Yoga Gina has her own web site.  Not Blog on it yet, but I'll talk to her about that.

Wilco and Rilo Kiley were the big hits at Austin City Limits this weekend. The guitar work on Spiders and At Least That's What You Said, stood out. Mates of State  impressed also.   John Prine is showing his age at times, but Angel from Montgomery is still as fine a song as has ever been written.

Everyone had their anti-bush comments.   Steve Earle Credits Cindy Sheehan for 'single handedly sparking the Anti-War Movement'. He didn't give her credit for her 'Bush out of Occupied New Orleans" comments, or signing on with the murderous anti-Semite Jew Hating propaganda machine either.   Here is a roundup of that.

Rilo Kiley has a song about a Chimp running for office.   I try to tell myself that the Bush-is-Chimp meme is no worse than the Clinton-is-Bubba  line of attack, but I can’t make myself believe it.   Its not as bad as the Clinton-is-Rapist line of attack, but  not as true either  (Depending on where you fall on this whole evolution debate).

John Prine resurrected his “Flag won’t get you into Heaven” song because, as he puts it,  “Bush made a liar out of me”.  He wrote a new song about the “Asshole from Crawford” with a chorus about how some people aren’t really people.    His Sam Stone, a song about a Vietnam Vet, is still the most effective anti-war song around. Here’s the chorus:

            There’s a whole in Daddy’s arm where all the Money Goes

            And Jesus Christ died for nothing, I suppose

Yeah, he played that.   There’s a whole in Prine’s Guitar, where all the festivity goes,  but its  a hell of a song.

Harry Apes BMX is the worst band I have ever heard. They played an great opening instrumental track that was heavy on the vibraphones, but then launched into a tirade against the Police State that was embarrassing to everyone around.   

A few years ago your child would be thrown in prison if you got caught talking bad about Saddam in Iraq, now Iraqis are debating a constitution on 6 different TV stations.  Meanwhile, stateside, the horrible Patriot Act is responsible for a grand total of 2 unjustified arrests. (A ballpark figure), and musicians can still  smoke pot on stage and call for the execution of Bush.   Detached is too weak a word to describe  these people.

No one had anything pro-bush to say, although a man in wheel-chair wearing a Camper Van Beethoven t-shirt grabbed Alex’s arm in a way that suggested brotherly familiarity and said “Great Shirt”.   Alex was wearing this  Commies Aren’t Cool t-shirt.

Makes you wonder why that guy was in that wheel chair, doesn’t it?   I figure that endorsement was worth more than the political commentary of all the songwriters.

On  a positive note: I had a couple gallons of great Sweet Leaf Tee, three chicken cones, two BBQ sandwiches, some fish tacos, a few enchiladas, some stuffed mushrooms,  a Filet Mignon with Creamed Spinach, an omelet, some Huevos Rancheros, Amy’s Ice Cream,   some Frozen Custard, a slice of pizza,  four bottles of good sarsaparilla,  a couple bottles of Lone Star and even more Shiner Bock.  With that filet Alex and I split a bottle of the Bottle that Started It All-  Masi’s Valpolicello Amerone.

The last time I had that bottle of wine I had two, and ended up putting Rich in an Wrist lock on the floor of a crowded Dutch disco.  Well, that’s not how it Ended up.  It ended up with me waking up to a blazing Alarm Clark that wouldn’t shut off. It wouldn’t shut off because it had short circuited.  It has short circuited because it was covered in  vomit.   Later that morning Rich got a call firm a Dutch woman in the loby who wanted him to take her back to the states.   But I can’t go there, except to say the story involves Nancho’s and Rabbit imagery.

*Incidently, it was I who preemptivly suggested we skip Cold Play. Not Alex. Sorry Alex.    I blame Staci.  More on that later this week 

I read the first chapter of “Witness to Hope”, the biography of Pope John Paul.   If I were to reinstate the book club, and I’m not saying I’m going to, that would be the book.    A long time ago I emailed everyone the steps to getting post permissions to the book club, so you are all welcome to stimulate discussion yourselves.   Go ahead, try it!

