The photos in this segment have nothing to do with the content. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
So, San Diego. I feel like I should write a guide titled
San Diego in 72 Hours or Less When You Only Actually Have About 6 Hours to Actually Do Anything. The subtitle could be
A Conscientious Conventioneers Guide to San Digo, I suppose.
My first impressions both flying in a driving to the hotel was that the landscape really reminded me of Mexico. Big surprise, huh? Also, any time I see palm trees I get violent sensory flashbacks to my youth in Texas and my mouth fills with the flavor of the kind of beef you can only get down South or within spitting distance of the Mexican border.
I discovered Friday night that one's internal schedule is actually more screwed up on a flight from Chicago to San Diego than it is by a flight from Chicago to Hong Kong. No kidding. For that reason, Friday night was a wash. I planned out trolley routes and picked out shows to see and selected a place to grab a burger and then promptly fell asleep -- with my boots still on -- at about 8pm P.S.T. What a rock star, huh?
Saturday day was spent expanding my horizons in my professional vocation, meeting fascinating people, listening to stories that moved my soul to new empathic boundaries and opened my eyes to foreign vistas of human strength, and generally becoming a better person and by default better suited to write about the things I write about from 9 until 5.
Saturday evening my old friend Missy came by my hotel with her awesome little girl Lydia, and the two of them whisked me off to
Ocean Beach. We were surprised and somewhat delighted to discover a street fair in full swing so we pulled out the stroller and battled out way through the crowd of surfers, punks and (lots of) hippies to grab some
food. Mm-mm good.
The beach smelled just like I remember it smelling every other time I've stood at the edge of an ocean but thi was the first time I'd ever seen waves big enough to surf anything but a body through. And this was late in the day when surf was most definitely not "up" in the local parlance. Also, during dinner Lydia got hungry so I got to see more of Missy's breasts than I had seen during all the previous years we've been friends. I am
so immune to breast-feeding mommies by now. It was a lovely early evening activity and next time I go to San Diego Missy said i could do all the "un-hip tourist stuff I wouldn't want to admit to wanting to do" with her since having a baby gives you carte blanche to do stuff like go to SeaWorld and visit the zoo. Not that I'm really worried about losing "cool points" by this point, but it's nice to know I have a guide ready and rarin' to go be touristy with me.
After that I met up with my old roommate Leslie, who hadn't changed a whit since we last saw each other oh-too-many years ago (aside from seeming happier and more focused, that is) and she took me on a whirlwind sampling of San Diego's nightlife.
We started off at
Lancers, a quiet little tavern-type spot with a pretty great jukebox. Leslie warned me that the place got packed after 9 or so but it was a perfect start-point since it afforded us the chance to catch up with each other in a chill atmosphere.
From there we moved on to
The Whistle Stop. This place really reminded me of Pontiac with that whole "renovated garage" feel. Oddly enough we discovered the door man had just relocated there from Chicago and used to live a few blocks from me! Again the tunes were cool and the place was chill...until 10pm. Suddenly a line appeared, a cover started to be charged and a DJ who looked like he should be fronting a Flok Of Seagulls tribute band started spinning some of the poorest hip-hop selections. Suddenly the place was packed with a wild cross-section of hipsters, beach bunnies and ex-frat boys (too many of which were crowded in the the unroofed portion of the bar I will refer to as "the smoking alley." Now with all of these factors in play you would think I would be annoyed to the point of poking strangers and offering unsolicited insults. Instead I found myself digging the vibe and would have been haappy ending the night there. In retrospect I realize that this was a physiological manifestation of the "California vibe" and I was powerless to resist. I also realized that if i ever moved to CA I would stop hating hippies because there just is no psychic underpinning for that sort of behavior. Therefore I can never move to CA. I mean, what is tankboy without his righteous indignation?
