I arrived in Las Vegas at 10:20 am on Friday, which gave me 10 minutes to kill before the In-and-Out Burger opened.  I asked my driver to show me the sights, so he drove down Tropicana to the Thunder from Down Under billboard. “Some of my Best Work” I said, having worked as a pelvis-double for the Aussie second from left, “Makes you want to duck, doesn’t it?”.

            “I thought I recognized you”, replied the driver, “Ready for that burger now?”

Checked in at the VIP lounge around 11. They tried to give me a suite, but I thought double beds were less presumptuous. It had been over three years since I had seen Gina.

            “Not this time Jimmy, just give me a standard room with doubles.”  I suggested.

            “Going to see how the other half lives Mr. P?”

            “Something like that….. Something like that”

The room had a great garden bath and view of the Casino roof.  No matter, I was here for the pool.   I put my Speedo on and headed downstairs.  A quick stop by the poolside convenience for some sun block yielded me a free pair of rimless sunglasses.

            “You must have left these last time you were here, Sweets”, offered Ruth, the Cashier.  

Who am I to argue?  So I slathered on some Fifty, donned the shades, ordered a longneck, and tried to relax a bit before the festivities started.  

An hour or so later I found myself back in my room, trying steal a catnap. The previous night had been a long one. I had met Justin at Toronado for a beer and a few Sausages.  Then we headed over to the Independent to catch Bob Schneider.  The crew seemed to enjoy themselves, but I was a bit disappointed by the off speed set list.  I ended up only getting a few hours sleep, but I had the all afternoon to catch up.

Fast-forward a couple of hours.  Gina’s not here yet and the cash machine just chuffed at me when I put the touch on it for the second time this hour.   I was sitting the $200 dollar table betting twenty-five a hand and trying to tell a Michael Jackson joke between each one.  “What did woody Allen say to MJ?    Give me two tens for my twenty”

            “Heh, I hadn’t heard that one before Mr P.    No need to keep looking over your shoulder, you said she would be here for another hour at least. Have a drink”

            “Thanks. Do you know how you tell the time at MJ’s House?     When the big hand is over the little hand”

            “Yeah, that’s a good one.  Maybe you should just sit out a few hands”

And so it went.  I thought I saw her once and sprung from the table. Two dealers and a pit boss yelled after me, “Sit down! And quit acting so eager”

            “Yeah, let her come to you”, suggested Mike, the Round Mound of Double Down. This is the four hundred pound Casanova who was responsible for upping the minimum to $200 and the graciously asking the dealers to grandfather my $25 betting into the table.

Finally I lost my nerve and called again, It turns out she was taking a nap in the room.   My cell phone screwed me again.  I ran upstairs, and gave her a hug.  We met Dolorous Ed for Dinner at Mesa, on my suggestion. Excellent food, but I knew that since I had had a few snacks there before I started gambling.   We caught up a bit, ate some cheesecake, and headed over to Barbary Coast to play some more cards.

The night ended shortly after that, because of Jet Lag.  We all broke even.

It was great to see her again, but I couldn’t get a read on how things were going to play out, because like I said, over the last few years the sum of our relationship has been a bunch of awkward phone conversations and I had no idea how to break the pattern.  It had been five ears since Holland, which was our only good date and since then every year seemed to go better than the next. . It had been over three years since the elections, which was the last time we had seen each other.   I was willing to call this weekend a success as long we ended up better friends than we had been lately.  We bid each other a very friendly goodnight, and crashed into our own dreams. And Beds.

I finished Digital fortress last night, having read the most of it during the last two days at the pool at Caesar’s Palace.    I enjoyed the book, but I thought it was pretty horrible.    The first thing that jumps out at me, and kept me from getting past the first few pages of Angels and Demons,  was the way Brown rushes to tell us how great his characters are.  In his hurry, his sentences all follow the same gorged-snake formulation:  “Karen jumped deftly, using her natural agility, into her sporty car, under the ominous building to meet her handsome lover.”  Its not “Bourne Supremacy” bad, but its bad.

The Second thing that bothered me was that the book’s science was suspect.  If you are going write a book on Cryptology that presumes public key encryption has been beaten, you should offer more than three lines on how it was done. Brown offers us: “improved predictive algorithms” and improved “Guessing Engines”   or something like that.

The worst was when the leading lady says, breathlessly, “An unbreakable code, don’t be rediculous”.    Last I checked, one-time pads are still unbreakable.  As are plenty of pre-PGP codes the ex-NSA super genius could have used in this specific situation.

