In which TK enters the craft brewing business

Despite the fact that I have no facial hair and a BMI solidly within normal range, yesterday I joined the ranks of Dudes Who Brew Beer At Home. Surprisingly enough, I enjoyed the brewing process (well, Stage 1 of it, anyway). "Surprising" because I don't really like anything.

I'm not going to break down the whole 4-hour process into what I did because that would be boring. Basically, it involves a lot of boiling things and then cooling things off and then boiling something else and then cooling that off and then pouring yeast into it. It's more difficult than making Top Ramen and less difficult than making chili. It does make your house smell strongly beer-y, for lack of a better word. Not really like beer, but like something related to beer. It's this sort of fetid, yeast-y, agricultural smell. Also, hops smell a lot like marijuana. This must be the reason that so many homebrew guys are probably also big stoners. (The guy who taught the beer-making class I went to acknowledged this reality on several occasions.) I can also say that the process felt vaguely medieval. I can easily see a monk in 1358 doing pretty much the same thing I did, except over an open fire instead of a Kenmore stovetop and also probably not while occasionally checking in on the 49ers.

I ended up with 5 gallons of a dark brown liquid. It is now in the Primary Fermenter, which sounds complicated but which is actually a 5-gallon bucket with an airlock on the top, which is actually a bendy plastic tube that lets gasses out but doesn't let anything floating around in. Every few minutes, the Primary Fermenter makes a reverse-burping sound and, I suppose, gasses come out, although you can't smell anything.

Saturday we do the First Racking, which means we pour the stuff out of the Primary Fermenter and into the Secondary Fermenter, which is a big glass jug. We should have beer ready to drink in like a month. I'll keep you posted.

If this goes well, I'm going to start distilling my own whiskey at home. Maybe I'll grow some tobacco too. And opium poppies can't be that hard to grow, right? Never mind. Disregard that. I never said that.

August 5, 1977: Giants at Mets

Giants lost, 3-2. Let's take a look at the Giants box:


Let's see. Bill Madlock had a nice day, 2 for 4 with a run scored. McCovey walked but was otherwise not a factor. Couple of other hits sprinkled around. Not a lot of offense. Reminds me of some other Giants team I could name!

15,747 showed up at Shea for a 2 hour 35 minute game. Probably a nice night out at the yard.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, in a medium-sized town in Ireland, The Wife was busy being born. She was successful in this endeavor, so I guess she had a better night than the Giants.

Happy Birthday, The Wife! We'll be seeing the 2011 Giants tonight. Hopefully they can do better than their counterparts 34 years ago.

(Also, Mark Mulder was born on the same day, so there's another baseball thing. Happy Birthday Mark Mulder.)

(Also, I know, 2 blog posts in one day. I have the day off, cut me some slack.)

TK's Better Tour of San Francisco

Got some of the Wife's relatives in town! It's her brother, who grew up in Ireland and now lives in New Zealand, and his New Zealander kids. They're all super-nice and awesome and everything. I volunteered to show 'em around SF this afternoon. Now, anyone could go see the sea lions at Pier 39 and whatnot, but where's the fun in that? I have my own tour of SF that beats the shit out of that:

Portsmouth Square

Kearny and Clay Streets

"The Sydney Ducks were this Australian gang, duh, that pretty much owned the waterfront around Broadway and Pacific. On May 3, 1851, one of the Ducks was seen running out of a shop on the southern side of Portsmouth Square just before the building started burning. The fire destroyed something like 2000 buildings, and was so bright you could see it in Monterey. They apparently set the fire so they could loot shit when people fled. A few Aussies were lynched a couple of months later and that seemed to have the desired effect."

Erno Tattoo

252 Fillmore

"That's where I got my first tattoo. I was drinking with my friend Jim at 13% on Haight, which was this bar where the Underground SF is now, and I stood up and said 'I guess I'm gonna go get a tattoo,' and I walked up there and sat down and got one. I was pretty lit. The less said about the tattoo, the better. Erno's is long gone now. So is 13%."

Church of Satan

6114 California Street



Wiki can tell the story better than me:

The Black House is a building that formerly stood at 6114 California St. in San Francisco, California, in the United States. Though the building is sometimes referred to as a mansion, photographs of the building taken just before its destruction show that it was a moderately sized single family home, considerably smaller than the two small apartment buildings on either side of the property. According to public records, it was listed at 2,205 square feet and constructed in the year 1905.

The house was used by Anton LaVey as the headquarters of his Church of Satan from 1966 until his death in 1997. LaVey conducted Satanic seminars and rituals at the house; one of the most notorious such rituals was the Satanic baptism of his daughter Zeena Schreck in 1967, punctuated by LaVey speaking the words "Hail Satan!" over the nude body of a female acting as the 'Satanic Altar'.

Public ceremonies were performed at the house until 1972. LaVey lost ownership of the house in 1991 as the result of a court settlement resulting from his separation from Diane Hegarty, but LaVey was allowed to reside at the Black House until his death.

Following LaVey's death, members of the Church of Satan unsuccessfully attempted to raise funds to repurchase the house, and it was demolished on October 17, 2001. A duplex now stands in its place.

A duplex! Man, Satan, that fucking SUCKS.

Imperial Palace restaurant

816 Washington Street

"Two and a half stars on Yelp. Tammie W. says that 'the selection was rather heavy on pork and shrimp and gone were the forays into vegetarian choices,' whatever the fucks that means. But we don't care about the food. This used to be the Golden Dragon, site of the Golden Dragon Massacre, a shootout between the Joe Boys and Wah Ching on September 4, 1977. 5 people got killed and 11 injured. Even more tragic was James Woods' hair in the 1989 film True Believer, which was loosely based on the incident."



Nightmarish.