From here we moved on to what would prove to be the most surreal experience of the evening: the
Turf Supper Club. Think of a place with hipster ambience (and crowd) plunked right down into a 1920s supper club/jazzbo hangout. Now imagine people gathered around a big ol' grill in the middle of the room cooking their own steaks. Now imagine your slight partner in crime of the evening bellying up to the bar and asking for a Newcastle and rib eye. Now imagine the bartend returns with a bottle of beer and a huge cellophane wrapped steak that your companion quickly extricates from its plastic prison and plunks down on the sizzling grill ten feet behind you. Yeah, just imagine that. All to Pavement's "Silence Kit." It was a helluva an interesting way to close out the evening.
Okay, that wasn't the total end. I did get a quick chance to ooh and ahh over Leslie's house and see the kitties that had once been my roommates as well...and I got to meet her big ol' dog Bella. Then Leslie, and Bella with her head out the window trying to bite the onrushing air for the whole ride, gave me a ride back to my hotel where I was snugly asleep by midnight.
I feel that I got as good a taste for San Diego as anyone could in such a teensy block of time but I certainly wouldn't mind returning and getting to know the area a little bit better.
__________Steps to a Successful Flying Experience.- There was a puppy in the security line, which led me to this conclusion: Going through airport security would be much less nerve-wracking if there were puppies at every checkpoint. TSA, you can take that a run with it, you don't even need to give me credit.
- Attractive objects for people-watching. California seems to haave no shortage of this.
- A captain with a wicked sense of humor. I've got to find the name of our flight's pilot because he was killing me. His non-stop one-liners over the planes PA during boarding and disembarking the plane really helped lightne the mood. And nothing helps a plane-load of white-knuckled nervous nellies bumping along some turbulence than a captain who says, "If you're in the bathroom don't forget I warned you about this, so when you pop of the toilet and into the aisle I've told our flight attendants they can run over you with their drink carts if you raise a fuss." Seriously, that man's good humor made this the least scary flight, that just so happened to also be the most turbulent, that I have ever been on.
- One Xanax, two glasses of red wine and zero coffee also really helps you through those bumps in the air.
- Here's where I have to give it up for United, but I love the fact you can listen to flight deck chatter on their headphone system. Not only did I know what the weather conditions were and what we were doing to make the ride as smooth as possible...but I also learned (on the way in Friday from another pilot) where a good taco joint was that served "excellent margaritas."
- Juana Molina's Segundo is the perfect mixture of esoteric noises and soothing vocals when not listening to the flight deck.
- When the dude two seats away from you has a new MacBook he lets you look at, that certainly helps things out.
- When the girl next to you is from Iraq but you don't find out until five minutes before you land you realize you wish you had known this sooner. Not only would it be fascinating for you but it might have stopped her ceaselessly kneading of the rosary beads (yes, rosary, she happened to be Christian) clenched in her fist.
- Rushing towards the arrivals where your girlfriend has been sitting in her car for 40 minutes because your flight was delayed (dodging thunderstorm cells) only to be intercepted by her inside the airport and realizing she came in so she could see you and welcome you home right away.
__________Tonight's guest DJ is...
Yes, tonight's guest, spinning along my side at
The Pontiac, is none other than
Ms. Kelly D. You've undoubtably seen her popping in every once in a while to plug in her iPod and dazzle the masses with -- or at least get them to lift their heads off the bar long enough to show they're paying attention to -- her (often) brand spankin' new and cutting edge playlists.
I've known Kelly since she was a wee lass, and (Come to think if it she's still a pretty "wee lass" isn't she? I mean she hasn't really grown much (at all) since I met her way-o back in the mid-'90s.) I've had the pleasure of watching her as her musical acumen has grown over the years. While her tastes do sometimes clash with mine, she does work for a Major Label after all, any time we've spontaneously teamed up in the past sparks have flown and interesting sonic juxtapositions were never far behind. Tonight she actually gets a stand-along set to strut her stuff (versus the usual back-and-forth one-song-to-another we've done in the past) so be sure to stop on buy to hear what she decides to throw down.
