I had a much more successful air travel experience yesterday.

As you may have gathered from my Twitter stream, I am currently traveling and therefore may not be posting as much. Two things, though:

1. Kind of an amazing overheard in the Hudson bookstore in the Denver International Airport yesterday. I first noticed this chick because she was holding a book and reading the ENTIRE BACK COVER to someone on the phone. Then she finished and waited for input, apparently, about whether this book would be a suitable read. I guess her confidante advised against it, because she didn't buy the book.

She got in line behind me and I got a look at her. Tall, maybe 5'10" or 5'11", blonde, not especially attractive, wearing glitter on her face, no joke. This is not at 4 am at a club on Ibiza. This is at 6 pm at the Denver International Airport. Is there a Rave Area at DEN that I don't know about?

She's still on the phone. "Oh, this is so cool. One of the directors of the movie I'm doing is going on tour with Atmosphere and filming a video for them. He's not, like, the main director. He's the other director. You've met him. I know one of the singers in Atmosphere so that's cool."

I gotta see the movie that Face Glitter Chick is in. Also, what movie has more than one director? Maybe he's the First AD.

Also, Atmosphere turns out to be an American hip hop group from Minneapolis, Minnesota. I did not know that.

2. After my permanently traumatizing, PTSD-inducing, borderline-suicide-causing trip on United Airlines last month, I just want to say that FRONTIER AIRLINES IS THE SHIT and I will never cheat on you with another airline again Frontier. Somewhere over the Great Plains, happily ensconced in the entire bulkhead row which I had to myself, enjoying my third complimentary vodka, I realized how wonderful Frontier Airlines has made modern travel. We got there early. Fuck you, United.

Battle Hymn of the Sort of Crazy Mother

I'm not a parent (yet, anyway) so I don't know shit about child-raisin' and I'm not about to sit here and tell parents they're Doing It Wrong (except when I see parents who are Clearly Doing It Wrong at Target or whatever but I keep my mouth shut and don't say "You shouldn't call your child 'you dumb little fuck,' it's bad for their development") but I had kind of a bad reaction to Law Professor Amy Chua's child-rearing techniques, as explicated in this article, provocatively titled "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" (an excerpt from her new book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother"). In this scene, 7-year-old daughter Lulu is having a tough time learning a piece on piano, despite working on it "nonstop for a week." The following drama ensues:

Back at the piano, Lulu made me pay. She punched, thrashed and kicked. She grabbed the music score and tore it to shreds. I taped the score back together and encased it in a plastic shield so that it could never be destroyed again. Then I hauled Lulu's dollhouse to the car and told her I'd donate it to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she didn't have "The Little White Donkey" perfect by the next day. When Lulu said, "I thought you were going to the Salvation Army, why are you still here?" I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong, I told her she was purposely working herself into a frenzy because she was secretly afraid she couldn't do it. I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.

Jesus Christ, lady. It's the fucking "Little White Donkey," not lifesaving surgery. What the fucking fuck? And for the record, she's not being self-indulgent, you are. You're the one that wants to hear "Little White Donkey," not her.

Clearly there are cultural differences at play and maybe us dumb Westerners just don't understand and I guess if you raise a child like this they probably will get good grades or whatever but I can't help but wonder at what cost.

Amy Chua says her children were never allowed to be in a school play (or, for that matter, "complain about not being in a school play"). Guess Amy Chua's daughters aren't going to be actresses! Sorry if I'm being snarky but I guess my point is if you shove kids into a super-rigid way of life that you control all the parameters of and don't let them do anything that you haven't planned for ahead of time, I can't help but think that they're maybe not going to develop a creative side the same way a kid who's maybe not treated like a trained dog would.

It's complicated and there are loads of cultural issues I'm sure I'm not sensitive to, but I kind of have a visceral reaction to calling a 7-year-old "pathetic."

UPDATE!!!!!!!!!!! - As commenter Amy suggests, as it turns out, there is more to the story than we originally thought. Apparently Law Professor Amy Chua spoke with columnist Jeff Yang over on SFGate and said, basically, that the article painted an unfair picture:

"I was very surprised," she says. "The Journal basically strung together the most controversial sections of the book. And I had no idea they'd put that kind of a title on it. But the worst thing was, they didn't even hint that the book is about a journey, and that the person at beginning of the book is different from the person at the end -- that I get my comeuppance and retreat from this very strict Chinese parenting model."