The Furniture Mart

1355 Market St.

"This is the future home of Twitter. Twitter may be cool and all, but I bet you anything they will never, ever have a party like Jack Davis had on his 50th birthday at the Furniture Mart penthouse. Here's how Cintra Wilson described it:

In a nutshell, for those of you from points elsewhere, this Jack Davis guy, an openly gay and notoriously "outrageous" political consultant who is generally believed to have gotten the last two S.F. mayors elected and whose current client is the 49ers, who are trying to get the voters to approve a bond initiative to finance their new stadium, had his friends throw him a 50th birthday party that was attended by a slurry of big polyurethane-headed politicos in smart little suits and ties. The party, replete with multi-sexual go-go sluts and a glory hole wall, climaxed with a guy named Steve Leyba getting a pentagram carved on his back and being pissed on and sodomized with a bottle of Jack Daniel's by my old friend, vampire/lesbian/dominatrix/Satanist/junkie/poet/performance-artist Danielle Willis.

Top that, Twitter. Also, more Satanists! Yay!"

Corner of Haight and Stanyan

Haight and Stanyan Streets

"Let's stop here for some weed."

Corner of Golden Gate and Hyde

Golden Gate and Hyde Streets

"That's the Post Office where the homeless guys pick up their SSI checks. Luckily, they have multiple opportunities to spend them directly outside."

Pier 39

Embarcadero and Beach Streets

"I gotta stop at Krazy Kaps and We Be Knives and then OF COURSE we can look at the sea lions. I'm not heartless. Also, Red Jack Saloon is like 4 blocks away and it's probably been long enough that they wouldn't remember last time I was there and I could go in for a pint."

That's it. I'm beat. KMAGYOYO.

Does the weather suck? Yeah, but not as bad as I thought.

While the middle part of the country feels God's wrath for its many shortcomings by roasting in record heat, we sinners here in San Francisco are also being punished by the Almighty, in the form of just generally shitty weather. It's overcast and foggy and never gets much about 60 degrees.

I know the only thing more boring than blogging about the weather is blogging about blogging, but I'm starting to get the SAD real bad and so it got me to thinking - is this an extra-shitty July so far, or do we just forget every year about how shitty July in San Francisco is?

So I decided to do some Burrito Justice-style research and, you know, marshal some facts and shit and find out. I went to Weather Underground and looked at the high temps for July (and the last week of June, as long as I was there), and then wrote them all down on a clipboard while reading them off the screen out loud to myself. "72, 73, 68, 69," I'd say, and then write write write. It took about 15 minutes and looked like this:




Here's the short answer: Except for today, it's not appreciably worse than any other July in the last 10 years. Except for 2008. Let's look at the numbers.

So far, the average daily high temperature for July this year has been 70. That's pretty much exactly normal. Last year it was 72 through this date, and 71 in 2009, and 70 in 2006 and 2004. 2008 was a hot one - 74 average, but that's because it was really really nice from the 7th to the 11th, like high 70s and 80s.

There have been some bright spots this July. Remember when it was 80 on the 1st? That's the hottest July 1st in the last 10 years. Same with the 84 on the 3rd. Hell, it was 69 on the 10th, just like on the 10th of 2010 and 2003.

The only weird thing will be if it doesn't get above 59 today. If that's true, that will be the lowest high temperature for July in the last 10 years. That fucking sucks, I'll give you that. But overall, so far it's not a bizarrely off July.

I will tell you this, though: That last week of June we just had was the coldest last week of June in the last 10 years. Average high: 66. Last year was 70 and the year before that was 76. So maybe it's just the cumulative effect, starting in June.

(Does anyone remember June 2003? The last week's average high was 83! 3 days of 90s in a row! Jesus!)

So hang in there. It's just the usual shit.

The sad inevitability of change in the modern world and whatever

There is no way I'm going to be able to do this without sounding like an asshole. Luckily, I'm used to that.

We have learned that the Red Vic movie theater on Haight is closing.

Later this month, 31 years to the day after it became an instant landmark in the Haight-Ashbury, the Red Vic Movie House will close.

"Our closure is 100 percent certain at this point," co-owner Claudia Lehan said. "On July 25, our birthday screening of 'Harold and Maude' will be our last, I'm sad to say."

Now, of course it is always sad when a business closes down, whether it be the Red Vic or any other business. (Speaking of Haight Street, does anyone remember Crescent City Cafe on Haight, where Best of Thai Noodle is now? Wow, Crescent City continues to have a lively online presence, despite the fact that it's been closed for years. That place was good. But I digress.)



I hate to sound like a dick about it, but that's commerce. You have a good idea, you run with it, it works for a while, but if people stop showing up, it's time to pack it up or come up with a new idea. Now, the Red Vic was a non-profit, so I guess having fundraisers to save it is cool and whatever, but in the end, if people don't want to pay for the product any more, it's not going to be viable any more.

I think it's sad and regrettable that San Francisco has lost most of its neighborhood theaters over the last 20 to 30 years, but that's life. I wonder if people had benefits to save the last remaining neighborhood blacksmiths in 1911 or the last neighborhood tanneries or whatever. Point being that change is inevitable and nothing lasts forever and even though it's sad, that's just the way it is. Let's all have fond memories and move on.

(Full disclosure: I used to live around the corner in the 90's and saw a fair amount of movies there and always found it slightly annoying, but patronized it nonetheless.)

(Also, I don't remember anyone being especially heartbroken when the Full Moon Saloon - where the Red Vic moved into - closed down. I have this vague memory of going into that place once. But NFI, as the cops say.)

(That's police talk for "No Further Information." I'm rambling now. I was at a ballgame last night until 11:00 and didn't get home until midnight, so you'll have to give me a break.)

The Grand Unified Conspiracy Theory

In 1977, Jimmy Carter used the Philadelphia Experiment to travel back in time and take two dinosaur eggs from fellow Illuminatus Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello home. He put one of the eggs on the Roswell UFO and sent it to England and stored the other one in a janitorial closet in the basement of the Washington Monument. One of the eggs hatched in 1926 and became Queen Elizabeth II.