Also, don't forget that the promise of $3 Buds and $3 shots of Maker's will insure that Kelly's choices sound better than you thought they possibly could!
Oh yeah, and I'll be playing stuff too.
Since I want to make sure all of my pals (especially Scott and Sarah to the right, there) are just as sloshed as I am at my party this evening, The Pontiac has been kind enough to extend the offer of a drink special this evening. So for anyone attending my party, make sure you get $3 bottles of Budwesier and (here it comes, wait for it...wait for it) $3 shots of Maker's Mark!
Well, one, in my family we stretch the birthday celebration out as long as possible. I think my mom holds the record for eight days although Photogal came close this year with six days of celebration. Me? I'm lucky if Photogal gives me a full 24 hours within which to celebrate in any way I see fit.
But the thing that makes tonight really special is that it also marks the debut of Rudy's new band, The Midnight Shows. I can not wait to hear what they sound like. My anticipation has ratcheted up yet another notch since I just found out his band features both a Fender Rhodes and a full phalanx of female back-up singers. A bevy of beauties? Whoa! What is that about?! I guess we'll find out tonight. I am dying of anticipation.
Okay, we've gotten that out of the way. I expect to see each and every frickin' one of you there tonight. That includes the blurkers. The place will be packed so you can just continue to blend into the trim if you so choose. or you can pop on up and say hi. Also, a number of Chicagoist writers will be there so this would be a perfect time to just smack them upside the head instead of leaving them faceless snarky commentary underneath their posts. Also, ask Mr. Smith to show you his Superman tattoo. And you think I'm kidding.
Sarah Silverman's comedic songs don't strike people as being as funny when you can't see her cute as a button lips actually forming the bracing verbiage that can easily scrape sensitive sensibilities. As a matter of fact, when you play one of her songs there is a good chance 98% of the bar is going to look at you like you just stepped on a baby and shoved it in the microwave while the remaining 2% will be laughing so hard snot will be running down their chin. You will also realize that Silverman gets away with an awful lot by sheer virtue of her being so frickin' hot and, while you still think her comedy would be funny as dry black and white type on a page because your own sense of humor is just that fucked up, you see how her observations might lead the blood to drain from 73% of the (general) population's face.
The teaser trailer for Spiderman 3 is here. in other uber-geek news i will be making Photogal take me to see Superman Returns for my birthday proper at some point Friday. I'm also trying to talk her into taking me to the last Figdish show at Elbo Room. it should be quite a birthday day, eh? I'm sure it shall seem tame compared to my birthday party but, eh, I'll be old and won't care.
I read your Talk Of The Town piece in last week's New Yorker and I've got to say it shocked me. It shocked me that The New Yorker would choose such an incredible puff piece as the lead to that section when they usually reserve that spot for honest bits of cultural (or (gasp!) political) criticism. Instead, this week what we got was a piece that painted its writer as being the epitome of the old codger bleating at those wild and crazy kids, along with the bleated caveat that said kids will never understand the bleating in the first place because they just wouldn't get it anywayt. I understand some of your points were meant to be "witty" and "tongue in cheek" but I regret to inform you they actually came off as "flat" and "foot firmly in mouth." Especially "delightful" is your clumsy comparison of teenagers to dogs in the schematic of which one makes an audience feel further diminished. And your defense of the "adult" regard of Billy Joel's music. I'll grant you a couple of his tunes pre-'84 but if you honestly are trying to defend anything from the last 20 years then I grant that your "chemistry has altered" and your internal critic is a compass without a point.
So, San Diego. I feel like I should write a guide titled San Diego in 72 Hours or Less When You Only Actually Have About 6 Hours to Actually Do Anything. The subtitle could be A Conscientious Conventioneers Guide to San Digo, I suppose.
Saturday day was spent expanding my horizons in my professional vocation, meeting fascinating people, listening to stories that moved my soul to new empathic boundaries and opened my eyes to foreign vistas of human strength, and generally becoming a better person and by default better suited to write about the things I write about from 9 until 5.
