The new News Leak is out.  Read it all, but here are highlights:

Some dumbshit evidently thought it would be a good idea to let Liz Phair make another album, as she's working on the follow-up to the godawful one she shat two years ago.

...

Son Volt's first studio album since 1997's Wide Swing Tremelo, titled Okemah and the Melody of Riot, is set to make its arrival July 12. Mainman Jay Farrar produced - in fact he's the only original member of Son Volt involved in this half-assed revival.

....

[How about a clip with no Obscenities]

Stephen Malkmus, a.k.a. the ex-member of Pavement with the most female fans, will see his third solo album, Face The Truth, released May 23rd on Domino.

I saw Sin City yesterday. Can't say enough good things.

Been listening to "T.V. On The Radio CD", entitled desperate youth, blood thirsty babes.  You know that scene in High Fidelity  where Cusack plays the Beta Band and everyone in the store buys the CD.  TVOTR have that same sort of "this is new, and cool, and I am going to like every song so let me buy the cd right now" kind of sound. Except unlike the Beta Band, you probably will like every song.  Except the aformentioned stinker.

I wouldn't bring this up except that I allready grafted some S&S material on this post. The lead singer of  TVOTR is quoted as saying, post 9/11: "You had this horrible tragedy, followed by this maniacal, blind patriotism which was almost as scary.".

Makes you want to run out and buy their CD, doesn't it?

They found him hiding in San Francisco.  He had shaved off his beard and was living as a Technology Consultant: Which was the last place he thought they would look.  Their need was great:  They were going on safari into the brutal West Texas Platuea and if they wanted to make it out alive, they were going to need Sean ‘The Liability’, the greatest Hiker/Camper that ever lived.

In the end, his conscious wouldn’t let them go alone.  He set his conditions:  One bottle of silly port, shotgun on the curvy roads, and control over the CD player.  “If we do this, We do this MY way!” he barked, switching the Ipod over to Vic Chesnut’s “Giant Sands”, and proclaimed it “this mission’s theme song”.

They fell in line.  There was Alex, his long time friend and confidant, who brought the iPod, and the other vittles: Two Jars of beef Jerky, one box of sweet tea mix,  one bag of beanie-weenies,  two bottles of tequila, and a bloody Mary bar.  A man who packs like that won’t let you down, but Sean was wary about the two others, Alan and Mike.     Alan looked like the kind of man who puts too many olives in his Martini, and not enough vermouth. Whatever that means. Sean’s first impression was wrong, Alan had in fact  packed Jager Meister.  Mike was organizing the trip:  It was his tent, his cots, his coolers, his itinerary, and his Suburban that rolled into San Antonio Airport to pick Sean up at oh-three-hundred hours, Thursday morning. 

The hit base-camp by two P.M. (This author will use civilian times and 'familiar' wild-life names so as not to confuse the lay-people who are reading this).   They set up camp quickly and launched into the first hike. A 5 miler ominously dubbed “The Window”.       The park was quiet and they made good time, seeing much of the native Fauna.  There was Rock Squirrels, Rock Pigeons, and Rock Lizards, all parting before them into various forms of Rock Habitat.  Then the trail turned treacherous, passing right through a field of Rock Bees.   The team tightened their formation and continued through unmolested into the virgin desert.  The field of bees had served its purpose: Separating the men from the boys.

Later they passed an 80 year old woman, but she was “taking lots of breaks”.   Finally they made it to “The Window”.   “The Window” is a vista formed at the mouth of the river bead they had been walking on.  The river bed ends in waterfall, with tall cliffs rising up on each side.   The team rested.     The team was woken by another team of Australians who had somehow navigated through the bees and rock lizards.  Everyone headed back.

For dinner the team worked together to make Mediterranean Tilapia Packets with Gumbo, the standard fare of the intrepid Camper/Hiker. Afterwards Sean and Alex introduced Alan and Mike to the game of Pitch. But everyone went to sleep soon after in order to wake up before sunrise.

