Now

If you search instagram or twitter right now for "Mates of State", you'll see me in the background of many photos and videos.

The free, intimate "rehearsal" show they played in the basement of Frank's North Star Tavern was well attended and VERY well documented. Look at all these jokers -- snapping chats and vining their facebooks! Within moments, I felt a strong camaraderie with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

(For the record, I took one picture before the show and two back-to-back pictures during the show. I am perfect.)

I'm glad I chose to stand directly behind them. Sure, I couldn't hear the vocals too well, but this was the closest perspective I will ever have to being in the band. Beyond understanding how rocker could get annoyed by overuse of technology, I was struck by how disinterested many attendees looked. I understand if you don't bop your head or mouth the lyrics, but to stand still without even a smile on your face? That would mess with my head if I were a performer for anything more significant than karaoke. Cheer up, buds! This is fun! This was fun! Good show!

Great Scots

Thoroughly enjoyed damaging my ears Tuesday night in Westport, courtesy of We Were Promised Jetpacks.

During a rare silent moment between songs, a crowd member to my right shouted, "What happened in the attic?", a reference to the oft-repeated lyric "Something happened in the attic" from their song "This is My House, This is My Home". The lead singer didn't look up and immediately shouted "Shut the fuck up!" before launching into the next song. Well played, you glorious Scotsmen.

Things To Do In Dupont When You're Invited To A Wedding

FRIDAY

Woke up at 3:30 for 6 a.m. flight. Ate one two of my beloved Teaism ginger scones, while everyone else raved about the sausage. Led a tour of the national mall, including Union Station, the Supreme Court, and my beloved Library of Congress.


We added friends to the group as they arrived at the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. There was a whole lot of handsome in front of the White House.


Filled with french cuisine, we walked to Stoney's for the wedding eve festivities. When the night was still young, Jack Serpentine regaled us with a telling of the "Hot Hamburger" story, about his youngest brother Dimebag, as Dimebag himself nodded along.

(The sound is not great, but it's acceptable. The unrecorded beginning of the story is simple: their family was out to eat at The Carriage Crossing, deciding what to order...)



Later, while I was raconteuring, a bunch of shots were taken. Mistakes were made.


My lady and I stayed up past one despite our early start, but were not among the heroes who closed the bar.


SATURDAY

Not much going on Saturday.











Saturday. What a total bore.


SUNDAY

Museums. A Thai meal that resulted in Floyd's newest nickname, taken from the menu: Crying Tiger.


MONDAY

Brunch, return flight, Arthur Bryant's, home.


TUESDAY

Nostalgia

Creole My My, Creole Hell Yes

Last weekend was Jack Serpentine's bachelor party, held in New Orleans. As we all know, what happens in New Orleans drowns in New Orleans. But not the tales from this adventure!

On Friday night, some of us trekked to renowned Bourbon Street to drink renowned and rum-laden Hurricanes.


Later, Gav sampled another local bad idea, the grain-alcohol-laden Hand Grenade.


Later, Al told us about the eastward (?) progression of Bourbon Street. "In a couple of blocks, it's going to get really gay, and then it's going to get really dangerous." He marched us on, past the police car parked next to a group of college kids. "Be careful man! We just got mugged down there!" a young man said to me in his pathetic southern drawl. We pushed on, because Al wanted to show us a bar off the beaten path.

We did not make it to that bar. ...Because it was closed! I think! It's kind of a blur! But we did venture in a different bar, where a local man took off his overshirt before taking on Gav in foosball. Gav responded by taking off his overshirt and losing -- that local was crazy good at foosball. The best I've ever seen.


Then our group walked home.

The following night, largely identical things happened, until Gav suggested listening to a band. The bar was called Sing Sing, and the guitarist wore a Naval costume of some sort.

But it was cool, because he could really shred Hendrix-style! And the rest of the cover band was good, too! And Gav kept buying shots, so we got pretty into it! Fist pump!