So there you go. Maybe it was taken out of context or whatever. I still maintain that calling a 7-year-old "pathetic" is not cool. That said, I also agree with Amy and fellow commenter Verbal Cupcake that many American parents aren't anything to write home about either. I guess there's got to be a middle ground between borderline child abuse and breezy abdication.

Anyway, I don't know if V.C. has kids, but I don't think Amy does, so let's all chat about this again when we all have kids. I feel sort of uncomfortable judging any parent from my childless perch. I'll do it; I just feel a little uncomfortable about it. That is all.

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.”

Mad Men #13: FMK

Ummmmmmm, OK, how about: Faye, Meghan, and Dr. Rape.

Friends, we are here. We have reached the End of Our Journey and it has been a strange one, what with the Chocolate Bunnies and the slapping and all the trips to California and whatnot. Now I can finally stop taking notes while watching the TV.

Let’s kick things off with Faye over at Don’s place. He’s got a “sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.” Maybe he read the spoilers on Twitter, too! Faye’s the one who should have the sick feeling, speaking of spoilers. OH SNAP.

Don’s taking a meeting with the American Cancer Society. For the first time ever on this show, there’s a meeting where everyone’s not smoking. Looks like ACS has the same offices as the Susan Ross Foundation on “Seinfeld.” Back at the office, Ken won’t play ball and ask his Father in Law to join a foursome. I think they’re talking about golf. God, I hope so.

Did you know that Creeper Glen is played by Matthew Weiner’s son? It’s a good thing Dad runs the show, because that kid cannot fucking act. I mean, I’m sorry and it feels bad to criticize a 12-year-old or however old he is, but it’s really apparent when he does all these scenes with Kiernan Shipka and she’s basically Meryl Streeping his Keanu all over the floor. ANYWAY Creeper Glen shows up at Chez Bets to say goodbye to Sally since they’re moving to Rye and CG says “I say goodbye to people all the time” in his creepy Children of the Corn way and Betty comes home and he is so BUSTED and then she gets mad and fucking FIRES CARLA!?! BITCH! You can’t go around firing Carla! She was cool and plus now the show is whiter than the Brady Bunch.

So Don’s off to Cali again and needs some help with the kids. Maybe Megan wants to come! That’s a good audition for the Mrs. Draper role that’s currently open. As a matter of fact, she does want to come! To California, I mean. Nudge nudge. So off they go and they are in the COOLEST HOTEL ROOM OF ALL TIME and Megan is teaching the kids some weird-ass foreign songs and generally being cool. Meanwhile, Don goes over to visit Stephanie, who looks like she could have just walked out of Pop's. I guess hipsters always look like hipsters. She gives him Anna’s old engagement ring. HMMMM MAYBE FORESHADOWING?????

Back at the hotel, Don’s having a High Life and reading some Le Carre. He goes next door to see Meg. She was told she can never become an actress with teeth like that. She is a little horsey, to be fair. But cute enough! Time to get it on like Donkey Kong. These two. Always with the sexing. Then the next day she’s got the kids at the Super Cool Diner and one of them knocks over a milkshake and Megs is just cool as a cucumber and we’re supposed to think that Betty would be FREAKING OUT and going “FUCK YOU, YOU LITTLE MONSTERS, YOU’RE GETTING MILKSHAKE ON MY BEAUTY” and instead Meg is all “I got this,” and Don’s like “Whoa.”

Hey, what’s this now? Peggy’s drumming up some bidness with Topaz pantyhose! No one’s very excited. I’m not that excited either. “Topaz, it is a brand of pantyhose.” They’re going to have to come up with something catchier than that!

Then we get to the big moment. Don proposes to Megan! “Megan, will you accept this dead chick’s ring? Hopefully whatever she had isn’t contagious.” And she’s all “I don’t know what to say.” It’s fucking Don Draper, figure it out. Later Peggy comes in and she’s like “Are you going to fuck or marry every chick in this office but me?” She’s got a point! Don calls Faye to dump her. I don’t know, man, I think they’ve been on 5 dates and the rule is that you have to dump someone in person if it’s been 5 dates. But she doesn’t want to meet up. Oh well. Bye, Faye!