After that I met up with my old roommate Leslie, who hadn't changed a whit since we last saw each other oh-too-many years ago (aside from seeming happier and more focused, that is) and she took me on a whirlwind sampling of San Diego's nightlife.
From here we moved on to what would prove to be the most surreal experience of the evening: the Turf Supper Club. Think of a place with hipster ambience (and crowd) plunked right down into a 1920s supper club/jazzbo hangout. Now imagine people gathered around a big ol' grill in the middle of the room cooking their own steaks. Now imagine your slight partner in crime of the evening bellying up to the bar and asking for a Newcastle and rib eye. Now imagine the bartend returns with a bottle of beer and a huge cellophane wrapped steak that your companion quickly extricates from its plastic prison and plunks down on the sizzling grill ten feet behind you. Yeah, just imagine that. All to Pavement's "Silence Kit." It was a helluva an interesting way to close out the evening.
I've known Kelly since she was a wee lass, and (Come to think if it she's still a pretty "wee lass" isn't she? I mean she hasn't really grown much (at all) since I met her way-o back in the mid-'90s.) I've had the pleasure of watching her as her musical acumen has grown over the years. While her tastes do sometimes clash with mine, she does work for a Major Label after all, any time we've spontaneously teamed up in the past sparks have flown and interesting sonic juxtapositions were never far behind. Tonight she actually gets a stand-along set to strut her stuff (versus the usual back-and-forth one-song-to-another we've done in the past) so be sure to stop on buy to hear what she decides to throw down.
Yeah, it's gonna be another "Tankboy is such a chick" days. Deal. First off in the parade of pets, we would like to congratulate Belle the Beagle for calling 911 and saving her owner's life. No kidding. We here in Tankboy HQ firmly believe Betty the Beagle would do the same thing. After opening and raiding the refirgerator, of course.
Let's see, what else. Oh, look at that picture. Aren't they adorable? Cat fights dog! In our house this actually happens. As a matter of fact, the very first time Lucy the Dog met Chloe the Cat, Chloe kicked the crap out of Lucy. No joke. I don't think Lucy has ever forgiven her, and Lucy will bark and bark at her...but I've noticed Lucy never gets within claw's reach of Chloe. Heh.
Our county president has been incommunicado due to a stroke for the last three months. And he was reelected in the Democratic primary WHILE HE WAS IN A COMA! And now, no one wants to remove him from office because they think, "We ought to look at a more compassionate, in a nonpolitical, way to look at this problem".
Well, we kick off the guest DJ thang at Pontiac tonight and out first non-Photogal entry come is the form of DJ Safecraka (a.k.a. Mister David O'Brien of TrapperKeeper fame.)
Saturday’s show featured two Columbus bands, The Miranda Sound and The Celebrity Pilots. The Pilots play bent pop phoned in from planet catchy and The Miranda Sound plays an aggressive, urgent attack of what in the olden days would have been called "indie rock," but which I now just call unFUCKINGbelievable. I've done shows with both bands in the past and folks always dig them and walk away impressed but I've had a hell of a time breaking them enough so that they get established with the press or other "tastemakers." Sometimes this part of what I do just drives me nuts. It's like, I have this band that I know is awesome and head and shoulders above most local acts, not to even mention other touring bands, but I just can't seem to get them any influential love.
Now if one is going to be compared to a John Cusack charachter, I'm going to guess -- if they want the girls -- that character should be Lloyd Dobler, not Rob Gordon. But there you have it, you can't always get what you want. (Which song, by the way, is number two on my "Top Five Rolling Stones songs" list. Number one is "She's A Rainbow.)
This doesn't mean I don't enjoy the disc...but then again I also like Kelly Clarkson, Christina Aguilera, and any other number of female popsters. It's amusing to me that crit-types are all agog over an artist who is really no different than most of the stuff they slam on a pretty consistent basis.
Hmmm...well what do you know; that picture just so happens to link right into the message I was hoping to convey in the first place. And that message?