During the fifteen-minute performance of "Purple Rain", this nonsense happened:



There was a lot of love in the room. We all became fast friends, and ten years from now we're all going to meet up at that very bar and reminisce, which I just spelled correctly on my first try, no big deal.


Mr. Serpentine wanted to have a nightcap with Gav and I before we went back to the hotel, so we wandered into one of Bourbon Street's rare daiquiri shoppes sometime after 4. A certain someone proceeded to order three 36-ounce frozen drinks. "What kind?" the barkeep asked. "The Best One," a certain someone replied. She gave us some formula designed to taste like astronaut Tang. I had a dozen sips; I think I drank the most. Like all transactions in the Big Easy, it was money well spent.

The next morning/lunchtime, I looked like this:


Bam.

Last Friday Night

Our new restaurant of choice is the recently opened 715. I've still not heard if its proper name is seven-fifteen or seven-one-five; I've opted for the most literal: seven-hundred-and-fifteen. We arrived early Friday night, around 6:30, to beat the crowd, and were promptly seated near the door. A half-liter of the cheap white house wine. For the lady, a simple green salad featuring goat cheese and five thin radish slices, followed by potato tortelli with local bison ragu. I enjoyed the special -- a pan-seared, wild-caught striped bass over broccoli and calabrian chiles -- more than any fish I've ever eaten outside of Oregon.

Despite the allure of the after-dinner drink menu's hot apple cider Tuaca, I convinced Kim to join me for a vanilla vodka and Coke at Henry's Upstairs. Walking along Massachusetts Street, already discussing her dad via an unrelated thing, I told her what he said on the day after Thanksgiving, when I asked his permission to propose.

"Sure."

Her father shared one additional, deceptively simple sentence: "Just make her happy." I apologized for my lack of plans or timeline, and returned to silently chopping vegetables for the turkey soup.

I told Kim all this -- by now we'd trekked to our nearly empty destination, climbed the stairs, accepted our drinks, and sat at the same table where I'd first held her hand -- and I told her how happy she made me, and I asked her to marry me. It took a few moments to convince her to open the box in my left hand instead of looking at it, and me, and smiling.

Twenty Ten

I can't recall what song this was, but I know I played that bongo with perfect rythym.

Good times.

Mega Beers And Mega Cheers

Jack Serpentine, Circle V, and I grabbed some mega beers in small town Kansas last night.




Four dollars per mega beer and all the second-hand smoke you can inhale. That's what small town living is all about.

Here's what Christmas (Eve) is all about -- my brother and I receiving some toys from the attic as part of our gifts. (Not "Toys in the Attic", which would have ruined Christmas.) I grabbed a few old favorites and hit record:

Christmas on Dagobah from chester reboulet on Vimeo.

That was completely improvised, so please spare me your corrections. I KNOW Dagobah is a planet, not a moon. EMOTIONS WERE CLOUDING MY BRAIN FUNCTION.

Fun fact: that Dinobot Transformer was purchased at a garage sale. Your loss is my awesome gain, stupid west Wichita kid who is now a depressed adult somewhere!

Bring Me To Yikes

One thing leads to another. You know how it goes. Saturday night in the Kansas City suburbs, you have a few finger foods and some punch, then the gang moves on to the bar, and you rummage through a karaoke songbook full of odd selections, you go through the familiar motions of Chris Martin, and Jared, who used to think karaoke was "unethical", makes a suggestion of questionable merit, and you can't figure out how you're supposed to switch back-and-forth between the male and female vocal, but you're on board anyway, and before you know it there are women of questionable merit dancing to your performance and a camera is recording video.

Duets from chester reboulet on Vimeo.

I am so sorry. We are so sorry.

Only in New York - Day Three + Four

Friday, Kim and I went to Liberty Island and Ellis Island.