So Joan’s on the phone with Dr. Very Short Lifespan. I’m kind of amazed he doesn’t get blown up during their conversation. Wait, he knows she’s pregnant? I guess she’s keeping the baby. Honestly, can you ever hear that phrase without “Papa Don’t Preach” popping into your head? Anyway, he’s just as slimy as ever. He’s gonna look good in a casket, though!

I hope next season starts in 1976. I want Don in a leisure suit, hot-tubbing with a couple of stewardesses.

And now, the Winner of the 6-Word Memoir Contest

First off, I would be remiss if I didn't give a shout-out to SMITH Magazine, the originators of the Six-Word Memoir thing. Good job, SMITH Magazine!

OK, we got a lot of good entries here. I carefully considered each one, but, in the end, there can be only one winner. Just like life!

Here are some I liked:

Allan's "Never got to see the Ramones" is a poignant reminder of the fleeting nature of life, not to mention punk rock.

Bob sent me "Daddy isn't coming back, is he?" which has its own sad power. (Incidentally, Bob has some very nice photos, which you can see here.)

Jessica's sentiment, "Fuck it, let's just watch TV" rings true and reflects a life philosophy I can get behind.

I paused at Daisy's "I am not who I say," in light of her admitted history of prevarication, and it added fuel to my theory that Daisy is actually a composite character created by a team of writers.

But I liked my fave right off the bat and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it really is a life story in 6 words. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Winner is:

Leslie's "Sorry I called you an asshole"

So, Leslie, email me with your mailing address and Social Security Number and whatever other kind of info would be helpful and I will rush the incredible prize package worth $5.02 out to you posthaste. Congratulations, and thanks, everyone, for playing!

Someone made a malmistake! Or a corrupticon!

From the otherwise drab ""FTC Says Scammers Stole Millions, Using Virtual Companies":

The U.S. Federal Trade Commission has disrupted a long-running online scam that allowed offshore fraudsters to steal millions of dollars from U.S. consumers -- often by taking just pennies at a time.

The scam, which had been run for about four years years, according to the FTC, provides a case lesson in how many of the online services used to lubricate business in the 21st century can equally be misused for fraud.

"It was a very patient scam," said Steve Wernikoff, a staff attorney with the FTC who is prosecuting the case. "The people who are behind this are very valmeticulous."

Wait a second. Did you just say "valmeticulous"? What does that mean, like extra meticulous, or like the evil version of meticulous? Like James Bond villains are especially valmeticulous, right?

Oh, wait, never mind. Looks like it's some kind of fuckup and not a real word. That sucks! I wanted to be valmeticulous too.

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!

How to Do Brunch Successfully in San Francisco

Saturday I went to brunch with some friends. Brunch is incredibly important in San Francisco because it's acceptable to drink during daytime when you're at brunch. Luna Park has bottomless mimosas for $9. That means for someone like me, brunch is essentially free.

Brunch goes from 1:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. After the eating part, you go to Valley Tavern and sit on the deck out back and have a couple of pitchers of beer. Maybe 6 pitchers. I'm not sure. My bar tab was $68 before tip.

Then you go to Rosamunde on Mission because it's 7:00 and you haven't eaten in over 5 hours now. So you get a sausage and, oh yeah, more beer.

Then you go to Clooney's because it's the only place you can think of that won't be crowded. Other people are joining your group, people who haven't been with you since 1:00 p.m. and are therefore more qualified maybe to tell you the next day that you looked like "a mess" when the New People saw you at 9:00 p.m. Even though New People could have lied.

You know what's good then? Shots. Shots and playing Styx's "Mr. Roboto" on the Internet Jukebox. You know what else is good then? Leaving.

[SIDE NOTE: I'm not 100% sure why I wrote this post mostly in the second person. Maybe I just wanted to get all Bright Lights, Big City on you.]

[SIDE NOTE 2: I had a pre-existing appointment the following day, yesterday, at Lucky 13 at 3:00 p.m. and while it was touch and go there for a while, I made it.]

New Bar Night: Smuggler's Cove, The Residence

You know, given the drinkers who form the backbone of the New Bar Night cadre, it is somewhat difficult to find bars that none of us have ever been to. Before too long, we're going to be down to Irish bars in the deep Outer Sunset that are manned by 4 regulars at all times and the jukebox hasn't been updated since 1974. Actually that sounds pretty good.

