Friday, January 30, 2004
I hear nothing! Nothing!
Have you ever heard your roommate having sex? It's been a long time for me. Probably all the way back to 1994 or so, when I'd just gotten home from my job at the strip-club restaurant and heard Hany spanking the hell out of some girl. They were going at it so loudly that it woke up Dave from a deep sleep -- and he was two doors down!
But since then, nothing.
The neighbors across the way used to be really loud. So loud that we would all gather in the bathroom to listen. Or rather the woman was so loud; you never heard the guy. In fact, for a while there we thought she was flying her carpet solo. But finally, after she'd finished one time with a howl so volumnous that a glass in the kitchen cracked, we heard her talking to the guy. "I don't care who hears," she said haughtily. From that day on, I had the utmost respect for that dude -- so much so that I was tempted to interrupt them and ask just what it was he was doing. Because whatever it was, I wanted to learn how to do it.
But now things are quiet. After a very brief period of all three roommates dating at the same time, we had a short era of total singleness. Like female roommates whose biological clocks sync up, we were in tune. Now I have slipped away from the pack, and a new horror has presented itself: The prospect of hearing friends having sex.
You see, Elka's moving in with her sister Elly, who's dating my friend Chris. Already the jokes are flying about me and Chris running into each other in the hallway in our bathrobes. That's about as much of the whole situation that I want to think about -- I certainly don't want to hear anything.
It's funny how different men and women are when it comes to talking about sex. Women, bless their hearts, often gather in groups to spill the intimate details of their sex lives. Everything is revealed; nothing is forbidden. I wish I didn't know this. I wish they didn't know what they know. Every time I think of this at a party, I start to read every woman's smirk, every upturned eyebrow, with new meaning.
And us men, what do we do? Well, we almost never talk about the woman we're with, unless there's something really wrong or really right with them. There's some kind of rule that you can talk about the past girlfriends but not the current ones. Sometimes we break up with girls just so we can talk about them. (Kidding!)
So I guess I'll just have to assume that Elly knows all my strange turn-ons and proclivities -- like wearing the gladiator mesh and going "donut diving" and howling like Lon Chaney when the full moon comes around. And that I've invested in some earplugs.
But since then, nothing.
The neighbors across the way used to be really loud. So loud that we would all gather in the bathroom to listen. Or rather the woman was so loud; you never heard the guy. In fact, for a while there we thought she was flying her carpet solo. But finally, after she'd finished one time with a howl so volumnous that a glass in the kitchen cracked, we heard her talking to the guy. "I don't care who hears," she said haughtily. From that day on, I had the utmost respect for that dude -- so much so that I was tempted to interrupt them and ask just what it was he was doing. Because whatever it was, I wanted to learn how to do it.
But now things are quiet. After a very brief period of all three roommates dating at the same time, we had a short era of total singleness. Like female roommates whose biological clocks sync up, we were in tune. Now I have slipped away from the pack, and a new horror has presented itself: The prospect of hearing friends having sex.
You see, Elka's moving in with her sister Elly, who's dating my friend Chris. Already the jokes are flying about me and Chris running into each other in the hallway in our bathrobes. That's about as much of the whole situation that I want to think about -- I certainly don't want to hear anything.
It's funny how different men and women are when it comes to talking about sex. Women, bless their hearts, often gather in groups to spill the intimate details of their sex lives. Everything is revealed; nothing is forbidden. I wish I didn't know this. I wish they didn't know what they know. Every time I think of this at a party, I start to read every woman's smirk, every upturned eyebrow, with new meaning.
And us men, what do we do? Well, we almost never talk about the woman we're with, unless there's something really wrong or really right with them. There's some kind of rule that you can talk about the past girlfriends but not the current ones. Sometimes we break up with girls just so we can talk about them. (Kidding!)
So I guess I'll just have to assume that Elly knows all my strange turn-ons and proclivities -- like wearing the gladiator mesh and going "donut diving" and howling like Lon Chaney when the full moon comes around. And that I've invested in some earplugs.
Someone really needs a shave
Is it possible that the future of rock 'n' roll is a 40something nutball from Vancouver who's a super adenoidal hirsute? Nah, didn't think so. But that doesn't mean Nardwuar the Human Serviette doesn't put on a hell of a show. Or at least a pretty funny one. In fact, I haven't smiled that much since Extreme Elvis chased Ruxx around the Eagle Tavern.