My favorite part of Ellis Island was the immigration museum. I've complained about the campaign to restore other buildings on Ellis Island several times before, but my opinion on that matter didn't keep me from having a nice time.

My favorite part of Liberty Island was the Statue of Liberty. Previously, my only exposure to that piece of real estate was via Floyd's copy of Grand Theft Auto IV. It was wonderful to see, live and in person, the small structure that provided my virtual self cover as I shot down police helicopter after police helicopter, before ultimately fleeing the island by boat, somehow outpacing law enforcement, and surviving unscathed. Only in America; only in New York.

You have seen photos of these landmarks before, so let's move on to what you haven't seen.

Our group gathered on the Great Lawn of Central Park that evening to hear a free New York Philharmonic concert.


There were a lot of alfresco diners! And what better place than Central Park, home of a few portable toilets with no adjacent handwashing facilities? More wine and cheese for everyone!

Adrienne brought Emma, the dog with a human name. Everyone loves her (Emma). Linds sure does!



And Floyd!



And me! The better part of my stay in the city was spent teaching Emma how to "shake paw".



Rain interrupted and canceled the philharmonic less than halfway through the performance, which was a surprise to everyone who hadn't checked the weather report or looked up. Sharing umbrellas, we trudged out of the park shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the mass. We boarded a train for Tribeca. ALL of us.



We all went to a bar. ALL of us.



Adrienne's friend's friend worked for Peroni, so you can guess what we drank for free. (Peroni. We drank Peroni for free. Because why would we pay for Peroni?)


Saturday, we enjoyed some culture at the Brooklyn Museum, and impersonated the art.


After more Brooklyning, we retired to Floyd's shitty Crown Heights roof, then transferred over the rail to his neighbor's very nice Crown Heights roof. We drank and laughed and enjoyed the view.


Later, two peculiar sounds pierced the Brooklyn night.

"Were those gunshots?" Floyd asked.

"Those were definitely gunshots." I said.

"It was probably just a car backfiring." Linds said.

Then a patrol car's siren sounded. And another. And one more. A helicopter launched from somewhere behind us.

"I'm very impressed with the police response to that car backfire. They are really going all-out to assist that motorist."

"Shut up." Lindsay said.

We watched the helicopter and its searchlight circle the crime scene, which turned out to be a few blocks closer than we'd hoped.


On Sunday, we had brunch and flew home. The end.

Only in New York - Day One + Two

The first thing we did, after looking at apartments Alipete was considering, is eat. Some REAL FUCKIN' MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS PIZZA!



I destroyed Alipete in the pizza eating race we were not really having, because I was so hungry, having last eaten prior to our 7 a.m. flight.



I met up with Floyd to see Paul F. Tompkins deliver hilarious stand-up at the Gotham Comedy Club. The room was less than half full, despite Paul's well-known hilarity. We sat about 7 feet away from the stage. Paul was rehearsing for a live DVD to be recorded very soon, and I will tell you that DVD will be worth the purchase price. (I am assuming the purchase price will be something less than a hundred dollars. Well worth it.)

The next day we went to the Met museum. Kim saw Chris Kattan -- yes, THE Chris Kattan -- while checking out Monets. We also saw...

...Egyptian artifacts that somehow made it out of Egypt:



...Hated historical figures, like Indian genocidist Stonewall Jackson:



...Beloved historical figures, like Atlanta smolderer W.T. Sherman:



...Matthew Broderick and his clan:



...and this painting:

Flower Girl at the Met Museum from chester reboulet on Vimeo.

Here's another look at that last one. Seeing the details of the painting will make my narration seem even more appropriate.



Dinner that night was in Chinesetown, at New Green Bo. Kim made the excellent decision to order veggie dumplings. Later, I was heard to remark, "I ate half a duck."




In celebration of fine crispy duck, I gave Gav's patented fist pump.



Kim and I walked across the street to sample some green tea ice cream, while Floyd, Alipete, and Linds discussed vag nits and cervical erosion.