Anyway, that's why it's nice when a new bar opens in the same place where an old bar used to be. You save on travel time and already know how to get there.

The SF bar scene collectively shat itself when Smuggler's Cove opened in the old Jade Bar space on Gough a few months back. I'm not sure why. I mean, it's cool, I guess. What they did there was take the sleek loungey vibe of Jade and hang so much nautical crap everywhere that it feels like you're walking into the Pirates of the Carribean ride at Disney World.

And the menu! Jesus! It's about 10 pages and takes about a half-hour to read. Here's a picture I took of one page:


I know, looks like a magazine article about drinking in Hawaii, right? The drinks all have incredibly complicated descriptions and about 12 ingredients, like this:

BOOM SHAKKA SHAKKA

Sir Charles Barkley once remarked upon a particularly tragic sunset that "God must forbear us each our chance to cast the lots of life." His barrel-aged rhums were the toast of St. Tiffani-Amber. For our libation, we strain his finest product through a whiskey-soaked piece of lugsail. Lemon, orange, marmalade, cucumber bitters, spiced strained rhum, exploding souls, Dutch paprika, Squirt.

I bet you when it's busy (and it's apparently often busy) it's hell on Earth trying to get a drink, since every one takes about 15 minutes to make, but it wasn't so bad last night. Still, we could only have two before we had to take our leave. Worth a visit, but I couldn't see making it a regular destination. You wouldn't hang out at Disney World every day either. Or maybe you would. If so, you probably have a parole officer.

A few months ago, Amber went to sleep and when it woke up it was The Residence. You've changed. No more smoking, which is maybe good or bad, depending on your perspective. All cleaned up and new furniture. That's definitely good. And bar menus! Who would have thought? At Amber, the bar menu was a piece of construction paper taped to the wall behind the bar that said "Sierra Nevada $5."

So it's nicer. My associate, who spent far more time in Amber than I, reports that many of the same regulars are there. Along with some of the activities that gave Amber a certain reputation, if you know what I mean. I'm winking right now but you can't see that.

I couldn't tell you what kind of drinks were on the new drink menu because we were just drinking beers. I guess it would be a cool place to hang out and have a few. There's fancy couches and wood paneling and a fake fireplace and a mantel with a portrait from the Renaissance or something above it. There was also what appeared to be a mother-daughter duo having drinks when we were there. You sure wouldn't see that in the old Amber.

PROGRAMMING NOTE: Going to Mendocino tomorrow BRB.

I'm going Christmas shopping today

The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
1.
Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

"Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismay'd?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Someone had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
3.
Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.
4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they turn'd in air,

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.
5.
Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro' the jaws of Death

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.
6.
When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made,

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred.

I took the day off to go shopping. Pray for me.

One semi-related note: My first thought last night was "Hey, I don't have to get up in the morning, I should drink tonight." My second thought was, "Wow, that sounds like something someone in college would say." I didn't drink last night. Growing up.

We watched "Up" instead. It was cute enough. As the main character is voiced by Ed Asner, I couldn't get Lou Grant out of my head. Needed more swears. You know that old guy would be swearing up a storm, kid there or not.

Andre Agassi, tweaker

Holy shit! In his new bio, Andre Agassi talks about how he used to use crystal meth. Check this shit out! ("Slim" is one of his assistants):

"Slim is stressed too ... He says, You want to get high with me? On what? Gack. What the hell's gack? Crystal meth. Why do they call it gack? Because that's the sound you make when you're high ... Make you feel like Superman, dude.

"As if they're coming out of someone else's mouth, I hear these words: You know what? F*** it. Yeah. Let's get high.

"Slim dumps a small pile of powder on the coffee table. He cuts it, snorts it. He cuts it again. I snort some. I ease back on the couch and consider the Rubicon I've just crossed.

"There is a moment of regret, followed by vast sadness. Then comes a tidal wave of euphoria that sweeps away every negative thought in my head. I've never felt so alive, so hopeful - and I've never felt such energy.

"I'm seized by a desperate desire to clean. I go tearing around my house, cleaning it from top to bottom. I dust the furniture. I scour the tub. I make the beds."

