we just won't be defeated

the 2010 beachcomber awards

The Beachies seem to get later and later every year.  Has it really been one, two... eight weeks already since we headed down to the Outer Banks for fun and sun?  All right, then.  Let's cut the crap and get right to it.  The envelopes, please.

The Martha Stewart Award for Good Housekeeping:  And the Beachie goes to.... Emma Peel.  Our house was small, sure, but there were only five of us.  That didn't stop Emma, however, from complaining about the size of the house.  Or its decor.  Or anything else, really.  Yes, the bar was ridiculous.  And yes, the wood paneling was dated.  And yes, it took a few minutes to remember how to operate a VCR.  But that's part of the charm.  We'd have been disappointed if the house had changed since the early 1980's.

The Eldrick T. Woods Award for Putting Achievement:  And the Beachie goes to.... Nikki.  The trip to the miniature golf course is a staple of the beach week - even when we don't go for the full week.  Jurassic Putt is the home of many fiberglass dinosaurs and even more memories.  Nikki's calm nerves and composure under pressure won the day this year, extending Dabysan's losing streak to however many years now we've been going to the beach.  And that's the important thing, really - that Dabysan didn't win.

The Alfred Mosher Butts Award for Scrabble Excellence:  And the Beachie goes to.... Hotrod.  Dabysan thought to bring a travel Scrabble set with him, and chances are good that he still regrets that decision.  After several victories by your humble emcee, Dabysan preferred to try his luck at a new game.  He didn't fare any better at Yahtzee.  That's when he decided he wanted to have a go a Rummikub.  I neglected to tell him that Rummikub is a Hotrod family favorite, and that I'm even better at that one than the other two games.

The John McEnroe Award for Sportsmanlike Conduct:  And the Beachie goes to.... Dabysan.  Needless to say, Dabysan's losses at every single game over the course of almost a week were not well-received.  Yes, we are serious.  Now please do take a seat.

The Vlad the Impaler Award for Solar Disdain:  And the Beachie goes to.... Carrie Nation.  No one fears our nearest star more than Ms. Nation.  Mindful of maintaining her sickly pallor, she spent at least forty minutes each morning ensuring that her every pore was protected with a thick layer of sunscreen.  And that was just to eat breakfast.  When she actually had to venture outside, she had enough goop on her skin that she could be launched directly into the sun and still not get burned.

The Drew MacMillan Award for Frequent Flying:  And the Beachie goes to.... Andy Sousa.  We could have spent a whole week at the beach if Emma hadn't kicked us out because her pen pal was coming in from San Francisco.  We showed him, though.  We bought so many groceries that he was eating leftovers for the rest of the week.

The Alfred Hitchcock Award for Avian Malevolence:  And the Beachie goes to.... that asshole bird.  There was this bird across the street that attacked three of us.  Carrie Nation, Nikki, and I all got dive-bombed multiple times throughout the weekend.  Goddamn bird had it in for lefties.

The Kate Spade Award for Handbag Appreciation:  And the Beachie goes to.... Daisy.  Daisy was supposed to protect the house.  Instead, she fell asleep inside whatever purse was nearby.  It's so hard to find good help these days.

The Towel d'Or Grand Jury Prize:  This is the second year in a row in which no Towel d'Or has been awarded.  We're really going to have to man up next year and hit the beach for a whole week.

taco night

One of the reasons that CarrieNation is my nemesis is that we both want to win the potluck.  The concept is simple: bring the dish that garners the most raves.  My track record is pretty good - or it was, at least, until Dabysan started bringing her around.  Now it's a close call.  I've got a few slam dunks, but her repertoire is more varied.  She definitely challenges me and pushes me out of my comfort zone - which is good.  I just wish she ended up in second place a little more often.