ONLY IN NEW YORK.

A Nice Day For A Nice Wedding

The groom requested a blog shout-out, so I guess this is a shout-out.

Corinne and Ted's reception was probably the best reception I've ever attended. Is that because there was no garter toss? Or because they served a malbec? Or because I knew and liked 75% of the people there? Yes. Yes it was.

When you don't know how to respond to the bluegrass band,
you put your hand where your rodeo belt buckle would be
and perform an impromptu Lasso Dance.

Both halves of the happy couple have been featured on this blog. For example:

"That's so gross! I'm such a queen about that sort of stuff."

--Willie, gay cast member of MTV's The Real World: Philadelphia, reacting to a roommate's scabies infection

"Like anal sex isn't gross..."

--Corinne, reacting to Willie's comment

and, courtesy of Ted:

I thought we had an unspoken agreement. I would never make fun of Dan's cutesy-but-impotent word twist challenges, and he would never make fun of Blue Oyster Cult on his blog. Well, all bets are off. Don't pretend that you didn't know about how much I love that video, Dan. Everybody knows it. Everybody who is anybody!

Ok, so maybe I've never told anybody that I liked that video. Maybe I was watching VH1 classic one night, all alone, drinking gin right out of the bottle. Maybe that video came on, and I thought to myself, "That video is cool! That dude Caught On Fire!" It doesn't matter. People should know things about me, even if I don't specifically say those things out loud.

New York, Embedded, Kind Of

Ugh. Technology, guys. So many different things going on. Do I upload New York City photos to Facebook or to Flickr? Both? Okay. The people are here on Facebook, and the landmarks are here on Flickr. Both.

I don't know what to say about the trip. My scheduled events did not disappoint. The Upright Citizens Brigade ASSSSCAT improv -- featuring Horatio Sanz, Rob Riggle, and Bobby Moynihan, among others -- was riotously funny. The $10 entry fee is absurdly cheap for an hour and a half of top shelf absurdity: uber-heterosexual males auditioning for "Grease", Jews at a Christmas party, two strangers meeting at a urinal and discovering they have similar-looking penises ("Is this the guy you were talking about? Okay, I've got to go, but I still wanna see your dick later, alright?"). Superb, and cheaper than a movie. If you're curious what it's like, here's a video I have not yet watched:


The Fleet Foxes concert was nice, and surprisingly gorgeous -- I thought they were more of a studio band. I took a photo, but there are better ones around.

Seeing Conan O'Brien was surreal. When I watched the show air a few hours later, I noticed it wasn't all that great, but that didn't really matter. What mattered is that I got into the studio to see the show (and the man) that has influenced my sense of humor (read: from whom I have stolen the most quotes) more than any except The Simpsons. (Or you could consider it a wash, since he wrote for The Simpsons.)

Here are the best bits, or you can watch the entire show:





Also, I had a marvelous time with my hosts, who subscribe to VH1 Classic, which allowed me to see Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' For You" video. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be ridiculous, but MISSION FAILED. Please promise me you'll watch this until the end. No? Then promise you'll watch to the 3:25 mark. PROMISE.

You (People) Wreck Me

> From: Jeffrey A
> To: dn
> Date: Wednesday, July 23, 2008, 12:50 PM
>
> thoughts on the petty show?
> ~jeff.

Well, I tried to take my sweet time getting there so I wouldn't have to endure much Steve Winwood. We approached our seats just as he broke out a 30 minute rendition of "Higher Love", the song that had been in my head since you texted its title to me a week prior. Okay, maybe it wasn't 30 minutes, but it was definitely approaching 10 minutes. But the crowd was all over it! Steve Winwood! The KANSAS CITY crowd ADORED Steve Winwood! Needless to say, "Higher Love" is still in my head, and my sanity is due to break any time now.