The nights passed uneventfully.   It rained. The wind blew. Alex got spooked a bit and jumped so high he landed in Sean’s cot, but other than that, it was uneventful.  (Either he heard a pack of Javelina that only made noise when the wind blew the brush against the tent, or he heard the wind blowing the brush against the tent).

They woke up at 10a.m, made omelets, filled up their neoprene-canteens, packed their lunch and started a 16 mile loop up to Emory Peak.  No sooner had they started before Alex flushed out a Rattler.   They let him go, however, because “it had spirit”.  The steep switchbacks up the rock face were no great obstacle for the team which found itself at the base of  Emory Peak a mere 4 hours later. Any plans to linger at the top were jettisoned once they rock-scrambled the final leg to find the pinnacle infested with Lady Bugs: “I Don’t do Lady Bugs”, Sean Proclaimed.     They Rock-Scrambled back down and ate lunch in the valley.   The made it to the South Rim shortly after lunch and were treated to a spectacular view of the land below the South Rim.  (Texas Desert as far as the eye can see. And then the Rio Grande, visible a little beyond that. And then Mexico, beyond that)

  The final leg of the hike was gradual descent, 6.1 miles long.  They made camp at 7pm and feasted on a steak dinner and drank Sean's Planeta Cerasuolo from the tail-end of a Hippo Sipy-cup  (sip-sip pass. Sip-sip pass).   It rained and the wind blew.    Two Rock Skunks joined the party. Sean and Alan lost 30 dollars playing pitch.

The next day the team did short hikes. They saw A bat-less “Bat Cave” and its presumably Bat-Eating Millipede inhabitant.  A waterless-‘dug-out well’, Rocks, and Mexico.  That night it Rained and the wind blew. Alan and Sean lost 15 dollars playing Pitch.  The Silly port did its job, per usual, so they  all were giggling like the school Girls who lapped them on the mountain the day before. (The 'Silly Port' that Sean Refers to is a bottle of 1997 Prager 'Royal Escort'  Ruby Port. The bottle says that it "throws some sediment" which was the understatment of the trip, beating out 'Texas is big' and "Alex got spooked a bit")

On the final day Sean returned to the South Rim, while the rest of the team checked out a Balancing rock. That evening the wind blew and it rained.  They ate hotdogs, broke down camp, and returned to San Antonio. On the ride back Sean tried to explain to Alan that Bartenders actually like to be treated like servants.  It was a subtle argument, not fit for these pages.

A glorious trip by all accounts.

Second Full day without a cell phone. 

Things are going well.   I have no way of telling what time it is anymore but the sense of 'nakedness' has subsided.     

The desk phone rang again, but after the "Phone Cord" Incident, I am afraid to asnwer it.  I remember those things to be longer as a Child.

David, in the adjacent cube, has agreed to answer it for me and otherwise tries to keep my spirits up.

Tommorrow I will try try carrying around my old cell phone, even though it doesn't work, just to make my limp less noticable.

Hopefully I only have one more week to go.

Somebody once said that Socialism is the most successful movement of the last 40 years.  Or maybe it was the last 3000 years.  No matter.   This is the sort of statement that Conservatives are likely to agree with regardless of its veracity, since the constantly encroaching government is their great bugbear.   For the most part, small-government conservatives have a point and can be forgiven the occasional over-reach. After all, if you have been a nail your whole life, everything starts to look like a hammer.

I tend to agree with that statement: Socialism has been undeniably insidious. However, I suspect that Jonah Goldberg could put the lie to it with his brand of Big Picture conservatism.   He’ll argue that we are freer now than ever, for instance, by bringing up how technology enables us to go anywhere we want, and do things we never could do before.   Even if they disagree with him, his argument forces people to realize is that you can’t measure freedom by counting up the infringements on freedom, you must also count the advances.

And so it goes with the issue of Socialism. It may in fact be the most successful movement in history, but maybe the second biggest is liberty?