Until I met CarrieNation, I didn't realize that anybody else was this petty about bringing food to a gathering of friends.  I was wrong.  And I attribute this common characteristic to us both having the good sense to get the hell out of the flyover states.  She - like me - hails from the Midwest.  And she - like me - is deeply, deeply scornful of what they've managed to deep-fry at the local Applebee's.  The vast swath of this country between the Appalachians and the Sierra Nevadas is where good food goes to die.  We both know this.

A few months ago, I noticed a trend in my Facebook feed.  As if on cue, several people simultaneously posted about something called "Taco Night," as if tacos were something of significance.  I have no doubt that this caught my eye because I reject the notion that certain foods are inherently more "fun" than others.  Tacos (like pizza) are not fun.  Not only do I not know why anybody would think so, but I don't know why anybody would want to think so.  Calling attention to the monumental occasion of one's mediocre dinner only highlights the emptiness of the rest of that person's life.  When I mentioned this to CarrieNation several days later, she told me that a former housemate had instituted a taco night ritual with her boyfriend in a desperate attempt to resuscitate a failing relationship.  I can't imagine why that strategy didn't work.

Not long ago, I noticed a second rash of "Taco Night" posts on Facebook.  By the time it occurred to me to record these posts for posterity, it was too late.  I've only seen a couple since.  I had been holding out until I had a longer list, but then I saw the video below.  Gwyneth Paltrow revives my scorn almost as much as does Sandra Lee.  So bon appetit.  And don't forget to check back from time to time for more taco sadness.

YUM!

"S.M. is thinking taco night, aren't you?"  - June 16, 2010

"T.C.B. is excited for tacos and a 6 pack of boys tonight!"  - July 18, 2010
 

the last king of scotland

I love movies.  My tastes are generally pretty mainstream, but as a post-ironic hipster I recognize that it's important to see the occasional indie or foreign film in order to maintain my credibility.  Independent movies aren't so much a problem (except, of course, for those that to strive be the next Clerks or Pulp Fiction - which is to say at least half of them), but I struggle with the foreign films.  I blame Wim Wenders.

The first foreign movie I ever saw was The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick.  Most Americans explain away their aversion to world cinema by claiming they don't go to the movies to read.  Me, I love to read.  Reading is not the problem.  The problem is that foreign films are unbelievably boring.  I fell asleep on at least four separate occasions during The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick.  In my defense, though, the movie was seven hours long.  And it's actually just a recreation of a quarter-final game from the 1970 World Cup.  I'd say I don't know what I was thinking trying to watch it, but I know that happened when I was living with Vrabel and Roy.  Chances are pretty good that Vrabel brought it home from Video Vault one day and I was too drunk to protest.

But I remain determined to be as pretentious as possible.  That's why I am as excited as can be for the stateside release of Who Killed Captain Alex.  For starters, it's got a shitload of gunfire, and we all know that gunfire is the true sign of a kick-ass movie.  But most importantly, it's from the burgeoning Ugandan film scene.  So it's an honest-to-goodness foreign movie that I totally have to see.  What, you're not up on the latest Ugandan films?  What rock have you been living under?

WHO KILLED CAPTAIN ALEX

starman

They might as well just go ahead and change the name of the [music is good] page to [hotrod is good].  'Cause I fuckin' OWN that joint.  I've had top billing for the last three cycles now.  My valuable and insightful commentary on the Old 97's and Liz Phair and David Bowie may rank among the greatest works ever written about music.  I'm sure that's the reason for my prominent placement, and it has nothing at all to do with me being one of only a dozen music lovers still using Vox.

marie had a little lamb

Soccer is so boring you wish there were sheep.  So you could count them to put yourself out of your misery, you see.  There's nothing boring about the Tour de France and today's stage on the Col du Tourmalet.  But there are sheep.

[UPDATE: Aw, man.  The original video has been pulled.  No point in leaving it up.  Here's one of a donkey bothering some people at a Pyrennean café instead.]

