Archive

Archive 15
titus andronicus @ maxwell's
miles kurosky @ mercury lounge
dinosaur jr. @ bowery ballroom
be your own dj
big apple circus

Archive 14
greatest actor of his gen.
why sirius/xm will fail
the 2nd worst block in nyc
prod. tes: dentyne blast
the subaru

Archive 13
the decemberists
philadelphia
tokyo police club
acupuncture
the antichrist goes home

Archive 12
bubba's secret campaign
celeb sighting 8: steve schirripa
the police @ msg
celeb sighting 7: andrew mccarthy
puerto vallarta, mexico

Archive 11
kurt vonnegut: r.i.p.
worst boss ever
best purchase ever
ogunquit, me
bummer movies

Archive 10
pearl jam
dodge earthfucker
montclair: hipster central
24
halo 2

Archive 9
the cali roadtrip
celeb sighting 6: rupaul
product 1: diet coke w/ splenda
cell phone headsets
casualties of war

Archive 8
celeb sighting 5: max kellerman
booze experimentation
deus ex: invisible war
the weakest fortune ever
celeb sighting 4: christina aguilera

Archive 7
the six flags guy
celeb sighting 3: len berman
celeb sighting 2: christena pyle
max payne 2
celeb sighting 1: amber valletta

Archive 6
st. thomas, usvi
mr. hipster goes domestic
the danger of googling
halo
why i love whitney matheson

Archive 5
joe strummer tribute show
london part deux
london
new jersey state fair
lake george, ny

Archive 4
hdtv
kennebunkport, maine
the ponies
slow jams
the opera

Archive 3
ford motor company
look kids, parliament
tuesdays with morrie
snow
the blogger bash

Archive 2
freedom
the geniuses at fox
the blvd of porn & trinkets
the ugly bar
city kids

Archive 1
suburban cops
fat loss miracle
the free gift
sunflower seeds
unemployment

PEARL JAM

As much as I've tried to let Pearl Jam go as part of the grunge ghost that was my college career, they always manage to find a way back into my heart. That 3/4 time swagger (despite being co-opted by inferior bands like, most famously, The Goo Goo Dolls) just socks me in the gut like no indie rock band quite can. It's no wonder the first minute of the band's second song, "Corduroy," had me welling up like, well, the tour nerd standing next to me. There's something about that song, and a giant arena filled with fist-pumping Gen-Xers that captures the spirit of rock and roll in a way that no sweater and tortoise shell Brooklyn-band-of-the-moment show at the Bowery Ballroom can. Not to discount my bread and butter, but the sheer geek frenzy of the PJ crowd, mixed with the nostalgic blow of Eddie's mumbling wail sets something off in me that makes me want to high-five fanclub member #163,836 from Scranton, PA. I refrain, of course, because my hipster card is already in jeopardy by just stepping foot in the Continental Airlines Arena parking lot.

Although nothing made me feel as old as my recent Pearl Jam work experience, watching the AOL Music Sessions session with PJ in a room filled with the music team. Eddie started singing ''Gone'' solo with his guitar, and I looked around the room we affectionately call ''The Death Star'' to see a bunch of confused and/or scoffing young faces all but laughing at this old, doddering fool grumbling incoherently about Bush or love or bugs or whatever. It's grunge, dammit! Geez, thank god the next band they showed was the savior of rock and roll, All-American Rejects. That reminds me of this one time back when KRock still played music; Julie Slater was giving away tickets to the 92nd caller, and that person had a choice of concert tickets between Creed and Pearl Jam. Of course the idiot child who won chose the Creed tickets, to which Slater said, "Really?" The caller went on to say how much Pearl Jam sucked and how great Creed is. That argument is like saying, to a lesser extent, of course, that the Beatles suck and Beatlemania is where it's at!

All I know is that it's almost impossible not to geek out when faced with one of the stronger molding forces of your drunken coming-of-age. If my college life weren't filled with grungy basement frat parties and beer-soaked life-affirming mosh pits, I don't know what kind of person I would be today. I'm sure my liver would be more healthy, and my eardrums a little more intact, but I would never know the joy of sheer testosterone-laden dorkiness. Just ask the giant Jersey meathead sitting in front of me who pointed at Vedder several times during the show and screamed "I love you!" before turning to hug his male companion for the forty-seventh time since they took the stage. Now that's powerful stuff.

"later, little grunge dudes"

DODGE EARTHFUCKER

So with gas over three dollars a gallon I decide to go lease the world's largest land vehicle. Not surprisingly they were offering some really good incentives and prices. Shit, I replaced an SUV with a six cylinder, 165 horsepower engine and cloth seats with an eight cylinder 345 horsepower HEMI with leather and a DVD player for practically the same monthly payment. How could I resist? My gawd, it's a HEMI (and I understand that's a good thing).