I’ll leave that for another day, because I am more curious as to what the least successful movement has been.   The first one that comes to mind is ‘Race Relations’.    Today, the old-school Black Leaders have jumped-the-shark and are reduced to asking for Reparations, and the would-be new ‘leaders’ have no followers.    I don’t mean to suggest that the situation in this country is the worst it has ever been, just that the efforts of those people who have appointed themselves towards fixing ‘the race problem’ have been disastrous.

Oh well, I forgot my point.  In the mean time its worthwhile to note that at both the Failed and the Successful ends of the ‘movement’ spectrum there are non-movement that hedged the outcomes.   This is no great discovery and I certainly don’t think this to be a startling paradox. 

I have been shamed into writing about the NRO meeting by a fellow Kansan,  who does a bang-up job describing the scene during dinner last Thursday.    I had perhaps the most coveted spot at the event, sitting between Jonah and Ramesh, and later between Jonah, Ramesh  and Warren Bell.

If I am guilty of temporarily turning my attention from Ramesh to Jonah when he joined the table it was simply because I was impressed with the amount of food on his plate.  Jonah caught my Blazing Saddles reference, “Its twue, its twue”, when we all threw jibes his way about his diet.   There is no denying it though, Ramesh made the event worthwhile.  He is eloquent, energetic, and adept at continuing in the conversation no matter where it headed.  (I wish he was more adept at keeping his eye on the small batch bourbon).

Of course he’s a Kansan too, from Kansas City.  One more person and we could have started a pitch match.

I wish I could have spoke with Jay Nordlinger more, but I felt a little awkward around him. He gives one hell of a sincere handshake though, which I’ll remember for a while.    When I stopped by the Derb’s table it was peopled with men in grey suits asking him about inevitability of a Chinese Superpower, and other gloomy subjects.  He seemed game all night, but maybe a little tired.   

I thought it was perfect that he answered the panel question “What ONE thing would you wish children were taught in school” with the answer “statistics”.  Later, perhaps in an attempt to trump the Derbs’ answer, Warren Bell volunteered “Driving a manual transmission”. Talk about playing to form!  (Warren’s most well known contribution to NRO was an ode to his Maserati).

The most significant moment of the evening was probably the 10 seconds of complete silence when Jonah, Ramesh, and K-Lo, who were all standing near the bar, were asked who they though represented the Republicans best shot at President, 2008.     To break the long silence I asked, “ok then, who do you think would be the best for the job?"    Jeb Bush seemed to be the immediate consensus.

Later we went over the Marriot for drinks.   I stole Ramesh’s seat across from the Derb so I could offer it to Dave, who I had promised to radio in.   Jonah had a full head of steam and was leaning in at the main table.   I would have liked to talk to Stuttaford a little more, since Kevin Longstreet indicated that he was hread of the Sid Barret Fan club. Not that I’m a fan of Barret or anything. It’s just that once I learned that fact everything about Stuttaford seemed to scream ‘wild man’.  The round specs, moppish hair, and English accent weren’t academic, they were beatlesque!       I could have taken him to the Earl or something.

Instead I took Kevin, the event coordinator, out around the city, which was dead.   Ended up at the Vortex eating a burger, vowing to come to New York and party at my earliest convenience.  Hangin out with a guy from the Bronx is like hanging out with a global VIP card.  Bouncers can't resist.

I ran into old colleague David Rocheleau at the NRO event.  He ended up anchoring the table during dinner.  There’s a funny dude.   Its crazy how many Conservatives used to work for Epiphany. Off the top of my head there was me, Alex, Gundar, Ed, David R., Adrian and Jason Jones.

Anyhow, Jonah played at not telling us the probable title of his new book, citing a concern that one of us might be a blogger.    I know know that of the 5 civilians at the table, at least three of us are in fact bloggers.  

But I won't be the one to reveal the title.

