My friend Jen and I were nearly first in line for a late show at UCB last night (the last show of the night, UCB Gets You Laid). Technically, we were first in line, as we were the first ones to stand in front of the door, by the curb, where the (unmarked) line always forms. This is no kind of accomplishment, and I am not bragging, just providing the information necessary to understand why I felt like an asshole for a decent portion of the night.
So we’re in line, Jen and I, when one of the girls who works the door comes out with her clipboard to start checking reservations. I give her the name on the reservation, we pay our $5 each, and she moves on. It’s then that two vodka-drunk girls who had been wandering around nearby (peering in the lobby window, looking at the posters, etc.) grab her and loudly exclaim that No! They had, in fact, been in line first. The UCB girl tells them that they weren’t in line (yes, that line. The one right there. The thing that looks sort of like, I dunno, a line), and they’d have to wait their turn at the back or work it out with the people in the front of the line (us). Here’s where I turned stupid.
See, those girls had been there first, teetering all around when Jen and I got in line. They’d obviously never been to UCB before, so I could understand that they didn’t know where the unmarked head of the line actually started (though when they saw a dozen other people falling in line behind us, yeah, maybe that should have been the tip-off). I felt bad, so I told them they could have their spot in front. They were obnoxious, and I wasn’t thrilled to be standing by them, but whatever. I was trying to be a nice guy.
When we were inside, seated far away from the gaggle of girls (which doubled in size when two of their friends joined them in line), Jen leaned in and told me some of the horrible things they had said about the UCB girl out front, which ranged from the mundane “Bitch didn’t know who I was! No way am I about to go to the end of a line!” to much nastier, more personal things. Suddenly I felt intensely guilty about allowing them to jump ahead of us, as if, in doing so, I had become complicit in their bitchiness. If there had been some graceful way to do it, I’d have marched back out into the lobby, found the UCB girl (who has never been anything but nice), and apologized to her directly for not saying, “Right, fuck off, then. Back of the line with you.” I’m sure she didn’t hear any of the insults, considering that I wasn’t even aware of them until Jen told me once we were inside, but I couldn’t shake that lingering guilt for the rest of the night, and instead of feeling like I’d done a nice thing by giving somebody a break I just felt like a sap.
“Your mind has grasped what your eyes could not see. And your imagination has changed your world forever.”— The Sphere, Flatland
I was just out of fifth grade when I read Flatland. It’s the first time I remember intentionally applying my critical reading skills.
In the Summertime by Mungo Jerry
One of my favorite sunny summer day songs.
As a child, I always imagined Mungo Jerry as some hulking, Flintstones-esque caveman with a surprisingly smooth voice, and never as a classic rock collective fronted by a gap-toothed, mutton-chopped Englishman. I liked it better my way.
In no way, shape, or form did I expect my 26th year to involve togas, but my friend (the one with his leg across me, as if he’s waiting for me to dip him; also, a force of nature, not to be denied) seems bound and determined to shatter any illusions of adulthood I might once have held.
Now, when you go somewhere like UCB, there are certain lines that are not crossed. There are implicit rules, assumptions that can be safely made based on the nature of the venue. On the rare occasions those lines are crossed, the shock makes everything exponentially funnier. It’s so much better this way, because when there are no rules, there is nothing to transgress. We are never shocked because nothing is off limits.
To wit: When Casey Wilson takes off her shirt and runs around in a bra at a 9:30 PM Sunday show at UCB, everything is in order. When she reaches behind her back, pops the bra loose, and spends the next two minutes bounding across the stage, bare breasts swinging, things have gone sideways. We did not ask for this, and we certainly didn’t expect it, but we are laughing much harder than we ever would have if we’d known from the beginning that nudity was on the table.
1.) Youve got mail
2.) The Net
3.) Hackers
i mean lets be real they were really shitty anyway
I am only slightly ashamed to admit that, when I was a kid, the owner of the local video store in Chesterton, Indiana gave me the store’s only copy of Hackers because I rented it so frequently. Incredulous, I asked him why he was just giving it to me. It was, he said, because not only had I made my mom spend $50 on Hackers rental fees alone, but I was also the only person who had ever rented the tape. Ever.