Haha. The stars - they're just like you and me! If you've ever known anyone who was on the meth, you'll recognize the cleaning instinct right away. One friend of mine had a roommate who liked the meth, and he'd wake up and find his roomie vacuuming away at 4:30 a.m. I know another guy who rearranged all his several hundred CDs by color - so the shelves looked like a giant VIBGYOR (or Roy G. Biv, if that's your pref).

Anyway, I don't know why the Agassi thing seems so surprising. Maybe because you tend to think of professional athletes and entertainers and stuff liking coke more than meth. It just seems weird, right?

Hey Intel, sponsor my life list too!

So this chick Maggie (who actually is a friend of a friend, so we're like 2 degrees apart so HI MAGGIE!) writes this blog called Mighty Girl and she's pretty much famous in the blogging world and probably gets about a billion hits a day.

Like a lot of people, I guess, she has a life list of things she wants to do or try or places she wants to go before she dies. Not that she's going to die soon, there just has to be some end point. [SIDE NOTE: If you need help creating your own life list, or getting motivated to do the stuff on it, there is, OF COURSE, Mylifelist.org.]

UNLIKE a lot of other people, Maggie got someone to pay for doing the stuff on her list. Namely Intel. So she's gone to Greece and eaten at the French Laundry and some other stuff, all on Intel's dime.

HEY INTEL!!!! OVER HERE!!!!

Lighting can strike twice. Help me out, Intel, and I guarantee you tens of hits a day from MOTIVATED BUYERS, some of whom can read and/or are sober for part of the day.

Just think, Intel, with your help I can achieve my dreams of:

1. Going target shooting with Subcomandante Marcos.

2. Weekend in L.A. with the Lohan.



3. Going swimming with the sea turtles in the Galapagos.

4. Eating a sea turtle from the Galapagos.

5. Kneecapping Dane Cook.

6. Doing shots at the Ha-Ra with Thomas Pynchon.

7. Breeding a mutant race of Super Dogs who will respond to only my commands and become my Dark Army of the Night.

8. Learning HTML.

That's just off the top of my head! Wait til I really start thinking about this stuff, Intel. So what do you say? Hook us up?

Actual text messages I have exchanged with The Sister

June 14:

TK: So how did that work out for you then?

The Sister: It worked out to be a late nite + self loathing. In an odd turn of events I happen to be sitting in washington sq park eating dim sum.

TK: Daytime drinking?

The Sister: No. Ive been drunk since noon friday.

June 20:

The Sister: The book 'smashed: story of a drunken girlhood' sits next to 'dry' in the bookcase. Is someone trying to tell me something?

July 3:

The Sister: I have become accidentally buzzed.

TK: I haven't had any alcohol so far today, which is kind of amazing.

The Sister: Wow. Well, I wasn't planning on it, if that counts for something.

July 5:

The Sister: I think its a bad sign if you have to break into your earthquake kit for a snack.

July 18:

The Sister: Watching hipsters gut fish is as funny as it sounds.

September 12:

The Sister: This is the largest limo I have ever seen. It screams hookers and blow.

TK: If you get either one, txt me RIGHT AWAY.

More death rattles from Fifth and Mission

Everyone knows the San Francisco Chronicle isn't doing well. They keep cutting jobs. By some accounts, they're losing a million dollars a week. That's why the paper is thinner than it's ever been, the quality is all shot to hell, and they're charging more money for it.

(Side note #1 - I can't figure out the pricing structure to save my life. At the racks, it's 75 cents. [Sub-side-note - How do you make a "cents" symbol on a computer keyboard?] I buy it from the very nice lady at the 24th Street BART station. She charged me 75 cents for a while, then, without any explanation, went back to 50 cents. Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't be outing this. Whatever, paper's going to be gone soon anyway.)

This is the worst fuckup I've ever seen in the Chron, though:

From yesterdays' Datebook section. I don't know if you can read the caption under the picture (I took it with my cell phone), but the caption reads as follows:

"Photo caption Dummy text goes here. Dummy text goes here. Dummy text goes here. Dummy text goes here. Dummy text goes"

Sigh. I don't know what kind of layout software they use or if they scratch the Chronicle into metal plates every day by hand or whatever, but clearly somebody dropped the ball in a big fucking way.