My bloodlust for a gigantic engine and seating for seven (despite only having three people in my family) completely blinded me to the implications for the environment. Now every Friday night I get to be guilted by Bill Maher and his retarded Prius. Man, if a guy that ugly can drive a battery-operated Tonka toy and still get laid, he must really have some fourth dimensional side to him that is apparently subliminally attractive to women.

I know I'm a horrible person who obviously supports terrorism. But what if my motives in buying an American all-wheel-drive, gas-guzzling monster is all a covert operation to thwart the terrorists by using up all of the Middle East's oil in order to force Bush's hand into actually looking for alternative energy sources? Far-fetched, I know, but if we all follow Mr. Hipster's lead and buy big, we should run through the fossil fuels in like two years. The trick will be convincing the Europeans to give up those tiny death traps they call autos. I honestly have a recurring dream about crushing a whole line of LeCars under my giant, earthfucker tires. Meanwhile, watch your side mirrors and keep the women and children inside. I'm coming through your town with my giant earthfucker blasting the Boohbahs on the DVD player, and dragging the ozone layer kicking and screaming to an early grave. I know, I suck, but I ride in style biatch.

i need like a fisheye for this thing

MONTCLAIR: HIPSTER CENTRAL

I've heard it called the "Upper West Side of New Jersey," but now Mr. Hipster calls it home. This doesn't mean I'm going to start Mr. Hipster West, or any nonsense like that, but anything is possible. It means, more or less, that Mr. Hipster is just becoming more mature and stuff. I've moved into a town (as the nickname implies) filled with the three Ls: lesbians, literati and liberal Jews. Ms. Hipster used to be a reporter and, um, has been told by several people that she reminds them of Nancy McKeon, who haaas to be a lesbian (but is in deep denial, obviously). I worked for a book publisher for a couple years, so there's my "l," but have never been told I look like anybody other than Andrew McCarthy---which is a dirty, rotten lie. Oh, and Hipster Jr. goes to go to a JCC daycare and loves nothing more than to do the Kosher thing and vote Democrat (or Socialist if he's feeling frisky). He looks kind of like a hobbit.

Now that I've sold the move to the skeptical jackasses out there, I'll have you know that urban-suburban is the new urban--plus like four bedrooms and a couple thousand square feet. And if that isn't enough, we can now walk to three, yes three, different Indian restaurants, a Jamaican joint, a couple Japanese, French, Mexican, barbeque, Cuban, Thai, American, Italian and even a few art house movie theaters. So suck on that you jerk-offs on the UES! All we're missing is a Greek diner to complete the array. Oh, wait; we have one of those too! I hate having to prove my hipsterishness (or defend it), but this move doesn't spell the end of anything; it spells the beginning of a whole new New Jersey adventure.

I can just see me and Peter King sharing a giant sub sandwich at the local deli. And maybe uber-celeb, and Montclair resident, Stephen Colbert, and I will bump in to each other while browsing the memoir section at the Montclair library. Only a couple weeks in, and I've already sat at bar around the corner with none other than Peter Greene. Who's that? Dude, he was Zed (yes, the guy with The Gimp) in Pulp Fiction, and the bad guy in The Mask!

All that's left now is for me to buy a Volvo station wagon, have one-point-five more kids, build a white picket fence and go to one of those town meetings at which I complain about those evil-doers from the rainbow-flagged congregational church parking in front of my house. For those of you hipsters living in Williamsburg, that's kind of like bitching about the stupid couple at your co-op meeting who insists on putting their Adirondack chairs out in their garden apartment, when it's so clearly stated in rule 3.16 of the bylaws that all sitting surfaces must be made of quality no less than oak.

It was somehow inevitable that I would end up here. The area in Los Angeles in which I grew up was similar in its make-up (minus the whole Newark proximity thing) and general feel. And now Hipster Jr. will be able to enjoy his upbringing in a community with decent public schools, tree-lined streets and like two Dunkin' Donuts within walking distance. So, he may grow up fat and stupid, but at least he'll be able to say he's from the same town as Buzz Aldrin, Kreskin and the Indian dude from Harold & Kumar go to White Castle.

Montclair reading:
Barista of Bloomfield Ave.
Mano a Vino Montclair
The Montclair Times

24: TV ON 'ROIDS

In the four seasons of 24 Jack Bauer has died twice. His wife was murdered by his future girlfriend, whom he ended up killing in cold blood. He has been a suspect in the assassination attempt of the president and a heroin addict. He has been fired by his counter terrorist unit, CTU, at least ten times, and ended at least one interrogation by beheading the interviewee. He, like the show, is completely earnest and without humor. He constantly squints, scowls and rips into subordinates and superiors. He has killed and/or disabled countless bad guys--and even some good ones. All this, and the man is strangely co-dependent, latching onto a new woman in every new season--a new woman who he will ultimately have to save from some Middle Eastern or Eastern European baddie at some point.