But yeah, it’s not hard to see why a movie that combined hacking, rollerblading, and Fisher Stevens didn’t stand up to the test of time.
I am trying (failing) to determine which is the more notable defining aspect of my night: Jon Brion (with Michel Gondry on drums) playing a medley of 70’s and 80’s hit songs (including, but not limited to, Funky Town), or the drunken, Ed Hardy bedecked frat boy who was masturbating furiously outside of the Hollywood Highland complex.
For better or worse, my writing has taken on a style that can be described (if we are feeling generous) as verbose. It is as if I’d been molested by an adjective or an adverb when I was little, only to wake up at 26 and realize that I, in the unavoidable cycle of abuse, have been violently clarifying every noun I come across, modifying every verb, helpless to stop myself even when I realize what I am doing in the middle of doing it.
I did not mean for this to happen, but (like so many things) the circumstances are beyond my control, and I am left to make the best of the situation. I shall assume, for the sake of my ego, that my verbosity is more endearing than pretentious, and hope that the tools (very scientific, very precise) I’ve used to reach this conclusion work equally well when measuring the effect of my speech patterns (longwinded, circular).
And I hope that the cause for all of this verbal excess is clear: whether I have a lot to say or only a little, I am just oh so thrilled to be saying it to you, and I am carried away with the pleasure of it all.
Atlantic City - Bruce Springsteen
I’ve loved this song since the days of “Show and Tell,” (my favorite things to show were my Springsteen cassettes), back when I was far too young to understand any of the references. I loved it because it was catchy, and because my six year old brain found something intensely appealing in the tone of that name, “Atlantic City.” Like Oz or Narnia or Terabithia, Atlantic City sounded mythical, wonderful.
Of course, I was little and stupid, and I had everything backwards. There’s not an ounce of hope in the song. It’s all doom, all misery and broken dreams. But even now, when I hear Springsteen singing “Meet me tonight in Atlantic City,” I see it wrong, all bright and full of promise, some fabled, shining city by the sea.
I have long been a thinker, and am only on occasion a doer. Concepts come cheap, but it takes a significant effort to get me moving on something. I’m happy this way, and I usually end up proud of my efforts. A new friend of mine is a gung-ho doer, which is, by turns, exciting and exhausting and overwhelming. I sometimes find myself holding back in conversation (especially on any thoughts that begin with “I had this idea…” or “I’ve been thinking…”) just because I don’t have the energy to pursue every idea that comes up.
Still, there is much to be said for the unbridled support he shows to his friends, for the way he is eager to spin an offhand comment into fleshy reality. What do these walking pillars of enthusiasm eat for breakfast, and where can I get some?
This little dude scurried over to the bench I was sitting on and hopped right up beside me. He stuck around until I told him I didn’t have any food, at which point he shot me a disappointed frown and ran off. And here I thought I’d made a new friend.
My cousin's kids, Rachel and Roan
A very small sampling of the party beer
My mom
Dad in shop that sold art and nunchucks
Gathered here are a few of the photos I took on my 4th of July (+mom and her twin sister’s birthday celebration) trip to Pittsburgh.
Special attention should be paid to the photo of my dad standing under all of those glass bulbs. The bulbs, along with novelty steel art, were in the front of the shop. As you wandered back, you noticed the decorative demon skull paper weights, then the knives, then the swords, then the case full of nunchucks and stun guns.
I’ve got more photos on my Flickr account, here, if you care to look.
why are there always some shows that you see the same six episodes of ten times? i’m talking to YOU, sex and the city.
At the risk of revealing more about my television habits than I’d really like to: yeah. I think the only episode of Sex and the City that any network is allowed to play ever is the one with the ADD jazz guy who plays Carrie like an upright bass.
Who are all these pretty girls on airplanes and where do they go upon disembarking? It seems they wander ahead of you down the jetway and fade, fade, so that they’ve vanished completely by the time you hit baggage claim.