Years later, Franklin Roosevelt and the Bilderberg Group engineered Pearl Harbor to benefit International Paper, who would make the ration books used during the war. It was around this time that Moses appeared to L. Ron Hubbard and gave him a microfilm that contained all Scientific Knowledge in the Universe. Unfortunately, Hubbard ate part of the microfilm, thinking it was blotter acid, and mistranslated the rest. This would be the basis of Scientology.

After the war, David Rockefeller and the Trilateral Commission invented Jell-O as a mind control substance. When Jell-O proved ineffective, they switched tactics and began implanting subliminal messages in episodes of “Gunsmoke” and in Petula Clark albums. John F. Kennedy accidentally learned of the backward making operation and so Dean Martin was sent to kill him. Dean Martin is an alien. Lee Harvey Oswald just happened to be there. Jack Ruby accidentally shot Lee Harvey Oswald when he was supposed to shoot the startled-looking guy next to him, who was also an alien. This has nothing to do with the rest of this stuff; it was just some unrelated alien-on-alien violence.

Whoops.

In 1961, the second dinosaur egg hatched and Obama was born. Ironically, the egg had just been with Rockefeller in Kenya when Rockefeller was there on safari, but the egg actually hatched in the main galley of a TWA flight from Kinshasa to Montreal. When it was later learned that there may have been some alien egg residue left on the plane, it was shot down when it was flying as TWA Flight 800. The Masons decided to have a Hawaiian birth certificate prepared because the original plan was to make Hawaii and independent kingdom and Obama would be the King of Waikiki. This plan was abandoned when that title was used for a 1978 Burt Reynolds comedy that flopped at the box office.

The moon landing actually happened just as NASA reported. However, Neil Armstrong lost the film on the way home and the whole thing had to be recreated. To do this, all the Apollo 11 astronauts actually went right back to the moon and filmed the whole thing over again. There were also some aliens there too.

Most of the main Illuminati and aliens were running AT&T. They wanted AT&T broken up because one of the aliens spilled a full glass of wine on Nikola Tesla at a party in Hoboken in 1981 and there was a whole big thing about it and everyone was pissed. This ruined Tesla’s plan for him and Regis Philbin to control people by using high-intensity microbursts. Later, Tesla and Philbin invented a new people control technology, but it has only a short effective range. They are currently planning to install 726 mind control boxes in San Francisco to test the new technology.

Caution: Mind Control Box. (Photo courtesy of the SF Appeal, which is controlled by the Bohemian Club and Italian Freemasons.)

Flouride is perfectly harmless and is effective at reducing tooth decay. However, the Council on Foreign Relations spread rumors that it is harmful pretty much just for kicks.

In 1982, Obama died in a Coca-Cola and Pop Rocks accident. He was replaced by an identical, but slightly less cool, copy.

Tupac Shakur faked his own death to pursue his real interest in professional football scouting. He actually died under mysterious circumstances in 2007 after advising the San Francisco 49ers to draft Alex Smith with the first overall pick of the 2005 NFL draft.

A short story based on today's Trending Topics for San Francisco, at around 9:00 a.m.

Jim Harbaugh was upset. He paced his office, fuming, then grabbed his iPhone 3GS and called Vince Young, whom he findly referred to as “Huckleberry Finn,” for reasons neither of them could remember.

“Vince,” Harbaugh said. “Did you see these god damned People’s Choice Awards?”

“Maybe,” said Vince Young. “What’s up?”

“Well,” Harbaugh fumed, “I was watching and the category for Favorite Constitution came up. Can you fucking believe this shit? Britain was nominated?”

“Great Britain doesn’t have a written constitution,” Vince Young said. “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

“No, Vince Young, I’ve never been more sober,” Harbaugh said. “So did you see who won?”

“Was it the Netherlands?,” Vince Young asked.

“Japan!,” Harbaugh yelled. “And their constitution only dates to 1947!”

Vince Young shook his head. “Just seems wrong. Anyway, who won for Favorite Pseudonymous American Author?”

“Mark Twain,” Harbaugh replied. “But he wins about every year. At least the years that Ellery Queen doesn’t win.”

Vince Young sighed. “Anyway, #Whats4Breakfast?”

“What did you say?,” Harbaugh asked. “Did you just say ‘Hashtag what’s for breakfast,’ all strung together really fast?”

“Maybe,” Vince Young said. “#ces.”

Controversy swirls around Time's Person of the Year 2010 choice.

So yeah, Mark Zuckerberg is Time's Person of the Year.

(Does this photo seem oddly stretched or something? I stole it from the WSJ b/c that's the first one that popped up on Google News. Anyway.)

Makes sense, I guess. It really did seem like 2010 was the year where Facebook went from just a social networking site to Utter and Total Ubiquity. 2010 was the year your Mom joined Facebook and started posting stupid shit 24/7, right?

(As I have mentioned many times before, maybe to the point of annoyance and/or self-aggrandizement, I am one of 2 (or maybe 3) people I know who does not have a Facebook account. The reasons are still chiefly the same and may be somewhat unique to my personality but that's neither here nor there, plus at this point it's almost too late to join. Now it just seems lame. Like you're the last person who shows up at a party and goes "OK, now we can get started!" I do like the stalking aspects of FB, but based on looking at other people use it, I would quickly get way way way too annoyed to enjoy it.)

ANYWAY, one "Scott Simon" from NPR does not at all agree with Time's choice!!!!!!!


LOLz. This is the dumbest shit I've read all day. The Chilean miners, Scott Simon? Really?? I barely remember that the Chilean Miner thing happened today. Imagine people reviewing the list of POTYs in 10 years and going "Who the fuck are the Chilean Miners? Did they like discover cold fusion underground or something? What the fuck?"

Honestly, Scott Simon, I'm glad you're not picking the POTY or in 1987 Baby Jessica would have been the Person of the Year instead of Mikhail Gorbachev.

(Incidentally, we totally need to get together and have a screening of "Everybody's Baby: The Rescue of Jessica McClure," starring Beau Bridges and featuring, oddly, Will Oldham. Yes, that Will Oldham. Bonnie Prince Billy. WTF.)

