Speaking of Brian Regan  (The cosubject of that email thread I just posted), Mitch Hedberg has passed away.

This is sad news.  One obit has him explaining why wasn't a houshold name: "Because most of my fans live in apartments". I'll allways remember him for lines like.

I got an ant farm. Them fellas didn't grow shit. Hey, how about some celery? Plus, if I tore your legs off, you would look like snowmen.

Follow that last link, its hillarious.

Let me know how you like it. I think from a critical standpoint, its nearly flawless. But it does present some listenability hurdles: namely, its lack of any obvious emotional charge.

--- Andy Guarnera <andyguarnera@hotmail.com> wrote:It's funny how you describe this album because it was produced by Nigel Godrich who did OK Computer as well as almost all of the other Radiohead albums.  He also did the 2 laid back Beck albums.  I'm definitely going to buy it based on reviews and your description.

I've been listening to a lot of music recently for inspiration during therecording process of our (Steve and I) album.  We draw on a lot of influences between the 2 of us, but we've been particularly interested ininnovative production work.

-----Original Message-----
From: Sean
Sent: Monday, January 31, 2005 5:40 PM
To: Andy Guarnera
Subject: Brian Regan and Pavement

Driving back from Tahoe I listened to Pavement's last
album "Terror Twilight" (1999) straight through about
4 times.  It strikes me as the most Guarneran Album I
own.   Even more so than Bends and O.K. Computer.  
The songs are multifaceted,  the music and instruments
are inovative, the lyrics intelligent and evocative,
the vocals dynamic,  and the production is Crystal
Clear, which was a departure for Pavement, who had
allways made messy albums.    That album stands up
there with O.K. Computer and Yankee Foxtrot. The thing
that makes me laugh is that I can easily see you
singing these songs at the Fly's Tie in Jacksonville.

The best thing about this album is listening to it in
a car. The production is totally three dimensional.
You can almost see the music.  There is one part, a
bell ringing, that allways shocked me cause it seemed
to come from my back pocket. 

Seriously, its a great album.  Its all over the place
and at the same time consistant in its mood. The most
obvious characteristic of the album is that the songs,
while discreet, seem to both meander AND evolve in an
orchastrated but unconventional fashion.   Call it a
Studied Meander.   And they are well sequenced-- The
excess of one is often ofset by the inviting sounds of
the next.   Hard to explain.

Go buy it.

Congratulations on the new job Lauren!  We'll open the Glenlivet on the 17th! Until Then, keep your hands off.

Wait,  Something was said.

The producers of Gawker, and Defamer (and Fleshbot),  now bring you OddJack, a blog on Gambling.

I've added it to the list, temporarily.  The cloying smugness, and predicatability  of Gawker and Defamer eventually soured those sites.  This one might work though.

I have waited for over half a year for Tszyu vs. Hatton.  This is training.  Watch it this Saturday on Showtime,  9pm Eastern.

Happy Birthday Nicole!

Happy Birth-Month Rachel

Congratulations Shireen

 I know I am spelling your name wrong, but Nic didn't tell me the right way.

Happy Memorial Day Everbody

If you read one thing on the mindset of the middle-east, read Nordlinger's four entries on the World Economic Forum's meeting in Jordan.

A panel discussion of Iraq features a compelling lineup — included in it are Hoshyar Zebari, the Iraqi foreign minister; Hajim al-Hassani, the speaker of the Iraqi parliament; and Lakhdar Brahimi, the U.N. veteran. The Economist’s Xan Smiley moderates. (His name is pronounced “Zan,” as in “Alexander.”)

As regular readers know, Zebari is one of my favorite people on the world scene, an ex-Kurdish militant, a father of the new, democratic Iraq. It was a thrill of my life when he told off the U.N. — do you remember, dear readers? In December 2003, he said, “The United Nations as an organization failed to help rescue the Iraqi people from a murderous tyranny that lasted over 35 years. Today we are unearthing thousands of victims in horrifying testament to that failure.” Etc. That was one of the most stirring examples I ever saw of speaking truth to power.

Did I mention that this was at the U.N. — at the U.N. itself?

Before the panel discussion begins, I remind Zebari of this splendid telling off. We both grin and twinkle a bit over the memory of it.

Zebari leads off the Iraq panel with a speech making the salient points: It has been only eleven months since Washington transferred sovereignty to the Iraqis themselves — Iraq is not an occupied nation, but “an emerging democracy.” Last Jan. 30, “millions of citizens defied terror and death” to cast their ballots. The people are “hungry for democratic progress.” Unfortunately — and outrageously — “the insurgency persists,” as “Saddamites and foreign fighters” attempt to “foment civil war, undermine democracy, spread terror, and destroy our vision.” But Iraqis “will not have their future dictated by the atrocities of a few.”

He makes a smart reference to “the headlines,” which emphasize trouble over opportunity and gains. He talks of making every effort to involve Sunnis — who have been reluctant — in the political process. And he says that the country is “not ready to be self-reliant,” is not yet prepared for the U.S. and its allies to go. But the faster Iraq succeeds politically, “the sooner multinational forces can go home.”