Thirdly, the “evil plot” made very little sense.  In the end, the billion dollar super computer failed to decrypt the message because the message contained a virus which, once decrypted, sent the computer into a tight, infinite loop.    The super-computer kicked out the file twice because it contained  ”mutating strings”, and everyone is shit-pissed that someone pushed the manual override button, but no one seems to be upset that the code would have otherwise remained unbroken  (Remember, these are people who after a hour’s effort say things like “An Unbreakable Code, that’s un-possible!”).  Note to evil people: Throw some mutating strings into your message and the NSA’s 300,000,000 processor super computer won’t even attempt to crack it.

I’m not going to go into the contrived final conflict,  that hinged on the worst bit of cryptology ever found in fiction. The scene was straight of our Austin Powers:  “Before my plan to destroy the world comes into fruition, I will give you a riddle, that if solved, will save the world. Ready?  Ok. Here goes.  ‘How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?’”

Anyhow, the book was a gift and it was perfect reading for Caesar’s pool, which I will get to later.

Finished the Voyage of the Dawn Treader last night.  This is my favorite of the Chronicals so far.    

I was talking to a friend in SF  last week. She had only a vague memory of the Lion, With , And Wardrobe. When I told her that the books are Christian Allegories she blanched. 

Oh, the Horror!

My only recollection of the books consisted of an image of Aslan at the top of a cliff, and of ice covered trees.  They were read to me in a Public elementary school.  Wouldn't think it possible, even so long ago. 

I was having brunch with another SF friend, and her friends, when I mentioned Bob Scheider, and how they would all love the show because 'all good things come from Texas'.  My friend said very slowly, after a minute, that "Im not quite sure what to think of you right now".

Heh.  I was just talking about the music!  C'mon people, lighten up.    Apparantly she was on edge because someone wore a "I love Haliburton" T-shirt to her bar the night before.

Heh.

After finished Treader I  went to check out the scene at "The Gravity Pub. Nice place, great  crowd for a monday, but I was dead tired so I spilt way too early.

thought you might like this review of the latest vic chestnutt album...pulled straight from amazon, but it could be written on the walls of Whiskeytown's bathrooms...

Prolific, profound, and ever full of potty-mouthed piss-and-vinegar - Vic Chesnutt is Prometheus in a wheelchair with a battered guitar – a freak-folk trailblazer, spilling his heart and soul and spleen into the microphone, with a sly drawl, dripping humid, Southern gothic imagery in calamitous, sometimes comic songs worthy of a Greek tragedy.

and that's a cool idea...where else can you take a piss (and you'd never say that in Whiskeytown anyway, you'd excuse yourself from the bar quietly, smoothly and return a few minutes later where the bartender would ask you if you'd like a refill and then carry on the conversation as though you'd never left) and read reviews of Vic and other artists who, no doubtedly, have their instruments leaning against the cot in the back room?

 

Yep. I do like the review.  I love Vic too.  His First four albums are pure magic. The last four may be too, but I havn't been enchanted.  There is my favoirte first line though: 

               I was shivering, I'll Admit it. I had nothing better to do

Saturday night I abandoned a Muni Pub Crawl after only two stops, the Tunnel Top and Rosewood.   Both are cool places. The Tunnel top has its trademark wine bottle chandelier, and Rosewood has its namesake ….um…. wood.. The creamed brick wall separating the small lounge area is a nice detail, as is the lite-bright backlit wine rack that spells out a  Giant “R”.   Rosewood also keeps a bottle of Stroh on the rack.  This magnificent rum presents and interesting dilemma: Too big of sip and your head will explode, too little and it evaporates before you can taste it.  Either way you’re left with a great buttery apple aftertaste.

I left that group to head over to Crow-Bar and eventually meet up with ex S.F. Native Brad.   I have always liked the Crow-Bar, which looks exactly  how a pool-hall dive-bar juke-joint should look.  I wouldn’t change a thing.  Oh, and they have a terrific Juke-Box containing tons of old SST albums, but no Dinosaur Jr.   Five dollars got me 18 plays and used them all, though I had to ask for help navigating the locals-only cd’s.  Von Ivas was a nice recommendation. But it was  the Dropkick Murphys that hit the spot.