Where was I. I get lost. Oh, right, Scott Simon. Listen, Scott, the way Facebook is going eventually it's going to be the Ur-Application and I will eventually have to get a FB account myself or I will cease to exist. You probably won't be allowed to have a job or buy vicodin online from a Russian website without a FB account, so it'll be a necessity. So Zuckerberg's probably a rational choice.

The Chilean Miners will be the subject of a Where Are They Now special on TLC in 10 years.

Here's my explanation of why professional sports are satisfying and necessary

"There's some part of our reptilian brain that needs to conquer and dominate others. It's hard-wired into us. We used to satisfy this intense, unstoppable urge by actually conquering and dominating others. But now we have evolved and don't do that as much as we used to. So, even though it would be incredibly satisfying and rewarding for all of us to march on Dallas, burn it to the ground, sew the soil with salt so nothing ever grows there again, sell the citizenry into slavery, and take their gold and HDTVs, our society frowns on that kind of thing. So instead, we assemble a team of surrogates to represent our city-state and we give them a fearsome name like 'Giants' and we send them forth to do our conquering for us. And now there is only ritual humiliation and defeat, but it's all we've got and we enjoy it nonetheless. That's why we have professional sports.

"Also, two or more guys can't sit around and drink beer and talk. There has to be something on in the background. Televised sporting events enable male friendship to exist without awkwardness."

World Series Game 5: FUCK YEAH

I think Eric Karros is still picking the Rangers to win it all.

Hey, guess what? THE GIANTS WON THE WORLD SERIES. I know, right? Before the season started, Olu and I were talking and we were all "Maybe if they just made the playoffs, yeah, that would be cool," without even imagining that they would win the playoffs. Remember how shitty August was? Losing to Cincinnati 12-11 and then losing to Arizona 6-0 and then losing to Arizona 11-3? Sure, they won the next day, but that still sucked.

Every step of the way, no one gave them a shot. It's like a movie and the Giants are the Retarded Kid or the Team of Plucky Underdogs or the Last Man on Earth! But really, if I had to hear Eric Karros or Mitch Williams or some other shitbag say the other team was going to win one more time, I would shoot myself in the face and not seek immediate medical attention. It really was almost comical. ALMOST.

So you already know what happened. Lincecum fucking mowed through the Texas lineup except for one HR and fuck it, that ain't no thang when you got Edgar Renteria hitting HRs like he's 25 again. Seriously, Edgar Renteria? Ten bucks says half the people watching the Series didn't know he was still on the team. Edgar had his own game: lay low for the entire regular season, let the other teams get confident, THEN bust out in the World Series. Whatever, it worked!

Speaking of that Renteria HR, did you even think it was going out? That fucking Texas ballpark, I can never tell. Guys hit these lazy fly balls and they just keep going and going and then they're home runs.

- Here's a Giants fan for you: postgame, one of my comrades said "I really was hoping for a shutout."

- And I was a little disappointed that Brian Wilson didn't put 2 on and have a man at 3rd with 2 outs. That would have just been fitting. He gives me fucking heart attacks all season, then fucking makes it look easy in the playoffs? What kind of shit is that?

- Best thing I heard all night: apparently, the Giants fans in Texas who stayed in the stands after the game were chanting "BEAT L.A.! BEAT L.A.!" How fucking cool is that?

- So we walked down to 22nd and Valencia and got some beers from the Latin and stood on the sidewalk and high-fived everyone who walked by. Strolled down to 22nd and Mission for the Ritual Burning of the Mattresses. I was thinking, where do these mattresses come from? Is there a Mattress Guy who keeps them on hand for easy distribution any time a sports team wins a title or a white cop is acquitted of something? Where do the mattresses come from? Some people were calling it a "riot," but Detroit is all BITCH PLEASE. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT A RIOT IS.

- Of course, the Giants have a legacy of outstanding pitching.


Christy Mathewson's Giants won the 1905 World Series over the Philadelphia Athletics. Mathewson was the starting pitcher in Game 1, and pitched a 4-hit shutout for the victory. Three days later, with the series tied 1–1, he pitched another 4-hit shutout. Then, two days later in Game 5, he threw a 6-hit shutout to clinch the series for the Giants. In a span of only six days, Mathewson had pitched three complete games without allowing a run.

Christy Mathewson says: "3 complete games in 6 days. You guys are pussies."

Before we go, I want to give a shout-out to some folks I think of when I think Giants:

- Of course, The Wife, who knows how to keep score, can discuss the pros and cons of Santiago Casilla intelligently, and is basically the best person to sit next to on a sunny Saturday at AT&T Park.

- Olu and Jason know where to buy shots of Jameson in the park. And outside the park.

- Stephen took me to one of the Red Sox games, which sucked but I don't hold it against him but I am glad the Red Sox weren't even in the playoffs.

- Stoney apologized for the loss in Game 3. He forgot his dog's Giants collar. Collar back in place, the Giants went on to win the rest of the Series.

- Kate, Generic, The Tens, Allan, Tamagosan, JohnnyO, Brock, and all my other go-to online sources. McCovey Chronicles, duh. And anyone else I forgot, SORRY. I'm still a little drunk.

- Is it too early to start worrying about that Dodger game on April 1, 2011?

- Pitchers and catchers report in 107 days!!!!!

Mad Men #7: The mouse symbolizes something. I'm sure of it.

Sorry this is a day late. No, actually I’m not really sorry at all. Yesterday The Wife and I went to Red’s Java House and had burgers and beer in the sun and then we went to SF MOMA and saw the “From Calder to Warhol” exhibit which is basically just a taste of the 1000s of pieces the Fishers are donating and it’s pretty fucking awesome. Plus it was a really nice day. Plus no one ever reads these anyway. I mean, I used to get huge numbers of hits for the Bachelorette recaps and I don’t get many for the MM recaps and that maybe says something sad about Our Society and Culture or maybe means nothing at all. Boo hoo poor me.