 

Spectator at the Col d'Aubisque

¡olé!

i forgot about dorn because he was only high-priced

I suppose it was too much to hope for that there would be a Youtube video of all the best lines from the manager in Major League.  (Which is to say: all the lines from the manager in Major League.)  So the video above will have to suffice.  It's a real shame, though.  That line about the whitewalls always gets me.  Also a shame: Lou Brown died two days ago and I only now just heard about it.  Rest in peace, James Gammon.  You will be missed.

i don't think you knew you were in this song

Long-time readers (and probably those who have been around for only a short time, for that matter) know there's little I like more than arguing about music.  The first person I "met" on Vox was Jodi, who lured me in by being a little bit right before revealing how very wrong she usually is.  And of course there's my years-long War Over Nothing with Dabysan that predates Vox by almost a decade.  But neither of those lengthy and amorphous arguments compares to the debate over the first track on The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

At some point in 1992 or 1993 Vrabel and I were in the lab and decided that we wanted to listen to David Bowie.  He put in a CD and pressed play.  I noticed immediately that "Soul Love" emanated from our shared speakers.  I was a little confused.  "Hey, why'd you skip the first song?"  His reply was as terse as it was erroneous: "It sucks."  I could barely believe it.  "Five Years" sets a foreboding (and somewhat menacing) tone for the rest of the record that follows - a record that, I might add, ends with a track called "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide."  Ziggy Stardust starts with the end of the world and ends with the end of Ziggy.  Skipping the first song changes everything.  It's easily the best song on the album.

My argument was welcomed with a shrug, which caused me to up my game.  At that point, "Five Years" became not only the best song on Bowie's best album, but the best song Bowie had ever written.  I stupidly challenged Vrabel to name five better Bowie songs - to which he replied: "The next five songs on Ziggy Stardust after 'Five Years'."  We had quickly reached a stalemate.

The other night at the Old 97's show, the band mentioned they were going to play a track off of their new covers EP.  As the spare drums kicked in, I had a pretty big grin on my face.  Vrabel turned to me.  "I suppose you feel vindicated," he offered, following that observation with, "I feel like I just lost the longest argument I've ever had."  In all fairness, it was a pretty crappy cover.  Bowie is a tough act to follow.

Five Years

Old 97's

Here's the entire setlist:  Streets of Where I'm From / 504 / Dance With Me / Lonely Holiday / W. TX Teardrops / No Baby I / Indefinitely / new song (something something Champaign, IL) / Can't Get a Line / Melt Show / Stoned / Question / Up the Devil's Pay / Barrier Reef / new song (Every Night Is Friday Night) / Here's to the Halcyon / Smokers / Doreen / Four Leaf Clover -- encore -- Bel Air / Five Years / Early Morning / Timebomb  I know this is the first time I've seen "Here's to the Halcyon" live, and I'm pretty sure I can say the same for "504."  And they changed up "Bel Air" in a way I've never heard before.  I always liked that one.  "I'll stomp a mudhole in your heart" are words to live by.

mon-on-ga-hela

Yinz may have gathered that I was out of town over the weekend.  I figure that the flurry of mobile posts gave it away.  I drove up to Pittsburgh to see Vanna and Vrabel and Peri Victoria.  We spent Saturday afternoon riding historic roller coasters at Kennywood, which yinz might recognize as the star of Adventureland.  Yesterday, after much debate, we ended up at the National Aviary because that was something we could all do together.  Between those excursions, there was a late-night trip to the original Primanti Bros. in the Strip District.  I wish I could have shown yinz a picture of the enormous sandwich (Genoa salami and cheese) I devoured at midnight on Saturday, but my phone was completely dead.  Yinz'll just have to imagine a delicious photograph.

But the main reason for my visit was last night's outing to Mr. Small's Theatre.  They Might Be Giants once wrote a bunch of songs about places they had performed.  I wrote about my pilgrimage to The Egg - in Albany - in the early, pre-Youtube days of this blog.  Now I finally have an excuse to post another of their Venue Songs.

They Might Be Giants - Pittsburgh

the streets of where i'm from

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mr. small's

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