Went to Bazaar both nights this weekend.

Alex snagged a dude with his Rolex, which was a monumental waste of the best pick-up line since "excuse me, I seemed to have misplaced my congression medal of honor":.

"Excuse me, But your sweater has gotten stuck on my Rolex".

The guy took it like a champ, if you know what I mean. After the incident the sweater was earning horrific to-the-pain-esque remarks from the crowd like "Oh my god, what is that thing!!". It looked like he took a shotgun blast to the kidneys. I would have had to go home, but he was dancing with the prettiest woman in the bar, says Alex. (I thought the prettiest was the girl in the striped dress and matching wrist band).

Earlier a guy had ordered two red bull drinks, which we would have mocked had we had the energy. The irony wasn't lost on us. And then another man of questionble taste ordered two buttery nipples and Vanilla Stoli-and -Coke. This definately would have galvanized our attack had he not paid for it with a UGA Visa. Oh, make no mistake about it, this pissed us off even more, but we were too stunned to act. All this had Alex mumbling to himself "I am in a David Lynch Movie, I am in A David Lynch Movie....". I told him that after a half-dozen of the Grey Goose and Bombays he'd been drinking, everything starts to feel like a David Lynch Movie. No one knows how to make one of those by the way. Probably this is because there is no right way.

One bartender laid down a Gin Martini with a shot of Vodka on The side, and then asked, "Who's the senior citizen who orders these types of drinks?". Everyone pointed to me.

I can't get a fair shake.

If it wasn't the strange drinks making Alex dizzy, it was my handwriting. I usually just bite my tongue when people say things like "I have the worst handwriting in the world". There are a lot of diseases and conditiones one could have that might effect someone's penmanship such that it is worse than mine. I saw, for instance, a guy whose toes were surgically attatched to his hand to replace his fingers. Something like that might put you in the runnning.

Anyhow, Alex got ahold of some of my penmanship and had laughed himself into demensia. At one point he was cordially asking people at the bar to transcribe "WhiskeySlowdown", in an attempt to establish a benchmark. Fortunately for me, Atlanta women are largly incapable of conversation this beyond the norm, and often retreat behind horrified or snide stares. "Excuse me, would you mind writing THIS [pointing to words on napkin] on THIS [pointing to blank napkin], is not the same as as saying "Can you write THIS [Pointing to words], on THIS [Grabbing her Ass]", but the differnce is apparantly lost on some people. The old Alex would have then insulted them untill they cried, which was allways fun.

At the airport Alex talked me into staying in San Antonio for a week. Were going to go see Bob Schneider in Corpus Christi on Friday and work on the QProject all week.

We did do some business this weekend, coming up with the company slogan "The only thing we do Offsore, is Vacation".

The problem with brilliant things is that they often blind, or otherwise cause mild discomfort. So much great new music will give you a headache in certain circumstances: Take for instance every-other Dismemberment Plan song, and the edges of most Wilco songs. But we've learned to accept it and at times expect it, so when something comes along that doesn't touch a few nerves, we tend to towards skepticism. How good can a new CD be if it is immediately and completely listenable? Pretty good, and I submit Broken Social Scene's sophomore Album "You Forgot it in People" as evidence.

Broken social scene is a 11 person band commonly referred to as a collective. This word seems to mean nothing, except that the members come from other bands and that there are lots of them. The only moment on the whole CD that tickles anything other than the pleasure sensors of your brain in the imagery of the song "Lover's Spit", and perhaps the unsingable lyrics of the song "I'm Still your Fag". But like the fire swamps,and the rest of the album, the song titles telegraph the their contents. The only serious flaw on the CD is that these two mellow songs seem misplaced at the end of such a rich, complex CD. And that's my larger point: This is a album with 11 people placing complex, catchy, adventurous Pop, and they never misstep.

The album starts with "Capture the Flag" which is something of an overture. I get to call it that because its instrumental and first. It sets up, in a pattern repeated later, the awesome "KC Accident", which builds into  the first musical highpoint before making room for its delicate boyish vocal refrain. The song structure, at least in macro terms, is reminiscent of Wilco's Ghost is Born with its  rising drum action leading into delicate vocals, the main difference is that here and throughout there is an emphasis on pop sensibility and song structure over contrast and experimentalism.

