, jukebox, pool table -- you could hardly ask for more from an unpretentious corner pub. Just don't be fooled by the $5 happy hour cocktails; they're not good. Stick to beer.

We wandered down to the Nob Hill Tavern next, only to find a jolly though confused Chinese girl behind the bar and a tough-looking bloke playing a game of pool with himself. It's possible the tavern is just dead on Wednesday nights, I suppose. They sure have an abundance of pool tables and dartboards. They even have an arcade game with big blue guns, which I mistook for Time Crisis until, upon closer scrutiny, it turned out to be Police Trainer. Who the hell invented that game? What fucking fun is a video game where you practice shooting bad guys by shooting targets?!

Anyhow, we opted to skip The Hydeout, just across the street, and head for Blur.

But Vertigo came up first, so we popped in for a Jack 'n Coke and a margarita. The crowd had evidently chosen The Hemlock and Blur over this place, though it was hard to see why. Vertigo was swimming with tribal masks, they wouldn't let me upstairs, and the bathrooms were just about half the size of my closet at home.

The revving pulse of house and trip hop are surprisingly tolerable over a beer at Blur. I could see this place being a lot of fun with a handful of drunken friends and a troupe of single girls.

The Hemlock Tavern is spacious and had a fun crowd to offer. Who am I kidding? I was pretty hammered by the time we got here, so I don't really have anything to say about it. I'd go back! How's that? Honestly, I'm getting a little bored of blogging about these Nob Hill bars. Let's move on.

Camping on the Russian River Friday night wouldn't have been the same without our bold pioneering scouts, Ashwin and Hazel. You, my friends, will be dubbed Lewis & Clark from here on. Fences were hopped, tunnels were dug, rocks were found, dry branches and logs were gathered, heat ensued, tequila was guzzled, cheap beer was dessert, guitars were strummed loudly and with alarming ardor, songs both good and bad were sung, tents were wrestled in and logs were ... logged. And those, in particular, will be logged in another, more dedicated niche blog going forward.

In the morning someone had the bright idea to go to Denny's, which I complained about then and I'll complain about now. It's sad, places like that. Why do we need to watch fat people eat disgusting American food? Who wants to go bobbing for the stupid Piglet toy in the entryway? Actually I really wanted to win the Piglet so I could give it to Judy. But there's something sort of pathetic about it nonetheless.

Why did my $5.99 "Zesty Creole" egg scramble (a bowl of heavy heart-attack-inducing substance as it was) come with a stack of instant pancakes? When I want Minute Maid orange juice, I don't need it served in a carafe with a smile.

Anyway, I said I was gonna complain and I meant it.

The Harmony Festival was awesome. Ozomatli put on an incredible show. I wish it had been longer. There were 9 of these guys and nearly every single one played multiple instruments and sounded just phenomenal. They played a fantastic set, and what's more, some bands that are medium to heavily produced have you questioning how genuinely they'll be able to attain their sound on stage. Ozomatli attained and surpassed what they nailed down in the studio. The voices, the harmonies, even the guitar solos were actually superior in quality on stage.

Cake played a good show, and I've seen them 5 or 6 times now, so I can't really rave anymore, even though they were fun. But I saw them in Golden Gate park today, and John McCrea played a disappointingly identical setlist (they mixed up maybe 3 songs) and really dropped the ball with his interim rants, which were the same -- verbatim -- today as they were yesterday. C'mon, John. Show us you give a shit.

He doesn't.

At least change your clothes, guy. I KNOW you wore that same shit on stage yesterday.

I still love Cake.

The Haight Street Festival was a clusterfuck but it beat the hell out of the Asian American Street Fair. Instead of Wells Fargo it was organic vegan ganja cookies, etc.
Some pre-teens kids played Led Zeppelin covers, some buses didn't go where they were supposed to go and a lot of people were really plastered. We all pretended it was sunny and beautiful because it's June in San Francisco. Then we went to my house and had a barbecue, which wasn't freezing because it's June in San Francisco.

I would've LOVED to people-watch from somebody's rooftop this afternoon. We gotta petition for a Willard North Street Festival, that's what I'm sayin'.