There's just something about thee Parkside that brings out the best in most bands (except Thunderbleed, they kinda sucked there). Maybe it's the two foot stage which makes half the musicians play on the floor, or the fact that members of the audience are always leaning into the mic and singing along, or that you can smell the toilet from the bar. (Note: Do not ever order a fancy cocktail from a dive bar. You will get a weak drink like Elka's Tanq and Tonic, or a strange mix, like the Cosmos that Jill and Heather insisted that Hans buy for me and Jake at the Hush Hush the week before. (They thought it was hilarious to buy guys "girlie" drinks in a hipster bar. (Man, parentheses are fun.))) Even the opener, Harold Ray: Live in Concert, sounded spaztastic, and I've never been impressed with them before. Something about thee Parkside lends itself to frat rock -- maybe the acoustics work well with saxophonists and bassists who look like they've just time-traveled from 1962 Chicago.
Nardwuar doesn't really need any help being bizarre. JJ says he's a genuinely weird person (or a weirdly genuine one), and I'd have to agree. He's got a squeaky voice that gets higher when he's excited (he's almost always excited), and a lot of back hair which he likes to show off, and a penchant for writing totally goofy, catchy garage-surf songs like "(I've Got a Disease) I'm Addicted to Cheese" and "I Feel Like a Fat Frustrated Fuck." There was even the poignant set closer "I Don't Need My Friends To Tell Me Who My Friends Are" (or "IDNMFTTMWMFA"), for which he got the whole bar to crouch down on the floor like the scene from Animal House. He also climbed on strangers' backs and had the audience lift him and his keyboard off the ground so he could play it like he were flying (and then ride it like a pony). So Nardwuar might not be the future of rock, but when was the last time you saw Jack Black carried over the heads of the audience with dudes throwing the devil horns from between his legs?
There's just something about thee Parkside that brings out the best in most bands (except Thunderbleed, they kinda sucked there). Maybe it's the two foot stage which makes half the musicians play on the floor, or the fact that members of the audience are always leaning into the mic and singing along, or that you can smell the toilet from the bar. (Note: Do not ever order a fancy cocktail from a dive bar. You will get a weak drink like Elka's Tanq and Tonic, or a strange mix, like the Cosmos that Jill and Heather insisted that Hans buy for me and Jake at the Hush Hush the week before. (They thought it was hilarious to buy guys "girlie" drinks in a hipster bar. (Man, parentheses are fun.))) Even the opener, Harold Ray: Live in Concert, sounded spaztastic, and I've never been impressed with them before. Something about thee Parkside lends itself to frat rock -- maybe the acoustics work well with saxophonists and bassists who look like they've just time-traveled from 1962 Chicago.
Nardwuar doesn't really need any help being bizarre. JJ says he's a genuinely weird person (or a weirdly genuine one), and I'd have to agree. He's got a squeaky voice that gets higher when he's excited (he's almost always excited), and a lot of back hair which he likes to show off, and a penchant for writing totally goofy, catchy garage-surf songs like "(I've Got a Disease) I'm Addicted to Cheese" and "I Feel Like a Fat Frustrated Fuck." There was even the poignant set closer "I Don't Need My Friends To Tell Me Who My Friends Are" (or "IDNMFTTMWMFA"), for which he got the whole bar to crouch down on the floor like the scene from Animal House. He also climbed on strangers' backs and had the audience lift him and his keyboard off the ground so he could play it like he were flying (and then ride it like a pony). So Nardwuar might not be the future of rock, but when was the last time you saw Jack Black carried over the heads of the audience with dudes throwing the devil horns from between his legs?
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Taking over the world, one gaggle of wheat at a time
Some of my friends are pretty obsessive. They go through game playing phases like shit through a tin horn. (A tip of the hat to my old basketball coach for that one.) There was the Dance Dance Revolution phase, the Speed Scrabble phase, the Celebrity phase, the Grand Theft Auto phase, the Heroin Overdose phase. And now we're firmly planted in the Settlers of Catan phase.