Austin City Limits in two days.

Day 1: Steve Earl, Robert Earl Keen, John Prine, and Lyle Lovett.   Lovett and Prine being the absolute must hears.

Day 2: Not planning on going, but if I were, I would see Death Cab, Built To Spill, The Walkmen, and Block Party.  I pick the Walkmen over the Fiery Furnaces because I have already seen the Furnaces.  Plus, I think the Walkmen got shafted by circumstance.  For a short time they were on the forefront of ‘alternative’ and then the whole retro movement kicked in.  Or was it Modest Mouse that did them in?   Either way, they got pushed around.

We’re going to see Wilco at Stubbs, no matter what.  “Wilco at Stubbs”.  I like the sound of that.

Day 3:  There are so many top 40 bands on Sunday that I think I am going to have to mine Pitchfork for some hidden gems. It just seems silly to battle all the crowds for 1 hour sets of a bunch of future two hit wonders.    I want to see Rilo Kiley.   If we camp out on the cingular stage we can see the Arcade Fire and Wilco.    I bet all the rock snobs are going to  be hanging out at Bob Mould's show. Like Alex and I hung out at Nil Lara’s during the Counting Crows show so many years ago.

The list of “top 40 bands” includes the Franz Ferdinand, the Bravery and the aforementioned Arcade Fire.   Which one has the catchiest song?  

The list of bands I have never heard of ….. is long. Pretty much everything left of the cingular stage.  Except Bob Mould.  Dude was in Husker Du And Sugar.    

Coldplay closes, but I suspect Alex will be doing his ‘beat the crowds, relax at my pool,  dismissive n’egh, cold-played-out” shtick around midday on Sunday, and I’ll probably lack the motivation to argue, unless better music fans than I shame me into staying.

Like Stacie, who will be there, fleeing the latest hurricane. And Andy, who will be there, cause he always follows me to Texas for some strange reason. Or G.Matt, who has been awol for a week but was way ahead of the curve on Iron and Wine and Broken Social Scene.   Ok, there is no curve with Broken Social Scene, which is more testament to his being-ahead-of-it-ness.

Now that Notre Dame has lost, the center of the detached-from-reality universe shifts to my home state [Alabama]

                                    - Ivan Maisel,  Espn.com

San Francisco is 49 square miles surrounded entirely by reality

-Paul Kantner, Jefferson Starship ??

I went to Cal game on Saturday, it was my second time in Berkeley and I still havn't seen anyone playing frisbee.  I asked one of the crew if there were any ‘free speech zones’ around and he pointed out a few feet of space in the campus’s main square wherin no laws of any land apply.  The engravings on the concrete say as much.  

In Athens we had the ‘Son of the Tree that Owns Itself’.    Both the SOTTTOI and Berkeley’s  little slice of Anarchy encourage some interesting hypotheticals.   But I can’t be bothered.

Saturday was a street food bonanza for me.  I ate a Mexican Chicken Sausage and a Beef-Tamale made with Polenta  at the Ferry Building Farmers’ Market.  I had a Chi-Chi Rodrigues and a cup of Blue Bottle to wash them down.

At the Game I had a beef ka-bob, two corndogs, and some Brie and grapes.   Brie and Grapes,  this is what they eat at football games in Berkeley.  All your suspicions are confirmed.

After the game we had Naan-and-Curry.  I picked up the first Hold Steady and Constantines albums at Raspmutin records and we headed back to the city.

Oh, the game.  Cal played some fine defense in the second half against Zook’s Illinois team.  The stadium noise only reached what I would consider sufficient decibels on one occasion, late in the 3^rd.   The cheer leader for the students section was pathetic.  One of the structured cheers involves doing the Gator Chomp (Imagine legions of elbowless fans, clapping).     So yeah, it’s a brie eating, wine sipping, gator chomping,  free-loving kind of football out here. But its still football:  The guy next to me had a flask of Seagram’s 7.

On Sunday I went to  Baker beach. Played frisbee,  Drank a dry Muscat, ate Caviar, soprasetta and Parmesan, and dried mangos.     I didn't touch the brie though.