My faith in humanity was further shaken by the freaks that sat in our section. We were in the "cheap" seats in the upper deck, but since those tickets cost $55 each I thought we'd be surrounded by die hards. Wrong. The teenagers in front of us spent the entire night -- THE ENTIRE NIGHT, NONSTOP -- texting their friends. I had a good look at the girl's phone, and I could see she was texting the same boy over and over. She wasn't texting, "OMG! LTWMJane! Petty rulez!". She was having a conversation about a trip to Chicago.

But she and her companion acted like National Honor Society members compared to the 2 college-aged girls sitting to their right. These winners had made shirts for the concert. One girl, who was overheard to remark that Petty was "my favorite! They're, like, #1 on my iPod!", wore a gray tank top with the words, "Don't Do Me Like That" on the back. The other girl had ironed on the letters "Learning to Fly" on the front of her gray shirt, and completed the masterpiece by ironing shimmering gold angel wing stencils to the shirt's back.

Well, they must have had a little pre-party to make the shirts, and that party must have included alcohol. "Don't Do Me Like That" spent the first 5 songs of Petty's set chugging $5.50 plastic bottles of Bud Light and dancing with her counterpart in the aisle. She spent the remainder of the show slumped back in her seat, struggling (and mostly failing) to remain conscious.

The older individuals in the crowd didn't fare too much better. A woman my age sat to my left; I caught her using her Blackberry a handful of times, probably to close some really big business deals. And then there was the 40-something, 250-pound, shaggy-haired man sporting jean shorts and a plain gray sleeveless t-shirt. When shuffling by seated audience members, beer in hand, to get back to his spot, he lost his balance and tumbled hard into the row below. As Petty's set came near its end, the OPENING CHORDS of "Refugee" played, the entire row in front of us stood and left, except for shaggy and his younger, less-disheveled companion. (It turned out to be the last song before the encore, but how did the row know? And why not wait until the song is over before taking off? OR WHY NOT STICK AROUND TO SEE THE ENCORE??) Seeing an opening, the two creeps left their seats for one directly behind the drunk/nearly passed out girl and her drunk friend. Sensing the chance to conceive the world's most retarded child, Shaggy hit on Drunky while the wingman hit on winggirl. By the time the encore ended (you should sit down for this one -- they closed out with "American Girl"), things looked to be turning sour, and I'm pretty sure the antichrist isn't in Drunky's fetus right now. But with the behavior displayed by the texting generation last night, the antichrist should be due for a welcome appearance very soon.

Blue Lagoons And Blue Gym Shorts

Thursday night, after an intimidating but ultimately harmless line of storms had passed, Floyd and I gathered a few friends to celebrate our birthdays. The Jayhawker offered cheap martinis with names like "Blue Lagoon", "Snowdrift", and "Breakfast at Tiffany's". The table was on its third round when Floyd's friend Sam addressed me with a strange look in his eye.

"Do you ever see something and it takes you a minute to figure out if you're hallucinating or not? I just saw that guy at the bar whip his cock out."

The man middle-aged, wearing a white t-shirt and blue gym shorts. No one else seemed to witness the event, including the young woman that stood nearest him, who presumably (indirectly) instigated the cock-whipping.

"He's really close to getting kicked out," our waitress said. "This happens all the time on Thursday nights."

"People whip their cocks out every Thursday?"

"No, people just get crazy."

Obviously.

Masses on Mass Street

It was crowded.


It was loud.



But incredibly, we were able to outnavigate the masses to order a round of beer. Twice!

Hotlanta Hilton

I planned on posting the Buenos Aires trip narrative as well as some other junk, but this hotel has ruined such plans. It's $15 per 24 hours of wifi. You read that correctly. Why Hilton has to charge $15 for what the Garden City, KS Super 8 gives you for free, I can't say.

I'm surviving on a Motorola PC card lovingly donated by a coworker. It's a tad slow, but much more economical.

I gawked at some tornado damage with the rest of the yokels at midday yesterday. Olympic Park looks like a bomb hit it. Too soon?