 I was disappointed to see only the latest Modest Mouse CD in the same box that had Lonesome-Crowded  5 years ago.     Back then I had never heard of them, but had a strong recommendation from one Kate Klaire, who is an incredible local S.F. musician.    I used to take the rental car straight from SFO to Noc Noc bar to catch her set.  Her music is original, familiar and honest.  Nearly every song I heard had nearly all of those qualities.    The Noc Noc looks like the set of a claymation Tim Burton movie about a Alien Shipwreck.   I first tasted Delirium Tremens there, listening to Kate play, and will therefore always return.  (The DT’s I’m referring to is a masterpiece bit of Belgium brewing, so that last sentence isn’t playing as fast and loose with tense as you might think).  So I’m talking to Kate after that first show when a Modest Mouse CD comes on. She gets excited and I make a mental note.  A few days later I’m at the Crow Bar and there is LonesoneCrowded, which started a chain of events that ended somewhere near  the Mas Sake-like Eola Wine bar, in Orlando Florida two years ago. That’s another story. (“You call this  a story!” was just messaged to  me from Jonah’s Couch).     Yes, it’s another story, but if anyone ever runs into Alexis, have her email me.

So anyhow.  Kate, if you are reading this, please email me, I seem to recall that we have some business to discuss. 

So I am at the crow bar last night. For all the reasons I just mentioned, and also because I continue to try to run into Leah, who used to work there and the Blue Bar and will always be one of my favorite bartenders.  She gave up the job many years ago to go back to school.  I am dying to see if Berkley tempered her taste for my band of chauvinism. Here’s how our old conversations used to go:

Me:  Do you know how to make a Vodka Tonic

Her: Asshole

Me:  Don’t make it like a girl

Her: Here, Asshole

Two years later I walk into the Blue Bar , on a date, and without missing a beat she says to Nicole “Your not with him are you. God help you”.    If anyone knows how to get in touch with her, let me know.  Leah that is, not Nicole. 

Sunday Night Update:

Just got back from A-16 on Chesnut.  The Cannelloni beans are going to be a Sunday night staple.  Told some woman at the bar that I would meet her at the A-16 sporting goods store in LA, but then forgot to go find her table and ask her when.   Then an Iranian woman sat down and started bragging about her Pinot Noir.   But the really interesting thing was that the Bartender recognized me from the Pub Crawl: She also works at the Rosewood.  She defended my Cerasuolo against the incessant pooh-poohing coming from the Persian Contingency, though I will admit to it being a poor Sunday night selection. I wanted to try it though, before I opened the bottle I have at home.   I’ll be drinking lots of it cold on Sunday Afternoon though.

Notes:

 Tonic has a surprisingly good Jukebox.  CrowBar's reminds me of that bar on Orange Avenue in Orlando, the one with the RV siding. I remember finding Exile in Guyville there at just the right time. If anyone can send me some picture of that one, I’d be grateful. Zack?  Ed?

Bob Schneider is at the Independent on Thursday, and then I are off to Vegas.  Yes, I are.   (Hey, if Microsoft says its so, its so)

Lileks on Donovans Top of the Mark Parties.

“I was never that impressed ……shallow, trend-addled quasi-intellectual”

Well, ok, James was talking about S.F. on the whole. And Donovan’s parties can be fun.   Last night I went to the Cellar instead-- where people smile, even if their picture isn’t being taken.   Had some gin and tonics, played some pool, got mooned?   I owe that girl one.

Walking home I came up with that driving thing below. Cheesy, I know.

Pitchfork sums up Dinosaur Jr. quite nicely here. It’s hard to describe how much I love the album Bug. So I wont even try. I remember buying it for 8 dollars at a used CD store in St. Augustine Florida.  I listened to it going over a bridge to watch the Denver Game at some dusty sports bar.  All I knew about the band was that they got great press, and the Cowboy Junkies covered them.     Well it sounded like a colossal mess to me and it must have sat on my shelf for months. Maybe I listened to Freak Scene and Post a few times, the latter mostly out of morbid curiosity.  

Much later I was completely under the spell of Radiohead’s OK Computer, trying to figure out how to get the damn thing out of my CD player. That was the problem with Radiohead- unlike Nirvana for example- there wasn’t a whole genre waiting to be explored.  It was pretty much Computer, Bends, or Bust, and I was getting a bit antsy having listened to the same CD for over a year.  I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but Bug saved the day.  Saved the year actually.  (People cling tenuously to life in northern Florida, A good CD or hamburger can actually save your life. Otherwise you might just pull over and disappear into the marsh).        The best part about falling in love with Bug was that unlike Radiohead, Dinosaur Jr.  Actually made other music sound better.   It was the perfect palate cleanser after OK Computer’s ‘everything’s in its right place’ obsessiveness. Messy, Loud, and Beautifull.     I heard they're getting back to together?