East Andrews is almost a cut above a Buckhead bar.  But I had been there a half dozen times over the years and was always blown away by the quality of the bartenders at the front bar. These guys weren’t the best mixers, but they had  great vision and athleticism.  I never had to muscle up to the bar for a drink, instead I could hang a few rows back and be certain they would see me.  Not only that:  They would go way out of their way to bring me my drink  if I couldn’t conveniently make it to the bar, or if I happened to be tied in  a conversation.  They did all this so gracefully that I would return on the weekdays just to buy them a drink and congratulate them.
So Saturday,  when I  had to watch some shaggy putz show his ‘flair’ for the ladies, instead of pour drinks with the Cheery Efficiency I had come to admire, I was furious.  Pour , damnit.  

If it was  your turn to deal in your weekly poker game, you wouldn’t spend two minutes doing chip-tricks first, would you?   Practice your dog-and-pony show on your own time.

Atlanta was completely dead this weekend.  Where is everyone?  Honestly, I’m asking: Compound?   Underground?   Buckhead?

I lost my cell phone. I don’t think I am going to replace it.  Who needs it. Its not like I had no idea what time it was this morning.  Its not like I don’t know how to work my desk phone. It not as though I don’t have those phone numbers backed up somewhere. It not like I can’t schedule a date without t first calling three times to confirm.  .  Its not like I was taking pictures of my fuel filter to show the Auto Parts guy what was broken.
I’m sure I can just remember people’s phone numbers.

 Oh sweet God, save me.

Oh come off it Frascati.    Why should this nondescript restaurant, in the posh Russian Foothills deserve praise?   We’ve all had Seared Tuna before: Perhaps none cut at that aspect before, and maybe none served on such a perfect risotto, but in the end its just seared tuna, nothing to get excited about, right?   And spaetzle isn’t Italian. Who are they fooling putting Duck on spaetzle in an Italian Restaurant?    Then, just yesterday the cheese plate had Caprino.  The last I saw of this populist cheese was atop the Chicken Bryan at CARRABBAS.  Puh-lease. You’re not fooling anyone.

Take their bread pudding. It’s a contrivance.  It should be called Cake Pudding since they obviously started with cake.  A strange cake too, since every bite has just the right amount of semi-crunchy goodness to it. Was it all rim?  Bread Pudding is supposed to be Semi-sweet--the poor-mans cake. These guys obviously took a delicious chocolate cake, threw away the middle pieces, tore the rest apart and then jammed it all together using some form of caramel and chocolate adhesive.   This decadent amalgamation of cake, and caramel is obviously the devils chow. I’ll stick to Michael Mina’s civilized bread pudding: I may get a fourth as much for twice the price, but I won’t go to hell, and it comes with buttered rum.  (BTW. The Bar Staff at Mina only nods sagely when confronted with the horrors of Frascati.   Show some backbone lads! Rally! Don’t succumb so easily)    

A-16 has tripe, sides of rib sticking cannelloni beans, dandelion greens, and other traditional Catalonian dishes that will impress even the most jaded foodies.  There is a San Francisco Favorite we should all get behind.   Or Delfina: The Mission gem’s bustling atmosphere, great service, and a hip location and can’t distract from its fabulous N. Italian fare.  These are the gold standards of San Francisco Italian joints, not this ‘Frascati’ Place. 

Even if they do serve figs and proscuitto in some sort of sinister balslamic reduction, most places give you melons and you’re happy for it!

You know when you try to pull open a door when you don’t notice the ‘push’ sign. The clever guy behind you always says “Try Pushing”.  I hate that too. Try responding:  “Where were you three seconds ago? Dick Nose.”

Congratulations to Mark Selbee, for winning his first K-1 Fight.

Sushi Groove South is might fine. The Caliente Tuna , and the Muscle Shooters are quality items. 

Carlos ‘Second Shot’ Ortega is coming to Atlanta on Cinco de Mayo  (“If that’s REALLY how they spell it” Dave comments Homerly).

The Mighty, in Potrero hill, is a very WhiskeySlowdown type of club. Yeah, I said it.   It has natural Brick walls, 30ft ceilings, and ample bar area. But the best thing about it, that amazing thing, the unbelievable thing, is that there was no VIP area.     Well, if there is one, I couldn’t find it: Which is pretty cool too. 

I’m not saying the place was perfect, but it’s pretty good.