Not that they don't do more that just flirt with feedback two songs later on the anthemic "Almost Crimes", but its subtly muted and matched by dueling male and female vocals. The song is reminiscent of Sparklehorse's "Piano Birds" in which Linkous enlisted a game PJ Harvey to help sing over one of the louder, and crunchier, songs on his second album. "Almost Crimes" also benifits from driving drum section, what sounds like a petulant hornist trapped in a closet, and some well placed arcade tazers. It also leads into the looping "Looks just like the sun", which begins and ends with that hypnotic refrain. This song may not have the staying power of some of the others, but it jumps out in the same manner as GeggeyTah's repetive "Last Word", in which an equally delicate voice laments that "she said I was the one for her".

They unplug the horns on the instrumental "Pacific Theme" and add some shimmering guitars and vibraphone work. There are definitely things jangling throughout, but its comfortable through-and-though. This concept is perhaps best described as  the difference between the Shins brilliant "Saint Simon' and the more infectious "New Slang".

The next song features first only a female vocalist and a plucking banjo, but slowly adds a violin to compliment the increasing but still hushed urgency of her repeated instruction, "park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me". The song is titled "Anthem for a seventeen year old girl", and thought the title goes to content, you can't hear that song and not realize that had you known of this band in highschool, you would have scribbled their name all over your trapper-keeper. 

And then right on cue we get "Cause = Time", which is ripe with High-School navel gazing like

You come in, check my time

You got fornication crimes

I've seen your hope on television

Where you've been, wore my word

They've got tricycles in skirts

This is a mouth that needs religion

 

And they all want to love the cause

'Cause they all need to be the cause

They all want to fuck the cause

 

And it works. Sure, it wouldn't work if there was another song like it on the album but their isn't, either musically or lyrically. Its fuzzy pop-rock number that gets compared to Dinosaur Jr, which is only obvious  once someone mentions it.

The next song is the instrumental "Late Night bedroom rock for missionaries". Its suitably spare, continuing the trend of perfectly instructive song titles, and effective as it sets up the incredible "Shampoo Suicide". The song, and especially its simmering guitar notes, remind me of the best moments of James WahWah album, which was a collection of jams the band captured while recording their Laid album.

 The song transitions nicely into "Lover's spit", which  would be out of place if there was any other place to put it (There isn't, I tried).  Its too good to leave off though, as is the following "I'm still your fag" which, by virtue of being the simplest song musically, manages so showcase some clever, but otherwise oblique, wordplay.

Heard about your wife and kids where we slept

Felt their mouths with stitches at that were slowly lit

Capture uniform this time because I couldn't quit

Haven't felt the ground so cold without getting sick

And I'm still your fag

I'm still your fag

The final song is reprisal. I know this because it is short, instrumental, and familiar, repeating a earlier melody at half speed. The album ends slowly, and I think thats it only failing. 

This isn't an album that begs to be discussed, it begs only to be listened to.  But once you start writing about you keep finding things to talk about. I didn't, for instance,  mention one of the best songs, "Stars and Stripes" which uses handclaps to perfection. I didn't mention  the perfect production which at one point elevates the vocal cues between band memebers: "Come in after this" he says , before he continues singing "It looks like the sun. It looks just like it".   I could continue, but this line, as a comment on the identification of things brilliant, is a suitable place to stop.

Go check it out.

Was too busy to write last week. I had work to contend with. 500 CDs to burn. A car to drive. Friends to see.

On that last note: I caught up with Yoga Gina. Well 'Yoga Gina' is a poor nick, all things considered. There is a well to draw from for sure, but it'll do. Anyhow, I dropped in on her intermediate Yoga Class. When she saw me she said, "Great. I need some excitement in my life'. When Yoga Gina says things like that, oil prices go up.

