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Archive
Untitled Document
Archive 16
prague
amsterdam
world's worst car names
prod test: pretzel m&ms
the dominican republic
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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
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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
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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
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Archive 9
the cali roadtrip
celeb sighting 6: rupaul
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casualties of war
Archive 8
celeb sighting 5: max kellerman
booze experimentation
deus ex: invisible war
the weakest fortune ever
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Archive 7
the six flags guy
celeb sighting 3: len berman
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max payne 2
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Archive 6
st. thomas, usvi
mr. hipster goes domestic
the danger of googling
halo
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Archive 5
joe strummer tribute show
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new jersey state fair
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Archive 4
hdtv
kennebunkport, maine
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Archive 3
ford motor company
look kids, parliament
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Archive 2
freedom
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the decemberists
philadelphia
tokyo police club
acupuncture
the antichrist goes home
We walked the eighth of a mile
or so from our house down to The
Wellmont Theatre in Montclair to see The
Decemberists, and could hardly believe how they turned the former
shithole of a movie theater that once stood there into a terrific,
modern concert venue. And I stood there proudly, secure in the fact
that I too had what those hipster kids in Brooklyn had: a legit
joint to watch bands play at high volume while drinking seven-dollar
beers. Wooohooo! Granted, I don't think Steely Dan is playing Williamsburg
any time soon.
Clearly The Decemberists (who shilled for Obama at some point in
the campaign) knew their audience. After all, I believe 89% of Montclair
residents voted for Obama, and the other 11% voted for idiots like
that smug shit, Ralph Nader, and a smattering of Green and Commie
party nobodies. They mentioned the outgoing administration several
times, and sang with passion in a new-ish song about Valerie Plame.
It was a good time, despite the spastic, swaying Euro guy in front
of me, and my fixation on lead singer Colin
Meloy and his uncanny resemblance to Dwight
Schrute. Here's the final couple minutes of the show shot on
my cell phone. The guy singing way off key to the hippy bs going
on is in no way me--so ignore him.
Sure, it's kind of lame taking
a "vacation" like ninety minutes from one's house, but I
suppose it's better than a weekend in Newark. That said, why not visit
the second largest city in the area and enjoy some of its history,
food and drinking establishments. But mostly its drinking establishments.
So here's a quick list (and any pictures) of places at which I ate
and drank--or remember drinking.
Monk's Cafe:
This is one of those wacky Belgian brewery places with all sorts of
beers that taste like bitter herbs and wheat fields. The front room
was a little beat, but the back room was nice and cool. We had some
decent mussels and I had a delicious duck sandwich. We went through
about a hundred bucks worth of beer, and left with some serious headspins.
McGillin's Olde
Ale House: This place is old as dirt. I'm talking like dudes in
those little pince-nez glasses and walrus mustaches. Now it's filled
with what appeared to be college students and young kids just looking
to hang out and drink lots and lots of beers. There was some serious
drunken debauchery going on here, but the crowd was friendly and not
at all interested in punching anyone.
El Vez:
I stuck to Negro Modelos, but the rest of our party drank margaritas.
The guacamole was decent, but not spectacular, and the second batch
we ordered with goat cheese and pistachio was just too rich and weird,
but it was certainly interesting. The real surprise came with my enchilada
tasting plate, which included black bean, chicken and crab enchiladas.
I didn't expect good Mexican food in a trendy joint in Philadelphia,
but those damn enchiladas were so damn tasty I didn't know what to
do with myself. All of us absolutely loved our meals and couldn't
stop talking about the incredible sauces all weekend. Who knew? Oh,
and there was some dude from the Sixers there with his hot date, and
the crowd was young and active.
Rouge:
We stopped here for brunch after looking for another joint and not
finding it. It was a weird place to say the least. It felt a bit like
sitting in a drapery showroom that was actually a lounge that put
out tables to make some money for morning crowd. I stuck with the
safe bagel, lox and "Philadelphia" cream cheese. It was
fine, but still just plain strange.
Pat's Steaks
vs. Geno's Steaks:
I mean why come to Philly if not to get a cheesesteak? And if you're
going to get a steak, why not go to the most famous joints in the
city? Of course, as we know, the most famous doesn't necessarily mean
the best. We went on a dreary, cold day, tried Pat's first and then
crossed the street to eat some Geno's. The lines at both were relatively
long, but moved quickly as we ordered "steaks wit--provolone."
In Philly cheesesteak vernacular, that means a cheesesteak with onions
and provolone. The kind of default cheese is actually cheeze wiz,
which has always wigged me out a bit, but whatever. I can't say that
I was really impressed with either place. Pat's steak was a bit overcooked
and had the livery taste that inferior meat sometimes gets when it's
cooked for too long. Geno's tasted much better (although there was
much less meat on the sandwich), but was still missing that something
that made it anything special. What we should have done is go to Jim's
Steaks, a joint that I had gone to years ago and I seem to recall
tasting a bit more like what I expected from a Philly cheesesteak.