(Side Note #2 - Did you know that dummy text is often called "loren ipsum," because that's the first two words of the industry-standard dummy text, which comes originally from Cicero? And that there's a dummy text generator online? Of course there is.)

Yeah, I know it's not the end of the world or anything, but it's just depressing. I love, or used to love, the Chron, for all its foibles and fuckups. It was part of the fabric of the city to me, back when you had to read Herb Caen every day to find out what was going on and there was a whole staff of writers. I remember reading a Jon Carroll column the very first day I lived in San Francisco (October 16, 1990, if you must know) and LOLing. "LOLing" didn't exist then. We had to spell it out. Prehistoric!

(Side note #3 - Back then, both the Chronicle and the Examiner (RIP) published every day. 2 daily papers! For a news junkie like me, it was heaven. The Ex had its own little eccentricities - like calling SF "the City," with the "C" capitalized, which I loved, because WE ARE THE CITY - but I was staunchly a Chron man.)

So it'll be sad to watch the Chron go gently into that good night. Thanks a lot, Craigslist! Just kidding. Sort of.

The incredible shrinking Zagat's SF nightlife guide

Just received my new & updated Zagat San Francisco nightlife guide. I get it for free because, you know, I'm a thought leader because I submit reviews online and anyone who does that gets a free one.

Man, it's a lot smaller this year!

L-R: The 2007-2008 Zagat SF nightlife, with weird cover crease reflection; the unyeared "Eighth Edition" with no cover crease.

I will say that, to Zagat's credit, the cover price also went down substantially, from $13.95 to $6.95, but it's like half the size and the page count went from 171 to 94.

So who didn't make the cut in the new edition? Gold Cane is out, but Hobson's Choice stays in. Gestalt is out, but Foreign Cinema - which isn't even a bar, but a restaurant, and certainly not something I'd think of as "nightlife" - stays in. So does the actual bar that's attached to Foreign Cinema, Laszlo. Mr. Bing's is out, which is good, because the fewer people who know about Mr. Bing's, the better.

I don't know. I don't see any particular pattern to who got cut and who stayed in. I guess maybe the number of votes played a role. I'm sure more people voted for the execrable Medjool than the very nice Shotwell's (which I'm kind of glad wasn't included). All of this is kind of academic because if you're relying on Zagat's nightlife guide to find a good place to go, you're probably SOL anyway.

British people: Are they the greatest threat to our way of life?

Yesterday morning some of Lyndon LaRouche's nutty supporters were outside the BART station handing out some literature and I took some, thinking it would be good for a laugh. Boy, was I ever right.

Lyndon doesn't like British people very much:

You look at these Brits, they're fat, sloppy and dumb. Their dietary habits stink, their conditions of life stink, their opinions stink, in general. . . . the Brits are an imperial system and they're a parasitic nation, essentially. They suck the blood out of the rest of the world. Dracula was a story written by a Brit, remember. That's not coincidental.

(Make finger-twirling-next-to-head motion here)

He also doesn't like people who Twitter. Or maybe there's some group called "Twitters" that I don't know about that he doesn't like:

Now, what you're looking at here, in the United States today, is a phenomenon typified by the Twitters. Now the Twitters are very seriously an operation of evil.

MWAHAHAHAHA!!!! NO ONE SHALL KNOW OF OUR SECRET EVIL PLANS, FELLOW TWITTERS!! But wait, there's more!

This system is not going to last. What Obama represents today will not last. It's doomed, in any case. The question is, what do you get in its place. And the Twitters are the answer. The Twitters are devotedly brainless creatures. Twitter, twitter, tweet, tweet, tweet.

Hey! I resent that! I'm not a....wait, what was I talking about?

In other news, I saw the Doves last night at the Fillmore. The Doves, as you may or may not know, are from Manchester, and their home city was amply represented in the sold-out crowd, most notably by the three chaps in front of us who fist-pumped and yelled "MAHNCHESTAHHHHHHH!!!!!!" between every song, then grabbed each other and hugged and kissed. But in a football hooligan way.

There was also the drunk girl who was being held up by 2 of her friends and who finally got escorted out by the bouncers. But I don't think she was British, just drunk.

Anyway, fun show. Except it was too crowded. I don't like crowds any more.