Oh, also last night I watched Bachelor Pad and let me tell you straight up, that shit is PAINFUL. Like Grade A excruciating. And this is coming from a guy who analyzed every episode of an entire season of the Bachelorette.

OK, where are we? We’re at the Samsonite pitch meeting. The kidz want to do something with Joe Namath and it’s all very confusing and Don doesn’t like it and frankly I don’t either. How about instead we see Anson Wong shoving snakes into a sturdy Samsonite bag and then he looks at the camera and says “I’ve got a SNAKING suspicion that only Samsonite bags work for me! Get Samsonite today!”

Now we see that Duck is drinking in his semi-darkened apartment and he has sent Peggy a birthday gift, which is a business card for a made-up ad agency. Duck says he’s “falling apart” and the only cure for that is a shot of Pegs. Don’t worry, we’re going to see more of Duck soon.

So for her birthday, Mystery Fiancé is taking her to the Forum of the Twelve Caesars, which was apparently a Very Fancy Restaurant on 57 West 48th Street.

But wait! Don’s making her work on her birthday! Now who’s going to eat the Oysters of Hercules with Mark? Oh, holy shit, he’s got Peggy’s whole family there! Apparently Mark doesn’t know Peggy very well, because this is not a selling point for her. Mark’s totally giving her a hard time and Peggy’s all “I have to work late” and Mark’s all “Waaaah, come on,” and then he breaks up with her over the Black Courtesy Phone! Good riddance, I say.

Thus we begin the Night of Peggy and Don. They start out with a good fight about who had the idea for Glo-Coat and then move on to the Roger tapes. Whoa, Ms. Blankenship was the “Queen of Perversion”! Ugh, try scraping that mental image form your mind. Roger’s memoirs may prove to be unfit for public consumption. Anyway, the night continues and gets a little rom-commy. There’s a mouse in the office and then it’s gone and Don says solemnly “There’s a way out of this room we don’t know about.” DUN DUN DUN!!!! This is FRAUGHT WITH MEANING. Discuss amongst yourselves.

Off to dinner at the Greek diner. Wait a minute, Don’s not drinking. WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS? They’re having a Deep Conversation. “Oh, wow, I saw my father die too!” It’s like the 1965 version of coke talk. Then on to a bar. Oh, I like this bar! It’s like Radio in Oakland but with the lights turned up. In the past, you used to be able to see in bars. Now that’s considered passé. That’s why I keep knocking drinks over. Sort of. Anyway, is Peggy drinking a Cosmo? She’s like the Ur-Carrie Bradshaw! Holy shit, there’s a grad thesis just sitting there. Go ahead and take it.

Back to the office. Don pukes violently in the SCDP bathroom. Nobody ever pukes on this show after drinking all day. It’s actually kind of refreshing. Oh shit, here comes the Duckster! He is fucked UP. This office is like the Grand Central Station of Drunk. Whoa, whoa, whoa, Duck’s about to drop a deuce in Roger’s office! Oh, Duck. I guess the fact that you’re in the wrong office is the least of your problems. Duck and Don settle this with a good old-fashioned Drunk Fight and Pegs shows him out.

Tim to pass out on the couch. The ghost of Fake Wife appears, carrying her trusty Samsonite suitcase into the afterlife, where she will appear in a guest-starring role on “Castle,” the worst show I have ever seen, even worse than “Bachelor Pad,” even worse than that midget dating show. Anyway, I imagine this scene is also Fraught With Meaning. The good news is, Don and Pegs don’t hook up because ew.

So the next day Don’s got a fresh shirt and looks marginally presentable but Peggy’s going to have to do the Walk of Shame even though she didn’t even get any. Now it’s time for the Scenes from the Next Episode, which every week reveal absolutely nothing about what’s going to happen.

I’ll tell you one thing that’s going to happen: Next Sunday and Monday I will be Out of The Local Area and so this recap will be substantially delayed. Please direct your complaints to the Managing Director. I want to eat a rare steak and watch two men pound each other.

And in today's distressing polling news

About a third of the people polled by Time magazine think Obama's a Muslim. 46% of Republicans do. Wrap your head around that for a minute.

(It occurs to me that there's probably a huge amount of overlap between people that think this and people who thought Obama was under the thrall of Jeremiah Wright. You can't have it both ways, people. Either he's a Wright-Christian or a Muslim. Pick your poison.)

(You know what else about the whole Jeremiah Wright thing? Who the fuck listens in church? You and I both know Obama was sitting there going "Just 25 more minutes and I can get home and watch the fucking Bears. Oh God will this guy ever shut the fuck up.")

Muslims have to pray like 6 times a day and there's a whole thing with a rug and pointing towards Mecca and whatnot and do you think for a second that the President of the United States could get away with this without someone noticing and going "Oh, hey, I wonder why the President kneels down on his little rug with the Presidential seal 6 times a day. What's up with that?" The White House Press Corps is so far up his ass that they can report on what he had for breakfast based on personal observation from inside his duodenum. You think they're going to whiff on him worshipping Allah? Bitch please.

Personally, I don't want my President to be any religion at all. The last thing I want is for the one person who can destroy the planet to believe that the Afterlife is a good place to be. Fuck that, I want him to think that This Life is the best and should be preserved at all costs.

That being said, my best guess is that, religion-wise, Obama is probably like a lot of guys his age who went to Columbia undergrad and Harvard Law - basically agnostic, but goes to church because it's expected in his social circle. And if I'm right, FINE BY ME.

I guess we shouldn't be surprised. 48% of people believe in ghosts. LOOK OUT WHAT'S THAT BEHIND YOU!?! Just kidding, there's nothing behind you. 23% of people believe in "witches," whatever the fuck that means.

BUT WAIT! It gets even better! I love this shit:

When Americans are asked to identify the country from which America gained its independence, 76% correctly name Great Britain. A handful, 2%, think America's freedom was won from France, 3% mention some other country (including Russia, China, and Mexico, among others named), while 19% are unsure.

19% are unsure! Love it. That roughly correlates with the 18% who think the Sun revolves around the Earth. Teach the controversy, I say!