Alright. With the satisfaction that I've vomited all I remember about this weekend into this posting, it's sleepytime ... gorilla museum.

It don't matter if you're black or white

2006-06-06T18:04:00.000-07:00

The much-hyped blog of yester-post has struck again. You can now pimp your very own NiggaKnow.com tshirt.

My curiosity is, why are white people modeling the black shirt and black people modeling the white shirt?

I can hear you thinking about it.

This Just In

2006-06-02T17:08:00.000-07:00

It's 5:05 on a Friday. The regular crowd shuffles in. But listen up, bitches, ain't no tonic and gin up in this story.

I've located the Internet's greatest blog yet. It's half techie blog, half beast. It's straight thuggin' outta Compton with the strut of Tupac Shakur and the sophistication of Snoop Dogg. I'm about to tell y'all where you can get The Realest Technology From the Realest Niggas.

On an unrelated note, it's summer, which brings (among other, more noteworthy things) to us Skinny Dip, the summer seasonal from New Belgium Brewing Company.

"Where Great Names Meet Mediocre Beers."

New Belgium is a one-hit wonder. Fat Tire is a delicious, nutty success. All of their other beers are shrugworthy at best, with the exception of Trippel, because at 8.5% it offers serious fadage potential, and it's more or less a true Belgian ale, even though I don't personally find it all that fantastic.

I just remembered I forgot to chronicle the Castro crawl. That's gonna have to wait.

Another post singing the praises of the Internet

2006-05-31T18:07:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, humans came up with a tangled web of electronically stored information. The problem (or the solution, depending on who you ask) was that anyone could add anything they wanted to the web. It was so democratic that at least half of it was useless trash. That's how beautiful the free exchange of information had become.

To show off our ridiculous and still-expanding collection of stuff people have contributed to the Internet: This is the 68,881st most visited website online. SaddestCaveman.com is the 1,971,014st.

Let's vote. Has he reason to be the world's saddest caveman?

2006-05-30T21:52:00.000-07:00

"Once I understood what was making America such a dangerous, unhappy nation of people who had nothing to do with real life, I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All the facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, which I think I have done."

- Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

Apology Post

2006-05-30T20:50:00.000-07:00

And I feel the need to apologize for the copyright hari-kari I've committed below. And not that it's any excuse, but with the lack of pub crawling in recent days, I'm just running out of shit to blog about!

Actually, that's a lie. I've had some mild bar scene activity in the past week.

I went out in the Mission with a new partner in crime. We hit up Mission Bar and the Beauty Bar. The problem: I was much too sloshed to offer here any worthwhile details about the crowd or atmosphere with any sliver of intelligence.

Still, because it's my blog and I can suck if I want to, I'm going to try anyway.

I like the Beauty Bar because it's been jumpin' most nights I've gone. But the bartender is invariably more hip than I am (in not that cool of a way) and they play '80s music that seems like it should be fun when you're hammered but actually isn't.

Nor is the layout of the bar at all practical. But to its credit, the clientele is usually attractive and I've always had fun there.

The Mission Bar is sort of hard to pin down. And maybe I wasn't really in the state of mind to do any pinning, but -- like I said -- fuck you. So here goes:

The pool hustlers are slightly less sketchy than the average bear. They also manage a mean JD and Coke. Actually, that's all I got.

We also made it to Laszlo (thanks Lee for reminding me). I really liked this spot because I have a thing for bars that have balconies from which you can look down onto the action (see Tunnel Top).

The thing to know about this place -- and I just learned this from Citysearch -- is that, apparently, "A cornucopia of signature cocktails mark one of the most unique menus in town. Specialties include the Heat Seeker (Absolut Peppar, Cointreau, lime juice) and the Blood Orange (Stoli Orange, Cointreau, Campari and orange juice)."

So there you have it.

And, we saw a guy and a girl seated on a couch in the bar talking to each other outside the window. It was a match made in heaven.

Ah, and last Friday, we went out in the Marina. It had to happen sometime.

Bar None is a thinly disguised frat party milling with button-down shirts and yuppie vibe. Its offerings are limited to a sunken patio area and a really expensive way to play beer pong. Other than that, I suppose you could say there were some cute girls, but then again, if memory serves, the beer-stained, puke-slathered hardwood floors of Pi Kappa Phi also saw the heels of a hot college girl or two, and I'm not exactly coming back for seconds.