You get a lot of shit when you order from Upper Playground

I recently ordered a shirt from Upper Playground and it came today. To answer your first and most immediate question, yes, I know there's a store on Fillmore but I'm busy and I don't have the time to go browsing around while being sneered at by 20-something hipsters so I let Upper Playground just UPS the shit I need to me.


ANYWAY, when you order from Upper Playground, you don't just get a shirt. You get a veritable LIBRARY of catalogs and other gear. To wit:

The Fall/Winter 2008 catalog. 175 pages. Softcover. Approx. 6" x 8".

The Spring/Summer 2008 catalog. Also 175 pages, also softcover, also approx. 6" x 8".

Book apparently entitled "Donde Esta Mi Corazon?" Hardcover, slightly larger. Maybe 7" x 10". Not paginated, but approx. 150 pages. Contains drawings, photographs, and other artwork.

Also got a bunch of stickers, postcards, etc.

So thanks for all the stuff, Upper Playground! I wish I had gotten a Large instead of an XL, though.

UPDATE!!!!!: I just talked to a humorously-stoned-sounding guy at Upper Playground about exchanging the shirt. He said just to send it back with a note on the invoice that I need a smaller size. I told him offhandedly that I was in SF and it would be cool if I could just come by. He sorta laughed and said, "Ummmm, postal stuff is better." So there's your Official Return Policy: "POSTAL STUFF IS BETTER."

Media I am absorbing right now

TV: Lost

Now entering the 5th season, this sci-fi/time travel/soap opera/mindfuck/excuse for Josh Holloway to walk around without a shirt on continues to confuse and entertain, along with annoying Super Hot Irish Girlfriend because every few minutes I ask her "Now what just happened? Who's that?" Plus, Evangeline Lilly!

Music: The Streets, Original Pirate Material

Just came back to this 2002 release and it still sounds great. Mike Skinner's genius idea was to rap about everyday life for a regular bloke in Britain. Forget Benzes and Cavalli furs; he's talking about getting fucked up on lager and getting into fights and not calling girls back too soon so you don't look desperate.

Important note for American listeners: "Geezers" means "guys" in British, not "old people." This album may be very confusing if you don't know that.

Book: Born Fighting: How the Scots-Irish Shaped America, by Sen. Jim Webb

Forget the English Cavalier artistocracy and the prim New England Puritans. The Scots-Irish were the mongrel pioneers who settled much of Appalachia and are the ancestors of most of what we consider the White Middle Class today. Jim Webb, a senator from Virginia, has a bit of an overblown style, but the history is fasciniating, especially if you're one of them, like I am.

Movie: 28 Days Later

Just saw this a couple of nights ago. Nice, creepy little quasi-zombie movie, except the zombies are really really fast and not exactly the undead. Oddly, screenplay by Alex Garland, who also wrote the hippie backpacker's ur-fable, The Beach.

Web: Evany's dispatches from Sundance

Typically hilarious.

Subscribing to the paper is for suckers

Call me Mr. Dinosaur, but I purchase and read the San Francisco Chronicle every day, including weekends. I know it's all free online and welcome to the late 20th century and blah blah blah, but it's very hard to prop up a laptop and read it when you're standing on Muni. Likewise, there's something about getting back into bed on Sunday with a cup of coffee and an actual paper instead of a cup of coffee and an iPhone.

I buy my morning paper M-F at the newsstand in the 24th Street BART station. 50 cents a pop, plus a very nice "Good morning!" from the cheerful woman who staffs this kiosk. I get my Saturdays from the machine, usually, and my Sundays at my corner store. Sundays are $1.68 or something. I'm usually too tired or hungover to remember the exact amount.

So the total, per week, is roughly $4.68. Money well spent.

A few days ago, it suddenly dawned on me that "Hey! They have this service where they'll deliver the paper directly to my abode and that way I won't even have to face the public on Sunday to get my paper! And it'll just be sitting there for me every morning! Man, I gotta get me some of that!"

As it turns out, subscribing to the Chronicle costs $62 for 8 weeks, or $7.75 a week. That's right. Home delivery costs you about 3 bucks more a week.

Am I totally remembering this wrong, or did home delivery used to be cheaper than buying daily copies?

Anyway, I don't know what this says about the dying newspaper business or whatever, but sorry, Chron, I love you but I can't justify subscribing to you.