The weather hasn't been as nice as I hoped; in fact, I may have to abandon plans to visit the Carter Presidential Library and the MLK site.

A coworker's local friend invited us out for her birthday party last night. We went to The Spotted Dog, a British pub converted from an old Midtown firehouse. A British pub was already a strange spot for St. Patrick's Day, and the loud music added to the confusion. I heard a techno/dance remix of a Doors song, as well as Janet Jackson's "Rhythm Nation", before scrambling to the digital jukebox to play "Sunday Bloody Sunday", an audible symbol of my struggle to align the calendar with my location. I followed that up with "Supersonic", so as to not upset the empire's loyalists.

Shouting With Fire In A Crowded Theater

10/7 UPDATE: I had the setlist wrong. Another website lists it as:

1. Black Mirror
2. Keep The Car Running
3. Neighborhood #2 (Laïka)
4. No Cars Go
5. Haïti
6. In The Backseat
7. Born On A Train
8. Intervention
9. (Antichrist Television Blues)
10. The Well And The Lighthouse
11. Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)
12. Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)
13. Rebellion (lies)

Encore:
14. Crown Of Love
15. Wake Up

* * *


Surprises from the Arcade Fire's September 28 show at the Starlight Theater in Kansas City:

Funeral songs outnumbered those from the more recent Neon Bible!

In addition to one cover (The Magnetic Field's "Born on a Train"), seven selections were taken from Funeral (Tunnels, Laika, Crown of Love, Wake Up, Haiti, Rebellion (Lies), In the Backseat), while only 6 from Neon Bible were performed (Black Mirror, Keep the Car Running, Intervention, Well & the Lighthouse, Antichrist Television Blues, No Cars Go). I thought the whole point of releasing a second album is so that you don't have to play the songs you got sick of performing during the first round of touring. Not that I mind -- I was quite pleased with the setlist.

[photo taken from Flickr, as mine were uberblurry]

They played some sad shit!

"In the Backseat" might be the saddest song I've ever seen performed live. It seemed like terribly heavy material for 10 p.m. on a Friday night. They led off the encore with "Crown of Love", which is far more lyrically abstract, but I suspect just as melancholy. Oh, and despite its bounce, "Haiti" is pretty grim: "In the forest, we are hiding / Unmarked graves where flowers grow". Would you expect anything less from an album titled "Funeral"? I guess when 3/4 of your material is sad, you're going to play some sad shit. I could delete this whole paragraph, now pointless, but then what would you have to read? The last post in which I mentioned "In the Backseat"?

A friend of a friend got up to use the restroom as the anthemic "Intervention" began!

Who does that?!

I saw three black guys!

What's more surprising? A black youth attending the show in an Andrew W.K. T-shirt, accessorized by dogtags, a tilted Yankees cap, and a tiny white bluetooth earpiece? Or the elderly couple attending the show, seated near the top of the amphitheater, trying to comprehend the modern world that created an audience for LCD Soundsystem?

Singing backup Arcade Fire lyrics en masse isn't really satisfying!

It was a good show, hampered by two things. First, the location. It's always a little awkward to rock out in a location designed for a seated public. Standing next to your seat is only slightly more exciting than sitting on top of it. I like my rock shows to feel a little more dangerous, and a little more communal.

That leads me to the second point. While I'm sometimes angered by fan singing along with the lyrics, an exception is always made for singing backup. The Polyphonic Spree show was made great when all the fans shouted along with the Spree choir. One would imagine that the all of the oohs and OOO-OOO-OOO-OOOHs and LIES! LIES! peppered throughout the Arcade Fire catalog would produce a similarly inspired swell from the crowd, but it never materialized. Have you ever tried to sing a falsetto LIES! LIES! with any significant volume? It doesn't work. Such efforts are best suited to the Spree's bah dah dup dah dahs -- which I'll be experiencing again in a few short weeks. Good times.