Mauna Loa was much cooler. I really liked the way the space was organized, and the cabin-style wooden furniture was unpretentious. There are two bars, one as you enter and one in the rear. It's just barely big enough to justify both and not so spacious that you can't meet randoms.

Dreadful privation

2006-05-30T18:44:00.000-07:00

Estragon sits below a tree. Vladimir stands over him, pacing.

VLADIMIR: Well?

ESTRAGON: Well what?

VLADIMIR: We know why it's here.

Looks up at the tree.

ESTRAGON: Here we go again.

VLADIMIR: Gogo! It's laid out before us. Laid out. Clear as can be. Be as can clear. It's here, we're here, and we know what we need to do.

ESTRAGON, struggling with his boot: I don't know anything. I'd like to know when you plan to shut up and help me with this boot.

VLADIMIR: Don't get snippy. I'm just trying to sort us out. And I think we've got it. We just need rope, and... I do wonder why he has not provided that piece of the puzzle.

ESTRAGON: Who?

VLADIMIR: What?

ESTRAGON: He, who? Who's he? Godot?

VLADIMIR: Godot. Imbecile! Beckett, that's who! We've a tree, we've a mound, you've got your godforsaken boots -- why have we no rope?

ESTRAGON: Dreadful privation.

VLADIMIR: We can't stay here.

ESTRAGON: I'm going.

VLADIMIR: We have to do something.

ESTRAGON: I'm ... going.

VLADIMIR: Wait! That's what they expect us to do!

ESTRAGON: Who? Beckett?

VLADIMIR: Poor fool. Them. THEM! They expect us to leave, to make off, with plan in tow. What we have to do is throw them for a loop. Can't you help out, Gogo, once in a way?

ESTRAGON: We'll stay. That'll throw a spoke in their wheel.

VLADIMIR: And yet -- what if they've anticipated that conclusion?

ESTRAGON: We'll go, then. That'll throw a spoke in their wheel.

Bay to Breakers Photos

2006-05-29T20:50:00.000-07:00

Jade, on top of shit as she often is, has posted the Bay to Breakers pictures.

Commonly Encountered Bus Riders in San Francisco

2006-05-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

We all know 'em when we see 'em. The hipster, the bum, the media-favorite Japanese tourist.

So I'm going to do what we've all wished somebody would do for... decades. I'm proposing to build a key -- a legend to help us identify, categorize and stereotype the various archetypical patrons of San Francisco's ever-colorful public transit system.

This is an open forum, but since I'm the only one who reads this blog, and oddly enough, the only one who writes it, I won't be hurt if you don't participate. After all, ain't nobody here but us chickens.

SO then. Who've we got?

Alright, alright. I'll leave a comment on your silly blog, you silly blogger. Here are a couple to start.

The Mumbler.

This guy is never sitting far enough away from me, and he's spouting a stream of incoherent babble faster than salmon can swim downstream. It's comic, it's tragic, whatever it is, he's making one thing loud and clear: "Igor, you are SO naive to think you're going to get any reading done on this bus ride."

The Rambler.

Less so in spirit than in dialogue -- or perhaps more accurately, in monologue -- this guy is chatting it up with nobody in particular. He's no mumbler; he's easily as phonically savvy as George Bush or Mister T. No, the trouble with him is not coherence, but relevance. He's incensed and he ain't gonna take it anymore.

The Pack of High School Students

If you're one of the darling adolescents who rides the 5 or the 21 down to Ida B Wells High School every weekday morning, I'm not trying to be rude. "Yo mama" jokes are brilliant and should be traded at length! Just not on the bus at 8 a.m. when Uncle Igor is trying to spend his morningly hour of pre-work existence in a slug-like trance reading Vonnegut or listening to the new Tool album.

The Exceedingly Ambitious Guy

This fellow seems normal to the untrained eye: dress shirt and Dockers, shiny but not-too-shiny wristwatch, man-bag and the odd mobile electronic device. But a few blocks into the commute he's going at it, leaving voicemails and gettin' shit done.