Well, she's hasn't been a wild one for some time. And she was allways more 'free' than wild , but she's got a three year old and a husband from whom she's separated. I met both of them when I picked her up later that night. We went to Twist for Sushi where she had her first 'cocktail' in years. It was a mojito, if you're wondering why I threw the quotes out there. We talked about the usual stuff: Which is to say, our conversation was frank and intersting. Most things come back to Yoga with her, but I suppose that's as it should be. She did say, at one point, "I avoid talking to politics [pause] but please explain how you could vote for Bush".    I remember her saying, after 9/11 that she was glad he was in office.    Yes, Yes, I know the narrative: How he blew the goodwill and how everyone was for the Afghanistan War but then, and then, and then.  But still, she did say it. As did a lot of people.

 After dinner we went to East Andrews (I forgot about me boycott) for a coctail then headed over to Cafe Intermezzo for some coffee drinks. My capuccino was terrible, but her chocolate concoction was pretty good. Things have sure changed when a Gina story ends at 1am with a cup of coffee. We didn't even play scrabble.

Manahtton beach, day one. Its 7:30 and I just got back from the boot camp. Compared to START in San Fran, this was a walk in the park. Sure, the 15 minutes of Crunches kicked my ass, but I don't need to spend 15 dollars a pop for that. 10 minutes of stretch, a 2 miles run, 15 minutes of Ab work. and lots of talking in between. I may have to find another.

Super busy right now, like I said. Been trying to come up with a consulting name. The best I could come up with was "Market Eight", which is completly mundane except for the Lebowski reference. Later, Dave, who was the least slowest of my friends to get the refence, stumbled upon the  'Next Frame' and the wise advice, "Just watch the movie and take notes".

I arrived in Witchita Kansas Friday night, a little after one. I had read half of State of Fear on the way in, and read a few more chapters waiting for the airport to find someone to offload my bag. Expect a incisive review at any moment.

Once I got on the road, Route 96 heading north west to Great Bend, I made great time the central Kansas countryside. This isn't the part of Kansas that really speaks to me, but the twin thunderstorms to the west lit up enough wheatfields and grain elevators to remind me of the west end. An  average summer Lightstom in Kansas is more spectacular than all those I have seen elsewhere.  Maybe thats not fair. Lets call Kansas the Bordeoux of thunderstorms and leave it at that.  

Not a lot of trafic in central Kansas at 3 am, just the truckers, a bobcat, and a coyote. The coyoto didn't look like I had expected. I had expected something more shaggy, like the one in Dances with Wolves. But maybe that wasn't a coyote- I hypothosized later.

On Sunday a hailstorm came through, and a couple of tornados hit the surrounding areas. We rushed to the dealership and parked 17 uninsured vehicles in the shop and then met up with Grandma in the basement.  When the hail hit it was pea to penny sized and driven hard, but it didn't do any damage besides stripping wheat, none of whch we owened. I  hope the three triplet fawns we saw found suitable cover.  

Jerry and I won 4 straight games of 6 person pitch. I wish I could say we were gracious winners but after the whupping we took at shuffleboard....

On the fourth we lit firecrackers for 9 hours. My cousin's husband, Dune, who still had a 16,000 flash cracker and a 100 shot rocket system to fire, was up for another three earning chief launcher honors.

I launched the first flasher, to much fanfare. Jerry's ''big boomers' are still the crowd favorite, but Dune and I might have started a new tradition when we threw one of everything into a box and lit it on fire. If it wen't mixed comany I would have called the creation 'the bitch', cause after the intitial hellish inferno she popped off for a hour . I'd say we did around 700 dollars worth of ordinance, which was economical by Great Bend Standards.

After 7 hours of firecrackers, you learn to appreciate the simple black cats.  By nightfall each toss was accompanied with a little chuckle that says, amongst other things, just how gratefull we all are to be where we are. Yeah, I believe that. I believe its more than simple entartainment, or just a potlatch with sound, its more of a 50,000 gun salute to those who came before us. The more simple cracker the better that point is driven home. It also helps if you can scare the bejesus out of someone.

A one point some friends drove by in a truck, luring the unsuspecting reveller to approach it offering food, only to find 300 black cats and a short fuse burning at his feet.

Driving back to the homestead at 11, I couldn't distinguish  the city's profesional from  all home-bought fare being set free.   

What a country. What country, I could say, too.