Walking home from the Cellar last night, I thought about how every city drives a bit different.  Here is what I came up with.

City: Jacksonville.

Motto:  We’re not very good drivers. But we make up for it by going Slow.

What the Horn Means:  Slow down, you crazy kids.

Description:  The most unskilled drivers in the country. Merge lanes are totally wasted on these people, who will always stop.  The shoulders are littered with cars that were simply too embarrassed to continue.

City: San Francisco

Motto:  I should have taken that last parking space

What the Horn Means:  Hey, That’s my space.

Description:  The cabbies delight it making you sick: Either by weaving, or by coming to a screeching halt at each light.    There is no car culture here, so people generally drive as if they can’t be bothered.

City: Atlanta.

Motto:  We’re not Paying attention, but we we’re going too fast for it to make much of a difference.

What the Horn Means:  Sorry for almost killing everybody. It’s usually sounded 100 yards past the incident. Often this results in another collision, since the person, who is driving around 80mph, is the phone and had therefore ran out of driving hands when the decided to honk, much less give that little sheepish, "my bad" gesture.

Description:  The most dangerous drivers in the county.  Cars are too big and going too fast.  Drivers are on the cell phone.  They always get halfway through their lane-change before checking to see if any cars are already there.

City: Los Angeles.

Motto:  We’re really really good looking

What the Horn Means:  Nothing.  Nothing means anything here.

Description:  Good, decisive drivers. They don’t take a whole lot of chances on the freeway, which are always busy.  Its will be bumper –to bumper at 2 in the morning, and everyone is going 60mph. 

City: Chicago

Motto:  We drive angry, and we don’t know why.

What the Horn Means:  That’s for doing nothing. Just wait till you do something…

Description:  They honk way too much. Any interruption in the flow results in a honk.    If someone is crossing the street two blocks away, they put out a warning honk.  If the car in front of them is more than a cars length behind the one in front if It, they honk.  

City: Manhattan

Motto:  We’re the best, and we’ll prove it.

What the Horn Means:  Everything. Drives use their horn like Emeril uses Garlic. 

Description:  Skilled, precise drivers.  Very European.  The car is an extension of them.  An extension that they don’t mind dinging up a bit.  They have a  honk to say “Go”, “Stop”, “Don’t change a thing”, and “I need another quarter inch before I blow by you ”.      If they could only calm down a bit.

I hate to confuse people with a Ryan Adams post this early in the blog's life, for various reasons.  This site did get half its name from the name of his first band, which was great and had one of the best songs about bars ever, called "Bar Lights".   Incidently, that song doesn't end with the line "pour me anything", but it should. I thought it did for years, and nearly added the line to the Lyric Fader.    Alas, Ryan is at it again according to Pitchfork.  Get the scoop there

Check out hugh macleod's Gaping Void.  I bought some BlogCards by him.  Later I realized one of his cartoons is even more relevant.   I put it at the bottom of the site.  Then I removed the border.  Then I cropped it. Then I moved the copyright information.   So I'm pretty sure he's going to email me and tell me to quit being an asshole.      Which reminds me,  I need to put up an email link.

The first thing you will notice is that this isn’t Whiskytown, and it isn’t the Slowdown.   I hate to bake the concession into the blog, so to speak, but that’s the way it has to be.  Let me explain. Whiskeytown is an ex-band (not mine), and book in progress (mine), and a bar.  The bar exists only in my mind, and on the few scraps of paper I refer to as the book. The Slowdown was a concession to begin with. While working on defining Whiskeytown (the bar) It became evident to me that it will never make money.  So much of Whiskeytown is defined by what it isn’t, and what it doesn’t have (Gimmicks mostly, but other, more substantial, things too. Like ice cubes and  front doors).  So while I was dreaming up Whiskeytown, the ultimate bar, I needed a place to store all these extra.  Rich suggested Milhouse: a neighborhood bar, with a dartboard and a kitchen, amongst other things.  And I started thinking about “The Slowdown”, a lounge in the tradition of Atlanta’s Halo, Chicago’s Whiskey Bar, and Vegas’s Ghost Bar.