My last thought before falling asleep last night was this:

    Ahhhh, I get it!  ‘Neo’ is an Anagram for ‘One’.

I'm so lame.   It took me longer to get the crow reference in the song title "A Murder of One", by the Counting Crows.

I ate dinner at the Bambuddha lounge.  The Halibut was incredible.  I can’t remember why I stopped going there.  Even the Décor is top notch:  Modern, yet relaxed.  That’s a hard trick to pull off, I think, but what I know about Interior design couldn't fill a small something-or-other.

BTW, I never did get a date for the show. No, I didn’t try Banana Republic.     When I sat down for dinner at Bambuddha there was over eight girls at the Bar and no men to speak of.  I sat next to the one in a wife beater with a Proposition stamped across the front.  She had great taste in music (The only Furnace Fan I have ever met, actually), works for a local Radio Station, and wears an Old-Navy Jacket.   And I still had an extra ticket…..   Could I wrestle a mangled victor from the crooked, slobbering maw of defeat?  No.

But I’m going to the show anyway, damnit!

Fiery Furnaces opened up right on time at 11:15.  Eleanor comes on stage and from where I was standing --dead center back row,The neck of Rich’s Golden Triangle-- she looked a bit like Lloyd’s depressed friend from “Say Anything”: I expected her to start singing “Joey Lies when he Cries”. She’s got a feathered mop.  Mathews mop was unmolested. The basist and I were overdressed.

The first fifteen minutes of the show was all punk energy. All their meandering songs were condensed and strung together in a shotgun medley. She probably played bits from six of them, including Straight Street and ‘lost my dog’, before taking a breath and a drink of water. They sounded good, but they had squeezed all the air out of the songs. No one even knew she was playing Straight Street until she sangd “But I got there too late”, but by then if was of course too late.

I was thinking that this is good but not what I had hoped for.

But while she was taking that drink the band stretched out and you could feel the show start to change.  The drummer started playing the stems of his is cymbal kit during a protracted opening to a song and the next fifteen minutes was more representative of the BlueBerryBoat, with its shifting, meandering movements.  Unfortunately the crowd did the Standing Still the whole time. I tried yelling “Arrgghh!” like a pirate during the Pirate scenes, because Pirates are AWESOME.  I guess no else had thought of that one yet.

For the last 15 minutes they sent half the band off and played some of their stuff off their first album.

The whole show was shorter than their last album. I was hoping for a hi-fi, PJ Harvey like dramatic concert. Instead it was more straight-ahead post-punk New York Rock Concert, albeit with an energetic keyboard section.  It was a good show, but not Pirate good.

Here is parody of A. Huffington's new mega-celeb-blog.  Read down to the Entry from David Frum.     That's funney.

Ricky Jay is cooler that I thought.

The NRO crew is coming to Atlanta.  I wonder if I should bring up my gripe with NRO. Basically I feel that Movie and Music reviews on NRO are boring. People argue all the time over whether the Republican Party has become the true progressive party but there can be no mistaking that complacent nature of Conservative Culture pieces.

 The NRO staff’s political work-product is robust and lively.  Unfortunately, this same spirit doesn’t extend to its Culture pages.  Aside from the occasional symphony Review by the aficionado J. Nordlinger, NRO’s articles on Music and Movies tend to be quaint and un-ambitious.  The last ‘rock’ review I read was a tepid requiem for Iron Maiden.  Not to mention the nearly self-parodying fawning over an experimental Rock band named Spock’s Beard.

I understand that a Conservative magazine would service the tastes of the average American: Conservative thought, in shorthand, often reads “Just cause the majority of Americans’ like it, doesn’t mean it sucks”. But must we resign ourselves to reviews of REM and U2?  

If they really believe the Derb’s trademark statement “Pop Culture is Filth” then they should stop writing about it.  The only thing they managed to say about Million Dollar Baby was that it was pro-euthanasia. Which is like dismissing Life is Beautiful as Pro-American propaganda.   The culture section is all so Paleo. C’mon guys, get with it!