*I can use the word ‘Bonanza’ without a second though, but ‘Galore’ drives me crazy. Is that odd?

** Chi-Chi is like an Arnold Palmer except a bit of Ginger-Peach flavor.

Maybe I have lost the nerve to write about stuff like this.  Lets see.

Last Night Dave came to town. I took him to Frascati for dinner where we ran into Borys and his  girlfriend, whom I had often heard him speak of, but  had never met. They were ending a long day of eating and drinking their way through S.F. 

I had never seen Borys except standing behind a bar.  Come to find out that he does in fact have feet, not some Rosie-esque manner of conveyance.  Remember Irona?  Who would win in a battle of the Robotic Maids?    I have serious problems with Richie Rich: As I remember it, in every episode the villain would contrive some plot to take over the world, or whatever, only to be foiled by some bit of random slapstick dumb luck on the part of Richie’s Dog. Come next episode, the villain would invent some new contraption.   Why not just rebuild the old one?  Your plot only failed because that stupid dog happened to accidentally drop a bone into your flaxion-compressionator. What are the odds of that happening again?   This is oversight on par with Voltron’s refusal to START with the blazing sword.

So I would have to bet on Rosie. 

After dinner Dave and I went to Impala, where the girls of Mas Sake were guest bartending in hopes of learning the trade by the time Mas Sake reopens its doors, this time with a full bar.  There is something about a bunch of attractive young women wearing corsets and confused expressions watching each other try  to make a martini.

Moving right along.

How do you beat synonyms when decrypting a message.  Its been driving me crazy for weeks, and came up again last night.  Phoenix, you know this.   You could mail me my book with my Cds.

There’s an Idea.

Saw M. Ward at Bimbo’s 365 on Saturday.  He came onto stage wearing a Texas hat, prompting a “Get  A New Hat!” heckle from the back. He immediately launched into a 10 minutes guitar solo, which silenced the crowd and dissuaded me from furthering my thesis that Texas songwriters allways respect requests for Townes.  He then eased into Paul’s Song.  The cat can play guitar.   He did, eventually cover Texas Songwriter Dan Johnston, but he didn't take any requests.

I remember that John Mayer knows his way around a fret board too, but if I were going to continue the bad habit of  comparing singer-songwriters (Bob Schneider is Jack Johnson minus a lobotomy, for instance),  I would have to say that Ward is a three dimensional  David Grey. Unfortunately some of Ward’s dynamism was lost in this show, since he played tons of pared-down ballads.  I wanted to hear Big Boat, O’brien, and Helicopter.  He didn’t play any of those.  

He ended with Undertaker, walking off the stage saying goodbye by way of two handed over the head point to his guitar, which he had set to loop through the last few bars of the song, serving as exit music.    

The two-handed overhead-point is good one. It reminds me, sorry for this, of Rowan Atkinson playing the King’s messenger and bearer-or-bad-news, who rather than stick around and wait for the King to read the message, tosses it down and retreats, pointing to the letter apologetically as he hastily exits.   Ok, now that I have lost everyone…

Hey, it also reminds me of Jimmy The Saint’s trademark  two handed blessing entrance and exit, which is an indispensable substitute for a goodbye or hello wave.   At least in crowded places.

In other news, The Bus Stop on Union must be the Bulldog Nations most westerly outpost.  The Back Room looked like a UGA Frathouse on Saturday.   Everyone looked warily upon my LSU-esque purple t-shirt until they realized it to be a RoadHouse shirt  ('Hangovers Served and Serviced', I have misplaced my 'The Cause and Solution to all of lifes Problems').   So Olga, Tom, Heather and I watched the game drinking Buckets of Miller Light, which is, as the old joke goes , like 'having sex in a sail boat' because its  'Fucking too close to water'.   (It may not be that old of  a joke, I heard it from an old bartender in a Dennis Lehane Book).  

Quick book note:  Ken Follet has returned to form, I think.   Hornet's Flight has got me hooked and I read good things about Jackdaws