"Bill, hi. It's Hunter Phillips - hope all is well with you. I'd like to circle back and discuss some of the action items we outlined during the conference call last week. If you could give me a call at your earliest convenience, that'd be great."

"Bobby! Hunter Phillips here. Looking to catch up, I was out of town last week and didn't get a chance to follow up with you... hit me back when you can."

And so on.

By the time my stop comes around the man is leaving his fourteenth message. No wonder nobody's picking up their bloody phone. Over-ambition killed the entrepreneurial feline.

The Backdoor Man

This is a long-time San Francisco resident who's proud of his Muni savvy. He's not afraid to be vocal about it, either. Because when that bus rolls up along the curb, he's going to let the driver have it. Toward the front of the bus he shouts -- you guessed it -- "Backdoor!"

Have these people spent any time on a bus in the city since 1973?

If you're lucky enough to be riding with a crowd in the know, a half-assed chorus will usually mutter the wise instruction, "Step down!" Does the backdoor man know about the magical little red button next to the doors? One has to believe he does. It seems old habits die hard.

Bay to Breakers

2006-05-21T17:27:00.000-07:00

Turns out getting up at 8.30 am is easy with Finlandia and pineapple juice!

Vehicles and vehicle-like contraptions rolled down Fell Street leaving behind a trail of drunken glory. Wagons, trailers and makeshift pirate ships transported people, kegs of beer and other valuable commodities. The nudity intrigued and repulsed. Music floated in the spaces between groups of friends. Friends vomited together, holding hands and crying tears of joy.

I didn't stay to see Better Than Ezra. The balloons that had served as our costume had long been popped by a certain safety-pin-happy group member.

We had Burma Star and it was bomb diggity.

I wish I could find my bloody USB cable so I could upload my Bay to Breakers photos!

Take the 'A' Train

2006-05-18T19:26:00.000-07:00

Supsters to the hippest and the hoppest pseudo-Latin club north of the Rio Grande (read: south of 21st Street) for having Old No 38 Stout on tap! Overall, I'm going to give the Latin American Club a 7 and a half.

I'll have you know: I didn't sip my frothy pint 'o locomotive with just anybody. And let me apologize in advance for the immeasurable dorkiness here, but...

You wouldn't beleive who accompanied me.

Phew, thanks. I had to do it. Anyway, this 'club' was interesting, mainly because it's in the mission and, despite its namesake (and with scant irony to boot) there wasn't a living Latin American thing about it. I mean, ok, there are creepy pinatas reminiscent of something like the work of Norman Bates' mother: stiffly grinning bunnies and the like. And an oversized cardboard gerbil beside the bar DOES sit. But I can't say I felt the 'Carnival' vibe or anything.

Nor is it a club. It's a bar. Just.

But really, after you get past all that (which is really just me being a smartass anyway), there are only good things to be said. Big paintings of chihuahuas populate the walls and relatively pleasant pub-goers populate the pool table.

The other news last night held? After going up 2-0 in the series, the Sharks managed to get swallowed right up and out of the playoffs. And yes, I'm going to bitch about the Oilers routinely drilling various unsuspecting Sharks players, putting them out of commission and generally playing dirtier than pirates' undergarments. But in the end, we were outplayed, and because we couldn't convert on the power play, the fuckers had no incentive to cut it out.

An interesting take from SJsharks.com:

SERIES TURNING POINT

The Sharks had won the opening game and were winning Game 2 when a late hit from Raffi Torres knocked Milan Michalek out of the series for two games. The Czech winger, who posted points in the first two games, could not regain his form when he returned.

“The turning point to the whole series was the hit to Michalek that knocked him out,” said Wilson. “That took apart that line and affected the whole series.”

Hiatus

2006-05-14T22:00:00.000-07:00

Wiff me main man Hazel stirring up trouble in Israel wif me other main man, Yoni, there might be reason to anticipate some breathing room from the pub attack.

Meanwhile, the Sharks have brought only disappointment over the past three games. Sure, Edmonton has played shamefully dirty and the referees have glossed over more calls than Microsoft tech support, but we didn't capitalize on any of our chances across 7 power plays.

It was nearly hot in the city today! The wind was mild and warm! What's going on here?!