The Other Archives - Italian Heat

I found this in an email Corinne sent while she was "studying" abroad:

Oh, also, at the bar on Friday night, there were some amazing pick up attempts made my Italian guys to various girls in our group. Here they are, use them well...

Number 1: (really politely taps Nora on the shoulder) "Excuse me....will you fuck me?"

Number 2 and my personal favorite: "Lets get naked and see if my balls are bigger than your boobs"

Number 3: After Meg drops a battery and creepy guy picks it up "Your battery is in my pants, come look for it, now I am supercharged"

Portland - Sunday, June 3

"It's illegal to pump your own gas in Oregon!"

We had just begun to negotiate with the pump when we heard a woman shout from the edge of the parking lot. We were taught this factoid earlier in our visit, but the force of habit overrode our poor recall. I put the handle back into its place. While we waited for a station attendant to do the dirty work, my companion chatted with the friendly, law-abiding bystander.

"Where are you guys headed?" the woman asked.

"We're going to drive up Highway 101! Is it very scenic?"

"Meh."

Underinspired by the (presumably) local woman's reaction, we drove north from Tillamook on 101. As the miles passed, we became less concerned with her evaluation of the landscape. As a general rule, whenever you can see the Pacific coast by simply looking to your left, it's scenic. Add in a handful of sleepy seaside villages and uninterrupted stands of Douglas Firs, and you're well beyond "Meh". That (presumably) local woman should spend a little time in North Dakota to re-sensitize herself to Oregon's beauty.


When we reached Astoria, we parked downtown and browsed the outdoor market's offerings. Later, in a brick-and-mortar store, she inquired about one of the clocks, and was disappointed in the clerk's lack of salesmanship. We paid for admission to a maritime museum neither of us had much interest in -- personally, I was happy to give them $6 for access to the restroom and water fountain. We watched a short film about the Columbia River, and I made a hilarious joke in the middle of it, but that humor is now lost for the ages. (Uh, I think it had something to do with the narrator describing the river -- using words like "churning" or "powerful" -- and I probably said, "That's exactly the same way women describe my loins." Or something. Probably something even funnier, if that's possible. It was my finest mid-movie joke since a December 1997 first date, when I made a lion-killing joke during "Amistad". (To be clear, the joke did not kill a lion, the joke was about killing a lion.))

We made our way back to the car, and proceeded to drive over the Astoria bridge. Then we made a U-turn and drove back. Then we made another U-turn and went back to the Washington side of the river. Then we made the return trip to Oregon again. We liked that bridge.


Our attempt to view the "Goonies" house in Astoria was less then fruitful, and resulted in some grouchiness that I will not detail. (When the vacation was over, I remembered that my friend Mar had managed to take a photo of the Goonies house, and now I understand why it was snapped from such a distance.)

We missed Portland, and were glad to finish the drive back. We walked east and browsed the Pearl District, stopping in at Powell's City of Books,
wondering where to eat. We settled on Paragon an attractive restaurant that turned out to be a perfect choice. She bought my dinner -- an early birthday present -- and we proceeded to down vanilla Stoli and Cokes like it was going out of style. Our vacation was almost over. It was time to get loose.

Paragon stopped serving while it was still bright and sunny; we moved our party west to Bartini, eschewing the eponymous drinks for more vanilla Stoli. I had fallen behind her during dinner, so I took a shot of Jameson to even the score.

She saw a group of women sitting at a table outside, and decided that one of them was gorgeous, and was convinced she should tell the woman so. After settling the bill, she did just that. The Wisconsin native was appreciative, and encouraged us to move to Portland. It sounded like a perfect idea. We were in a love with the city -- the last person to experience this kind of vacation high was Liz Lemon of "30 Rock"

Jack: "Where have you been?"

Liz (dreamy): "Cleveland!"