Despite the disappointment in the steaks themselves, these places
are true institutions and shouldn't be missed for that true Philly
experience (despite the slight whiff of old school racism at Geno's).
Fergie's Pub:
We stopped in here for some afternoon beers. We were a little stuffed
from sampling cheesesteaks, so we were only able to choke down three
or four. This joint has live music at night, and is a pretty mellow
pub-like place during the day. Drinking when the sun is up is always
a good time.
13: This is some sort of bar/lounge/restaurant in
the Downtown
Marriott where we stayed. It has to be one of the worst run places
in the entire country. They couldn't figure out how to work the TVs,
made their bloody Marys with some sort of crap from a bottle and had
a bartender with as much personality as the bacteria-laden comforter
on my rent-a-bed.
Franks
A-Lot: This is just a hot dog stand in the Reading
Terminal Market, which is just a giant food court. We came in
on a Friday, and most of the vendors were closing up. Starving, we
went for some hot dogs that were rolling on one of those hot dog rolling
cooker things. They weren't half bad. The market itself was a smorgasbord
of meat and fish vendors, along with your more typical sandwiches,
Asian food and whatnot. I'm sure it's packed with office workers during
the week.
Marathon Grill:
We were just wandering around Market Street looking for somewhere
to catch a hung-over breakfast prior to getting on the road back up
North and ran into this joint. It's a little weird in its set-up,
but the breakfast food turned out to be pretty tasty. It looks to
be a chain of some sort.
Oh, and there was some historical shit and stuff, too.
Considering the fact that Ms. Hipster and I were old
enough to be the parents of all the members of the two opening bands,
I wondered if perhaps we had gotten in over our heads going to a
kiddy show. It turned out that we had the stamina and grit to outlast
and survive.
The first opening band, The
Static Jacks, hails from my adoptive state of New Jersey, and
looked the part, right down to their curly brunette locks and something
just smelled of The Garden State. It looked, at first glance, not
unlike a North Jersey high school talent show. I had checked out
snippets of their stuff on MySpace,
but when faced with teenagers with guitars who really knows what
the hell you're going to get. It turns out these kids do a damn
good approximation of Strokes-like
rock 'n roll. Considering the largest of 'em probably weighs 125
soaking wet, we were impressed with their power and verve. The gangly
lead guitarist does a perfect I don't give a shit deadpan and the
front "man" jerked around like an erstwhile Mick Jagger and made
little funnies about their cheap merch available at the downstairs
table. Looking back at all the crapass high school performances
I had to sit through when I was actually in high school a million
years ago, I couldn't help but think that even if these guys don't
follow the rockin' path to glory, and end up being ad execs or lawyers
or some profession that doesn't even exist in 2008, they can always
look back and say that as high schoolers they fuckin' rocked New
York City. Jealousy doesn't even begin to cover it...
The second opening band, Smoosh,
I knew nothing about (which put me squarely in the minority). It
turns out that they're even younger than the first band, and all
girls. We walked back into the main show space about two songs into
their set, and the first thing that struck me was the size of the
bassist's guitar. And then I realized it wasn't the bass that was
huge but the girl that was small. It took me a couple minutes to
figure out that not only was she small, but she was literally a
child. My assumptions were confirmed when after the fourth song
she put down her bass and skipped off the stage--presumably
because 10:30 was her bedtime. It was pretty hysterical. And then
I noticed the headbanging drummer was also looking youngish, and
as a matter of fact, the singer/keyboardist looked rather teenagery
as well. So it turns out these girls are all sisters, ages 16, 14
and 11. And while I'm not a humongous fan of their Quasi/Mates
of State meets Tori
Amos thing, it's always impressive when kids rock it out. And
the missus, being a drummer herself, totally dug the 14-year-old
with the headband doing her best Tommy Lee impression behind the
kit.
So, finally we get to the main act. Now I know the dudes in Tokyo
Police Club are young, but compared to their openers, these
guys look positively geriatric. They certainly don't play like old
folks, though, as they blazed through a 50 minute set at breakneck
speed. Along the way they made at least four or five Canada references
(one "border issue" that left them merchless, as well
as some playoff hockey reference I didn't get because I don't get
hockey, along with a couple others), made the crowd clap along and
proved that rock and roll can be fun. So many times I go to shows
of bands that are awesome on record and am completely disappointed
by their live show. One of the most disappointing things is actually
when they sound exactly like they do on the album, don't interact
with the crowd and just plow through a set that I could get putting
the thing on random on my iPod. Not so with Tokyo Police Club. While
they sound amazingly polished on their new record, Elephant Shell,
they sound even better live. They really pump up the volume, up
the tempo a little bit and the lead singer, Dave Monks, pushes his
voice to the brink. The funniest thing is their nerdy keyboardist
and backing vocals guy, Graham Wright. He's that wonderful indie
rock anomaly with the horn rimmed glasses, high school physique
and the "I can't believe this band geek is playing in a popular
rock band and getting adoration from real fans so I'm going to pour
every ounce of energy I have into every performance" unabashed
draw. Having only one album (that wasn't even officially released
the night of the show, but was available via download on iTunes
and Amazon) and an EP (along with another sorta EP), their set was
somewhat limited, but when you're playing music with such instantly
catchy melodies and propulsive drumming and whatnot, it's a lean
but dynamic experience.