Why am I blathering on about this? I don't know. Let's go get a drink. It's Friday.

Mad Men #3: Mysterious Origins of the Bro-Date Revealed!

Let me preface this by saying that this week’s recap is brought to you under Conditions of Extreme Hardship (or maybe that should be Condiciones de Extrema Dureza), because I conformed to the worst stereotypes and contracted some kind of horrible affliction in Mexico that continued to trouble me through last night, when I finally had the opportunity to watch this week’s episode. Nevertheless, I soldiered on, putting aside my own well-being so that you might get this recap. Like you care or anything.)

Poor Joan. All she wants to do is have a normal life with a normal guy and a normal baby and everything else a 1964 woman might want and instead she gets stuck with a history of non-medically-approved abortions and a chain-smoking gyno and a husband whose finest moment was getting hit over the back of the head with a vase. And mean old Lane Pryce won’t even give her a couple of days off in January! Karma’s going to come get you, you bloody twat!

Now we are interrupted by a scene from “The Spy Who Loved Me.” Oh no, wait, that’s Don driving down the coast in his convertible. It’s so jarring when the show leaves Manhattan. Brooklyn’s like a strange and distant land to these people. OK, we’re going back to see the Real Don Draper’s Wife. She now comes equipped with a Hottie Niece who goes to Cal and has grass. That’s ridiculous! Blonde chicks never buy their own drugs! Real Don Draper’s Wife, DD, and Hottie Steph go to some bar. In the background, people are dancing like it’s Arnold’s from “Happy Days.” Steph’s a pistol! Sure, she’s all college-lefty now but you fast forward to today and you know she’s living in a retrirement community in Arizona and bitching about illegal immigrants. Later, natch, DD puts the moves on when he gives her a ride home. He was right, she did get picked up by some creep! She uses the old Your-Fake-Identity’s-Wife-Has-Cancer-And-We-Haven’t-Told-Her-Yet dodge. Boy, if I had a nickel. Hey, Don, maybe not the best time to light up a smoke!

Following the dawn light wash across the set like my high school production of Death of a Salesman, we see that DD has chosen to paint the interior of RDDW’s house aquamarine whilst wearing boxers and blowing mad clouds with her. Too bad Dark Side of the Moon hasn’t been invented yet! That might confuse and frighten them, since the most complicated musical thing they’ve ever heard is “White Christmas.” Anyway, Sis comes around and DD gets all up in her grill and says she’s gotta tell RDDW about the cancer or he will and Sis is all “The fuck I will, the fuck business is it of yours motherfucker” and DD says “I make it my business bitch” and Sis says something else I forget and DD chickens out anyway.

Back to NYC, WHEW. I don’t like the California scenes. Joan is GOING OFF on Lane. Here comes the karma! There’s been a flower mixup and Lane’s wife has gotten the card that says “Joan, you are the finely chopped dates in my sticky toffee pudding” or something like that. Anyway, so much for Lane’s marriage! Just as well, she was a bitch.

All this shit was just prelude, though, to what might be the greatest sequence of scenes in Mad Men history: Don and Lane’s Most Excellent Bro-Date!!!!! The Boyzzzz get started by splitting a fine-ass bottle o’ whiskey, then head out to catch Godzilla, taking along the rest of the bottle in a Mega-Flask. I was heartened to see that, even in 1964, guys observed the one-chair-between-them bro-distance. They’re all shitfaced and talking shit in the theater like they at the Metreon or something. If Don had a laser pointer it’d be perfect. Anyway, then on to some dinner where Lane does this:



TIME FOR SOME HOOKERS. First, let’s stop and see some standup comedy! “Hey, you ever notice how rigid and confining our gender roles are? What’s up with that?” No, instead he makes gay jokes at DD and Lane! Boy are you way off, Mr. Proto-Comedian! See, here come the hookers now! Anyway, they all head back to DD’s bachelor pad and all I can say is I hope Hooker #2 isn’t a slapper too or Lane’s in for a big surprise. And only $25? That's a bargain, even by 1964 standards. OK, that's enough.

Announcing TK's First and Probably Only 6-Word Memoir Contest (with prizes)

You know what Six Word Memoirs are, right? It's basically exactly what it sounds like: your life story in six words. Mine is on my Twitter page: "Things rarely turn out as planned."

Frank McCourt, who wrote "Angela's Ashes," had a good one: "The miserable childhood leads to royalties." Some other ones I also liked (by not famous Irish authors) are "Facebook has ruined my entire life" and "Freak accidents haven't killed me yet."

So here's what I wanna do. Send me your 6-word story and I shall distribute a Special Prize Package to the one that I totally subjectively like the best. You can either email it to me at 40goingon28@gmail.com or drop it in the comments below, cool?

What does the Special Prize Package include, you ask?



A five-dollar bill with a congratulatory Post-It note from me stuck to it because it's illegal to deface United States Currency, duh. (I can make the Post-It note say anything you want as long as it's not weird or illegal like "I will kill your whole fucking family, Love, TK," or "I am fat" or "I ♥ Vivisection.")



A November 2005 Fast Pass. Since Fast Passes are being phased out in October forever, this is actually a collector's item that will be worth a Ton of Money someday.



This "I lost me to meth" coaster, which is obviously awesome.

As an added bonus, if you win, I'll then have your address, so you might find me knocking on your door at 3 a.m. in a drunken stupor asking for money and/or to be let in. Just like Dad used to do! KIDDING.

I guess I should set some kind of deadline, or some dork is going to submit one in November and then be all "There was no deadline! I can still win!" about it, so let's say 6 p.m. PDT, Tuesday August 3, 2010. I'll announce the winner on Wednesday the 4th. Second prize is a set of steak knives. I'M KIDDING THERE IS NO SECOND PRIZE I just love Glengarry Glen Ross.

Third prize is, however, you're fired.