Some of these phases I've really liked. Some I've missed intensely upon their passing. This is not one I will miss. I know I shouldn't talk since I haven't yet even played the game, and everyone's raving about it so continuously, and I wasn't too keen on the Gerbiling phase until someone showed me how to painlessly insert the little buggers. But still. My friends describe Settlers as Risk, but with more wheat. Hey, I like a good grain now and then -- cleans out the system -- but I never did like the Game of World Conquest. (Also, Settlers has been huge in Germany for years, as was the extermination of the Jews.)
Anyhow, there's only two ways this phase will end: either people get sick of the game or they find something new to occupy our time. So please, if you have any good games or distractions or evil vices, send them my direction. Or else I may have to return to the Heroin phase. (I hear there's a drive-thru dealership right across from the Karl Sisters' new home.)
Some of these phases I've really liked. Some I've missed intensely upon their passing. This is not one I will miss. I know I shouldn't talk since I haven't yet even played the game, and everyone's raving about it so continuously, and I wasn't too keen on the Gerbiling phase until someone showed me how to painlessly insert the little buggers. But still. My friends describe Settlers as Risk, but with more wheat. Hey, I like a good grain now and then -- cleans out the system -- but I never did like the Game of World Conquest. (Also, Settlers has been huge in Germany for years, as was the extermination of the Jews.)
Anyhow, there's only two ways this phase will end: either people get sick of the game or they find something new to occupy our time. So please, if you have any good games or distractions or evil vices, send them my direction. Or else I may have to return to the Heroin phase. (I hear there's a drive-thru dealership right across from the Karl Sisters' new home.)
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Questioning the question-asking questioners
A question has arisen. And we're all about answering questions. We are also all about using the Royal We. Actually, strike that. The Royal We reminds me of little pigs going all the way home and little children going all the way in their pants. So ... I'm all about answering questions. Like doesn't Howard Dean's neck make him look like a snail? And doesn't seeing Drew Barrymore smile at Wesley Clark make you go all squishy inside? (Personally, I think John Kerry looks more like ET, at least before the alleged Botox injections.) Is there anyone anywhere -- besides the Republican National Committee -- who wants Joe Lieberman to remain in the race?
So, we're here for you. We've got answers. (Yes, yes, and no.) And more questions, like this one, asked by Ajerx: What the hell is "Rodong"?
Rodong is my adopted middle name. Back in the monolithic era, aka the late 1980s, my younger brothers decided that I had everything you could ever want -- except a middle name. So they, unbenownst to me, sent 3x5 cards to my friends and relatives, asking them to think up three suitable middle names and send them back. Then, for Christmas, they placed all the cards in a box and gave them to me, suggesting that I pick one. I chose Rodong.
Well, Bruce said it was Korean for "creativity," which I thought was cool since I was born in Seoul and I was, um, creative. Plus, it made me sound like a porn star.
But then later on, he told me it meant "trash compactor." Or something equally impressive. So now I go by Dan Dan. Which also makes me sound like a porn star. Or one of the Flintstones. Or both.
So, we're here for you. We've got answers. (Yes, yes, and no.) And more questions, like this one, asked by Ajerx: What the hell is "Rodong"?
Rodong is my adopted middle name. Back in the monolithic era, aka the late 1980s, my younger brothers decided that I had everything you could ever want -- except a middle name. So they, unbenownst to me, sent 3x5 cards to my friends and relatives, asking them to think up three suitable middle names and send them back. Then, for Christmas, they placed all the cards in a box and gave them to me, suggesting that I pick one. I chose Rodong.
Well, Bruce said it was Korean for "creativity," which I thought was cool since I was born in Seoul and I was, um, creative. Plus, it made me sound like a porn star.
But then later on, he told me it meant "trash compactor." Or something equally impressive. So now I go by Dan Dan. Which also makes me sound like a porn star. Or one of the Flintstones. Or both.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Selling more than cookies
Have you seen the new Girl Scout volunteer recruitment ads? There's a photo of three very provocatively attired, very hottt girls, above the tagline, "We want an advisor who knows 50 Cent isn't two quarters." Did I miss something? Since when do the Girl Scouts advocate popping some E and screwing around? Why else would you advertise for a supervisor who could lead the troops in a singalong of 50's biggest hit? Cum on everybody, sing along: "Look Mami I got the X/ if you into taking drugs/ I'm into having sex/ I ain't into making love." Beats the hell out of "Kumbaya," I suppose.