So overall I highly recommend getting out and seeing these guys
if you have an opportunity, even if you've never heard a single
note off of their music. And even for us older folks, the crowd
wasn't as young and hipsterish as I thought it would be. There were
actually people older than us there--although they were probably
the parents of The Static Jacks driving in from Westfield, or the
girls' grandparents. In any case, I didn't feel out of place at
all, and only spied a handful of hipster assholes with skinny jeans,
studded belts and white sneakers. And while those guys were busy
trying too hard, nobody in the audience had to try too hard to have
a good time. Smiles all around. Go Canada.
So I'm not usually a huge fan of non-scientific
mumbo-jumbo, but when there are irrefutable results that spawn from
the hocus pocus I'm hard pressed to deny its validity. Now having
said this, I'm still more than a little skeptical of acupuncture's
powers of healing mental and non-demonstrative physical ailments,
but when it comes to killing ganglion
cysts, apparently the shit really works.
What the hell is a ganglion cyst, you ask? Well, I don't right know,
other than to say that it's some sort of fluid filled sac that's builds
up near or around your wrist bones due to repetitive stress and motion.
Or at least that's what I read. It's one of those things that bodybuilders
and Cold
Stone Creamery employees suffer with, although I fail to see what
I have in common with either of these subspecies. Mine, sadly enough
is just probably from mousing too much, and having wrists so scrawny
that I have to custom order watchbands--or just grab an awl and make
my own.
Whatever the case, I thought that since I was already lying on a table
waiting for a nice Chinese woman to stick me with sharp objects, I
might as well mention it to her. As usual she asked to see my tongue
(although I have very little understanding what one has to do with
the other). And then seized my wrist like she was either going to
shake like an angry dog or yank it from its socket like a ravenous
zombie. Instead she pronated the appendage and started poking and
prodding it. Then she stuck my hand with a bunch of pins like a birthday
donkey.
Along with those pins came pins in my lower abdomen, pins in my neck,
ears, Achilles, arches of my feet, widow's peak area and scalp. And
somehow, as I always do, I fell asleep.
Going home I actually started to notice my little wrist bump shrinking.
I still slept like shit, but at least something was coming of it.
Two more visits--both times having electrodes hooked up to the needles
in my wrist (or, more accurately, my upper hand) and a bell under
my other hand--and the thing has completely vanished.
The most fucked up thing is that I went online and read about these
things, and people have to have everything from minor aspiration
surgery (gross) to an all-out hand surgery, scoop-out procedure.
There are actual dangers involved with that, including nerve and
tendon damage and infection and hospital dry rot. Granted, my cyst
was relatively small, but now it's history.
Of course being a realist and a general skeptic, I'm wondering if
I did in fact have a ganglion cyst at all, or if I just had some
familial offshoot. Why else, then, was it so easy for her to cure
what others require modern medicine to take care of? I mean she
seemed really confident that she could get rid of it when she first
took a look at it. Maybe it's some sort of parlor trick? If that
were the case she would have just used the old-fashioned remedy
for curing these things: whack it with a bible. No, seriously, that
was how people used to rid themselves of these things. Can you imagine
a bunch of meatheads telling each other to stand still while they
bring the holy bible down on some of the most delicate bones in
your body? Smooth.
Anyhow, I still wake up in the middle of the night and can't go
back to sleep, and have zero energy on the weekends, but my mousing
wrist is as good as new. Too bad I shifted mouse hands over a year
ago. Now if I could just switch brains.
I know it doesn't make any sense to call a Baptist
preacher the Antichrist (cuz he's actually more like the Wayprochrist),
but I'm going to go ahead and call a spade a spade. Mike Huckabee,
the non-evolution-believing Antichrist has been officially sent
home by crusty old John McCain. And while McCain ain't gonna win
any votes from my neck of the woods, I'm glad to see another religious
nutjob Southerner sent packing.
Just to remind you what you'll be missing in the White House:
On the confederate flag:
"You don't like people from
outside the state coming in and telling you what to do with
your flag. In fact, if somebody came to Arkansas and told
us what to do with our flag, we'd tell them what to do with
the pole; that's what we'd do."
On evolution:
"If you want to believe that you and your family came from
apes, that's fine. I'll accept that. I just don't happen
to think that I did." |
Thanks for the memories, douche. I'm
going to take my ape ass and go write a diatribe about how you're
what's wrong with our country. It's just embarrasing.
|
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