(P.S. Just to keep this on the up-and-up, if you're currently married to me, you are ineligible to win, but you are still free to enter and I'll totally tell you how awesome your entry was and how you definitely would have won if you weren't married to me.)

Field Report: Pitchfork Music Festival, Chicago, Illinois

It's hot.

I'm not going to belabor this point because it's boring but if you want to simulate the Pitchfork Festival experience while reading along, go sit in a sauna with 75 sweaty hipsters and put on a Real Estate album.

That being said, it's also pretty great. The sound is really good and everyone is very nice, despite the heat, and in Union Park there are at least a few stands of trees you can go and hang out under to get out of the sun a little bit. Beers are 5 bucks, which feels like kind of a steal, even if the only thing they have is Heineken and Heineken Light. Plus there are a ton of girls everywhere wearing very little clothing and also it's become clear to me that every single person between the ages of 18 and me (and including me) has one or more (usually more) tattoos. I saw a girl with a tattoo that was the word "TATTOO" in a box on her arm and then I got dizzy from the postmodernism of that and had to sit down again.

Titus Andronicus! Oh my God! They're like Springsteen crossed with the Replacements crossed with Awesome and it's just pure rock and made me forget how fucking hot and uncomfortable it is out here. Incredible set. Then at the end the singer said, apropos of nothing, "If you want to learn more about American history, I'm sure there are lots of excellent books at your local public library," and I love non sequiturs more than anything so I was moved by that.

Kurt Vile was OK. My traveling companion said "Really depressing." Maybe!

Do you guys know what "somnambulant" means? I love that word. Panda Bear was somnambulant.

Wolf Parade was fine except they didn't play the one song I really wanted to hear and so now I have a grudge.

It was pretty clear that most people were there to see LCD Soundsystem and I will say that they were great. I think I get them now. You need to see it live.

OK, one more thing. The closest bar to our hotel is a vaguely Irish bar called "Dugan's" with entertainment programmed apparently by a former cruise director because the first night we went there it was karaoke night and wow, the Grease soundtrack will live forever. Then last night we stopped by after the show and there was a cover band of old guys playing the hits of the 50's 60's and 70's DEAFENINGLY LOUD and I say that as someone who just came from seeing LCD Soundsystem and was not prepared to have his hair blown back by the Turtles' "Happy Together."

I gotta go get some brunch and a bloody mary.

The Bachelorette: Iceland Is Cold, and I Don't Feel So Good Myself

Iceland used to be best known for Leif Erikson and Bjork, but these days it’s better-known for volcanism and financial collapse. That makes it perfect for our next stop! I don’t know why; I can’t finish this analogy. I’m still kind of sick. Before we go on, I got a shot of Kasey’s Protect and Guard Your Heart brand tattoo:


Ugh, what a fucking mess. It looks like some cabbage and a bad bruise.

After our oblig establishing shots of Iceland and Ali in a fur hat, it’s time for a challenge: the guys will write love poems to her, and are told to incorporate some Icelandic in them. God, they just find new ways to make this show more painful every week. Next week, maybe we’ll have slam poetry or acoustic Gloria Estefan covers. Anyway, the Entertainment Wrestler tries stopping random Icelanders in the street, which proves unsuccessful, unless the phrase he wants to use is “Get the fuck out of my face.” Ali appears and screams “ICELAAAAAAND!!,” of course. If we ever get somewhere and she doesn’t yell out the name of where we are I’m going to be pissed. The poems are just as miserable and depressing as you might imagine. Frank’s poem is about his ex! I thought chicks didn’t like that!?! Pls. advise ASAP. Kirk wins and gets a solo date.

Off they go traipsing through Reykjavik. Hey, what did ABC do with all the Icelanders? There’s like nobody on the streets. It looks like San Jose. They go clothes shopping. ABC needs to buy Ali some new hair, because they obviously went for the bargain extensions. They buy matching sweaters! That seems about right. Then it’s off to lunch, where Kirk will now tell us about his Secret and Disturbing History.

It seems that some five years ago, Kirk was a Star Athlete (8th best at the 1500, if you must know), when he moved into a Rented House of Horrors. He began developing odd symptoms like he couldn’t lift his arms up and the left side of his body was numb and he bled from the eyes and it sounds like a pretty normal Friday night to me but not even 40 doctors could find out what was wrong! Then a ghostly spirit appeared and told him to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. Not, not really. What really happened was that the house was contaminated. Oh no, that’s an Asbes-don’t! It was full of mold and whatever and with some “alternative medicine” he finally got better. This story is SO BORING. Ali is struggling to stay awake. Ugh, Kirk is so full of mold now he’s like an old loaf of bread you forgot about at the back of the pantry. Oh no, Ali, don’t kiss that! Gross! Now you’ll get the Molds too. That was the least inspiring story of Overcoming Adversity I’ve ever heard.

Hey look, it’s a Group Date! We’re going horseback riding. Or something riding. What are those little things? They’re like dog-sized horses. Good thing Ty knows how to wrangle them! Oh, look, they’re being lowered into a pit in the Earth! I like where this is going! Where are the cement trucks?

Then we’re off to the Blue Lagoon, which is not a pedophilia-themed amusement park but a hot springs. It’s supposed to have healing properties. Maybe it can heal her hair. She makes out with some guys and tells Frank he’s not trying hard enough. I just think he ran out of meth on like Day 3.

Now we have a threesome date with The Entertainment Wrestler and Kasey the Frog Prince. They fly to the volcano that is (WARNING FORESHADOWING) going to fuck up Europe’s travel plans real bad and land and walk around and the EW says this “feels like a wrestling match.” I guess he’s going to pay Kasey $50 to hit him with a folding chair. Time for the big tattoo reveal! Ali says “The only thing Kasey has to do today is be normal.” WHOOPS!!! That’s not really his thing, Ali. He shows her the tattoo. She has the same face you get when someone with a knife is telling you that the CIA is following them. She cuts Kasey! There is some chick in Clovis right now who is going to get the shit protected and guarded out of her. EW and Ali get in the helicopter and leave Kasey on the glacier to die.