Steyn on San Francisco

San Francisco hasn’t been ‘about generations’ or ‘about renewal’ for four decades. Instead, it’s lived in its moment, selling itself to America as a Mecca for a cult of self-worship. That’s fine as long as it lasts, but by definition it can’t last long — and then ‘to the abyss will I depart’

But Nic asked  for examples, and I had none to offer her.  Still working on that... Maybe the per Capita number of Spas, Gyms,  Salons and Bars?  You know, all the stuff I write about.

Sure, he can play it that way, standing there with his hands on his hips trying to look mean and annoyed waiting for you to figure out what you want to drink. It’s his bar. But you can’t help but notice that he could be doing a few other things too, like dusting. How does a crowded sports bar, during Football Season, on a Sunday manage to have dust on the bar and taps? And then it hits you, the only perfect response, and you bite your lip lest you tell him “Hey, why don’t you quit harassing your customers and dust your bar, I’ll give you a boost if you can’t reach”. You start to wonder how many fights start simply because of ‘the Perfect Response’ factor, and begin reflecting on your last bar fight, in Athens Georgia.

“Where do those steps go”, he asks, slurring just enough.

“I don’t know”, you reply, for the third time, still using nuetral tones because you aren’t yet annoyed. You are in fact a bit bemused by the huge biker at the other end of the bar who really wants to know about the steps in the back. He is, however, interrupting a conversation you are having with Mr. Ryan Landreth about the mystery bassist who just did battle with Victor Wooten (The battle was closer than you would have thought possible). The Bar is empty, its around midnight, during the intermission of a Bela Fleck and the Flecktones concert across the street at the Georgia Theater.

“Where do these steps go”, he asks again, for some reason you let a little sass into your responding “I Don’t know”. Just a little lip, but he hears it and isn’t happy. “Look, I was asking you nicely” he intimidates by raising his voice and speaking slowly, “ALL I WANT to KNOW is what’s up those STAIRS”.

See, that's when it happened: Its not that he backed you into a corner, which, like Blue-Balls, happens so rarely its really just a myth parading as an excuse. No, what he did was set you up so perfectly that the Bar Gods would be upset if you didn’t take the opportunity and respond with the tailor-made “Your mother was up those stairs”. Which you do.

That gets him up. He’s about six-five, has graying blond hair under his bandana. He’s wearing a black leather vest and charcoal jeans and is walking towards you. Things aren’t inevitable at this point, you still have a few outs. “Sit down, man, I’ll Buy you a beer”, you say as he swaggers over. You have been looking at the bartender the whole time, whose has his back turned and somehow hasn’t noticed any of he proceedings. The drunk biker doesn’t respond until he is standing over you, and then he says, real slowly, “I am going to ask you one more time. What’s up those stairs”. The wording there is very important: anything else and things could have been different. For instance, he could have said “Where do those stairs go?”, to which you would have replied “I don’t know, let me ask the Bartender, sorry for the confusion, a round on me”, etc. But no. You have no options so you stand up, real slowly, making brief eye contact with Ryan, and finally turn to face the biker. You take a slow breath, plan your physical response based on the slight twitch in his right arm, and say the only thing left to say: The inevitable,

“Your mother is up those stairs”

Back to the sad near-present. It sad because there’s no excuse for any of it. You just came in to watch the game. Sure you only ordered one drink in the last two hours, but if the cocktail waitress had asked, you would have ordered more, and besides, this twirp had no way of knowing that. There was only ten minutes left so you took a seat at the bar only to be subjected to Shorty’s glare when you tell him you haven’t decided what you want to drink. Its seems so simple: One legged men shouldn’t go around trying to get in ass kicking contests, and sloppy bartenders shouldn’t get pissy.

A few minutes later you swallow your pride and order a Red Hook that you don’t want, which as a gesture of peace would have been Nobel-worthy except that you immediately realize that you don’t have any cash and are well short of the Credit Minimum. “I’ll be right back, gotta get some cash” you tell him a few minutes later as the Broncos pull out of reach.

“Wha?!?” he intones, exaggerating his expression and straining his voice. If he was a bit closer and the world more perfect you would have vaulted over the bar right then, applying a ‘flying lariot’ and then maybe a ‘Boston Crab’ or ‘Camel Clutch’. On second thought, you’d probably just overshoot the guy, it would be hard not to. You’re really pissed now. “Pardon”; “Excuse Me”; “What was that?”; A gesture to one’s ear; simply moving a bit closer and tilting one’s head; these are all acceptable responses when you don’t hear something directed towards you. Not “What”, and definitely not “Wha?!?”.

 “I’m going to get some cash [and a Baseball bat], Be Right back [You Short Fuck]” you say, and quickly turn away before his next little constipated face gesture sends you over the edge.

It’s hard not to think less of yourself when you return with the cash. You probably should have just split, or given the cash to the bouncer, who was a cool dude. Paying the man may not be a defeat, but it sucks none-the-less. Heck, everyone who worked there, save one, seems the decent sort. Oh well, you put the five on the bar, and take off, unseen. From now on, you’ll go to Bayside Sports.

And to this day you havn't returned, no matter how cute the women who beckon you may be.