State of the Haight

2006-05-10T18:57:00.000-07:00

I lied. As I was wrapping up my rant about Web 2.0, Hayes sent a fateful text that read: "It's Tuesday. Feel like getting a drink?"

So we got three.

First stop was the Zam Zam Lounge. This cozy enclave is definitely poised a notch or six above the archetypical Haight Ashbury clientele. Around a semicircular cocktail bar that faces an imposingly curious little painting sit a baker's dozen well-dressed young professionals sipping from short black double straws.

They make a stiff Jack 'n Coke and a creamy White Russian. Heel helder hoor!

Club Deluxe had open mic jazz to offer. The place didn't thrill but free live music is what it is.

We didn't know what to do with ourselves when we left there, but a huge 29-year-old Asian neighbor named Martin helped us make up our minds. This fool came out of nowhere and talked for 9 minutes without interruption, seemingly sober and hardly resembling the hordes of local vagrants from whom I'd expect this sort of thing. Confused but amused, I had to do something, so I told him we were headed to the Gold Cane and he could join us if he wanted, because he was so friendly and happy and kept shaking our hands and mentioning in passing his love for Jesus Christ.

I knew he wouldn't come. 1 point for Igor.

The Gold Cane. Alright, we've been there before. We know the good, the bad, the ugly, the drunk, the haggardly, the stinky and the jobless. But where else can you get $3 wells and beers all the time? And the beer garden is lovely, too, because there are rooves to romp around on if you're drunker than we were, and there's a great spot to pee back there if you're tired of the toilet.

I love the Internet, but some people love it TOO bloody much.

2006-05-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

In the absence of a pub crawl, let me blog for blogging's sake.

Why are there thousands of companies on the web trying to integrate every possible tech and mobile phenomenon that might be 'the next big thing?'

I spent most of today scouring the net for Web 2.0 companies (because that's to some degree my job) and learned that positively every geek and genius west of the Yangtze is swimming in an increasingly saturated glop of his own ideas -- ideas with a shelf life like friggin' Ice 9.

And what's more amusing is the common thread to these ideas. The goal is always to integrate every conceivable "hip" Internet concept into a single hub of blogs, podcasts, mobile technology and online dating, all having sloppy sex amongst themselves in some sort of inanimate, neatly packaged cyber-brothel.

Get this! It's going to be like a cross between MySpace and Match.com, but with vlogging!

So you can download the profiles of 20 potential dating partners as a podcast and chat with all of them at once!

And my favorite is the Trillian replicas, where I'm looking at a website divided into 4 quarters, one for each of your IM clients: there's AIM, MSN, Yahoo and ICQ!

What more could you possibly want?!

Yup, I'm gonna retire early and start my own social networking site.

SOMAtose

2006-05-08T22:49:00.000-07:00

Alright, it wasn't as bad as that.

But it was no SO-ber-MA either.

The highlight of our SOMA pub crawl was probably The Stud, where more ladies than studs did roam and romp to the discordant but irresistible guitar-and-drums noise attack of San Francisco's "newest lesbian rock duo."

Where much of the western SOMA failed us, The Stud caressed our taste buds with stiff drinks and roiled our eardrums with entertainingly awful tunes. The crowd was colorful, and I'm not making any gay rainbow puns. I mean it. Good spot. I'll be back.

Slim's could probably stand not to charge for its not-so-occasional amateurish clone indie rock performances, but Butter, easily missed across the street, had friendly service and breakdancing videos to offer. And I know those sound like pithy perks , but come on, sometimes you just need a distraction from the gag-inducer that $2 pints of PBR can be.

Around the corner, Holy Cow was a perfect chaser to Butter, churning out tasteful dance music in shiek real estate with a quaint little wooded beer garden in the back. Even as you can't wear a hat inside and they shamelessly try to overcharge drunken patrons for cigarettes, Holy Cow dwarfs the Haight's "Milk" -- degenerate spawn of sacred udders!

WISH left something to be desired. Holy Cow's smaller but equally sleek and clubby next-door neighbor was embarrasingly empty for a Thursday night.

As Hayes and I muscled our bicycles up the hill toward Golden Gate Park and our respective homes, we thought about Isis and how she was so reckless.