Getting close to the end now. Bear with me, but you should know this is more painful for me than it is for you. We have the usual Pre-Rose-Ceremony chats. There’s the Mystery Guy again! Seriously, does he just appear at the end of every episode! Wow, he’s got the personality of an ottoman. She asks him what his guilty pleasure is and he says “Mexican food.” That’s funny, my guilty pleasures are dry cleaning and FM radio!

Now Chris talks to her. Wow, Chris is going all psychiatrist on her! “You’re afraid to fall in love! What are you so afraid of?” Ali looks a little taken aback! I don’t feel so good myself! “Are you afraid they’ll betray you like your father did? Like every man in your life has???!!!?” She’s going to need some Cymbalta! I can tell from the ads. Too bad about the Yellow Eyes and Skin you get from taking it!

Mystery Man gets cut. No surprise there. Next week, Issinbull. At least that’s what Ali keeps calling it. We’ll find out together, I guess.

Today's Power Rankings

Vuvuzela	▼	Is there any way we could add an annoying monotone drone to every televised sporting event?
Vuvuzela Twitter feed	▲	In the future, every phenomenon will have its own satirical Twitter feed
Gavin in Shanghai	▲	Bring me back a #23 and an order of green onion pancake
Vampires	▲♂	There has to be a "Lost Boys" remake in preproduction somewhere, right? I haven't checked, but it's gotta be happening, right?
World Cup officiating		Makes NBA refs look like…I don't know, really good refs or something
Sharron Angle	►☺	Put a little crazy in your Senate
New Bret Easton Ellis novel	▬	In other news, Bret Easton Ellis is still alive and writing novels, apparently
Treaty of Ghent	£▲	Still one of the best treaties
Lakers	▲	Kobe is the MVP. OF RAPING.
Watermelon	▲	The Miracle Food™
Oil spill	◙▼	BP has discovered an extraordinarily efficient way to move stuff that was inside the Earth to outside the Earth
Tagging the Buddha sculpture in Civic Center Plaza	▼	You people are assholes.
Jeremy London kidnapping	♣	Now me! Now me!

Oh, this is rich

Sayeth the Chron:

That's right, fitness advice from Pablo Sandoval. Pablo Sandoval seems like a really nice guy and he's a pretty good hitter (although in somewhat of a slump right now), but one word I would not use to describe him is "fit." He's listed on the roster at 245 lbs. which is completely hilarious and if he's 245 then I'm a buck fifty. He's MAYBE 260. I'd guess 270, but MAYBE 260. I know he can move and blah blah blah he's got quickness or whatever, but don't kid yourself. In no sense of the term is he "fit."

Here are some other stories the Chron is pursuing:

Take it from Bobby Sands - it's important to eat a balanced dinner

Take it from Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof - it's important to come up with a coherent ending to a television series

Take it from Julius Caesar - it's important to be suspicious of your political rivals

Take it from this guy I see on the way to work every day - it's important not to shoot heroin between your toes

I was at that game last night. What a fucking shitshow. I have very little to add to whatever everyone else is saying except that we already knew they hit worse than an anorexic girls' softball team. But when your Deuce Cy Starting Pitcher can't fucking pitch, well, it makes for a long fucking night. Hey, at least really good seats will be cheap as fuck in a month or so.

Beers are still 9 bucks, though.

(In other weight-related news, 50 Cent lost 60 pounds. Nothing else, that's just fun to say.)

Boring travelogue, Part 6: You're not going to believe who I ran into in Washington DC

I'm positive there's a totally fun part of Washington D.C. where the cool kidz hang out and smoke Gauloises and listen to Animal Collective and spend all day hanging out in the cafe with their iBooks posting snarky things about selfsame neighborhood to their blogs. Statistically, it has to exist. We just haven't found it. In D.C.'s defense, we haven't been looking very hard.

So from what I can tell, DC is populated mainly by extremely preppy people wearing laminated keycards around their neck and engaged mostly in Very Important Conversation. Then every 10 minutes a brazilian cops roll up and shut down the intersection you're trying to cross and a convoy of trucks and SUVs and limos goes by carrying a lot of Serious Looking Guys in suits holding assault rifles and maybe The President. This happens so frequently it's boring and annoying instead of exciting and interesting.

There's some Nuclear Summit dealio in town, so maybe this doesn't happen every day, just every day we're here.

I love museums and DC is basically Museumland, so we're loving that. Let me nutshell it for you:

Museum of American History: Great. Really interesting, well-designed exhibits. Most people just want to see Kermit the Frog and the Ruby Slippers from Wizard of Oz, but I didn't care so much about that. Surprisingly good food in the cafe.

Museum of Natural History: Yes, all those stuffed animals are real. The dinosaur exhibit is a great place if you like screaming kids.

Air and Space: I liked it better when I was 13.

Last night we met up with a friend of mine from college and had a 4-hour binge drinking session dinner at this place called Posto and it was good and everything and here comes the best part of the story and damn if you aren't going to accuse me of burying the lede but whatever. We're sitting at the bar and this guy is at the end of the bar like 10 feet away anbd he's wearing a suit like everyone else in DC all the time and my friend goes "You know who that is?" and I was looking at a different guy so I said no but then when I looked at the right guy HOLY SHIT GUESS WHAT.

IT WAS MOTHERFUCKING RAHM EMANUEL. Hand to God, I shit you not. Talking to some chick at the bar and having a glass of wine.

My friend looks at his watch and goes "It's only 7 o'clock. Why isn't he working?" I was kinda wondering the same thing. I guess he doesn't watch "The West Wing."

More on the hipster issue; features catchy song!!!

Looks like the hating hipsters thing is nationwide:



A long time ago I used to live in Richmond, where this guy is singing about. There's a college there, VCU, known for its art school. Also it's cheap and pretty flat (i.e., easy to get around on bike). It also had some good bars and some great local music. I don't know if it still does, but mix all that shit together and it's like Hipster Bait.

[Courtesy of this guy's Tumblr.]