Jack: "For God's sakes, Lemon, we'd all like to flee to the Cleve, and club-hop down at the Flats and have lunch with Little Richard. But we fight those urges, because we have responsibilities."

There was a final bar stop before we retired for the night, but I couldn't tell you much about it, except that I'm certain I heard Arcade Fire's "Haiti" there. Portland birthday celebrations rule.

The Good Way, The Badwey, And The Elway

This morning, Paul sent along news of his recent vacation:

This past Sunday I went to a Chris Cornell concert in Detroit. We arrived about 30 minutes before the opening act, which we had no idea who it was. So, when they introduced the band "Juliette and the Licks", I was still clueless. Then, it became quickly evident that this is Juliette Lewis's band. Needless to say, it was a frightening and gut-wrenching experience. I really don't even know how to describe this train wreck. She tries to look like a cross between David Bowie and David Lee Roth and tries to strut around like Mick Jagger. When you add these weak impersonations in with her voice, it's not a good combo.

Then, I heard her being interviewed on the radio the next morning, and the DJ made the mistake of asking "How would you describe your sound?" She said that people have compared them to everyone from Aerosmith to Ted Nugent to Henry Rollins to Patti Smith. If she's the intersection of those 4 artists, somebody needs to rework the recipe.

A quick follow up email clarified:

I forgot to mention that I spent most of Juliette Lewis's set waiting for Robert DeNiro to wander onto stage so she could suck his fingers as in Cape Fear.

* * *

In contrast, I had a great time this weekend in sunny, elevated Denver. Luke and Jessica brought Gav and I to a friendly backyard BBQ that slowly turned into a Beckham Madness watch party. We cheered when Becks sat on the bench, adjusting his shoes. We shouted with disdain toward his Galaxy teammates: "What the fuck! Get Beckham in the game! This asshole can't bend it worth a shit!" When the game ended, we remembered that we're American, and soccer can bugger off, and so can Sportcenter's repeating reel of four Beckham "highlights": running into the locker room, running out of the locker room, tripping over a dude and pretending to be injured, and failing to eponymously bend a corner kick.

Earlier that evening, as partygoers attempted to toss beanbags into small holes (Gav was the night's big winner), I made a passing jab at another past-his-prime superstar, former Denver Broncos quarterback John Elway. Luke and Jessica quickly glanced around the patio to be sure the other guests hadn't heard my comment. They solemnly explained that Elway could not be mocked in Denver. "It's like if you said something about George Brett in Kansas City, but a thousand times worse," they said. In fact, one of the locals, sitting just a few feet from me, had recently analogized Jay Cutler's succession of Elway to Pope Benedict's replacement of John Paul II.

This fanaticism fed the weekend's running joke -- the pinnacle was late Saturday night, at a bar near Coors field, at a time I'll call "before we took those additional four shots". Gav was pondering what shot he could order after the requisite Tuaca. We imagined a shot named "The Elway" -- Gav postulated that it would contain, "One part effort, and one part heart."

An annoyed bartender confirmed that The Elway did not yet exist.

* * *

Sunday was bracketed by two impressive events, beginning with a superb breakfast of Denver omelettes smothered with green chile sauce, and ending with the best concert experience of my life.

I was prepared for my high expectations to render the concert mediocre, but The Polyphonic Spree did not disappoint. They made me smile, they made me laugh, they cured my hangover, and they rocked my shit for nearly two and a half hours. Did I mention the confetti cannons? I mean, does it LOOK like everyone was having fun?

The concert was so perfect that I considered not attending their upcoming show in Kansas City. It's destined to be a less impressive concert -- they'll be playing an outdoor venue, after performing in Columbia the previous night, and they're due to play Lollapallooza the following afternoon. Still, a half-assed effort from the Spree -- if such efforts exist -- is likely to be more entertaining than most any alternative. At the cost of $19 and a few hours of sleep, I'll embrace the risk.

I invite any Kansas City area readers to join me at the venue August 2.