The show has utilized a grand total of about 10 locations, reusing the same hillside location several times in each season. If you had never been to Los Angeles, you'd think the whole thing was just rolling, brown hills full of shrubs. Like the locations, plots are the same every year, with little twists thrown in here and there. Inevitably Jack will be accused of something he didn't do, and he will have to go rogue to both prove his innocence and foil the terrorist plot. Someone he loves will be kidnapped, and someone inside both CTU and the office of the President will turn out to be working in cahoots with the terrorists. How 'bout some background checks here, folks? Someone will "open a socket" and tell Jack that something he's doing is "against protocol."

One thing that may actually be the show's attempt to interject a little inside humor is what seems like the never-ending battle for the upstairs, director's office at CTU headquarters. Every season someone comes in and displaces someone else from that office, only to be supplanted by another and so on. Of course that's probably me projecting. Despite the repetitive nature of the plotlines and unsmiling characters, the show is almost better for them. I get giddy with excitement when Jack straps on his Felix the Cat, black messenger bag, cuz I just know he's going to kick ass. I love that, with the exception of Jack, nobody on the show is safe. They will kill off anybody. They've killed women and children. Hell, they've killed dogs! The first episode of season five alone, they killed off two major characters.

The driving force behind the absolute awesomeness of the show is Kiefer Sutherland. The man hasn't cracked a smile in four years. It's gotten to the point that it's difficult to separate the actor from his character. At awards shows he seems distant, reserved, suspicious, pissed off, and just a little dangerous. Maybe he's always been like that, but I swear he's taken on the persona of Jack Bauer. His supporting cast is hit or miss, with frowning Chloe (Mary Lynn Rajskub from Mr. Show and The Larry Sanders Show) and lisping Edgar (Louis Lombardi from The Sopranos) almost comic relief in a sea of intensity. One of the worst performances ever caught on film was turned in by Dennis Hopper a couple seasons ago as Serbian warlord, Victor Drazen. The man almost single-handedly ruined the acting industry--it was that bad. This year they seem to have gotten it right with the diminutive Sean Astin playing the boss' boss (and playing it completely straight), the terrific Jean Smart as the bi-polar First Lady and that chick, Connie Britton, from Spin City (the first one of his lady loves to break the 100-pound barrier) as Jack's latest lady friend. I don't where they dug up the greasy teenager playing her son, but he seems like another weird bargain basement choice made on a dare or as a favor to one of the show's producers. There is a rumor that Jack's hot-as-hell daughter, Elisha Cuthbert, is coming back after a year off. Maybe this year this uneducated nanny, who somehow became a systems analyst for the CIA with no training or experience (nepotism anybody?), will come back as like CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Who knows what will happen in the wacky world of 24? Whatever the case, and no matter how many people they kill off, this show will always be engaging and compelling. It's one of those shows that its okay to talk through, as you spend half the time laughing out loud, smacking your head and wondering to anyone within shouting distance, "What the hell?! I can't believe they just did that! This is the most ludicrous thing I've ever seen--and I love it!"

HALO 2

As nerdy as it is, I used to play PC games. Sure I had my Playstation 1, but that was essentially reserved for Madden '97 through 2001. All the fancy gaming like Deus Ex, Half Life, Castle Wolfenstein, Max Payne 1, Unreal and even No One Lives Forever were done with the old mouse and keyboard strokes. I took glitches and graphic card incompatibility as just part of the experience. I mean, it was more than once that I got stuck in a wall or some creature fluttered and exploded, taking my processor with it. After all, I wasn't a serious gamer or anything. And then I experienced the smooth, flawless play of the Xbox. No more disappearing backgrounds, failed saves or pressing K to strafe. Of course I was spoiled when my first play was Halo. The thing was so clean and smooth that I almost took the realism for granted. Halo 2 is no different. Characters glide and leap. Vehicles roll and bump. And scenery slides by unmarred by dropped pixels or lag. The work that goes into creating these worlds must be insane. Every shadowy corner, drippy ceiling and echoing floor must be painstakingly created. It's mind-blowing that I used to play with plastic toys when I was a child that weebled and wobbled, but didn't fall down. The kids of today are freakin' spolied. First they get a huge curve on the SAT, and then they get video games that are so amazingly lifelike that they don't need to use their imagination at all! Back in the day, we had to just pretend the ball was floating in the air when that square cluster of white pixels cut its jagged trajectory through the infield on Intellivision baseball. Wow, I sound like a bitter, old dude who still plays video games after his woman goes to sleep.

stop, or i'll make you say ouch with my stapler!