GOPVP Sarah Palin is pro-creationism.

In a perfect world, saying that would be enough, and I could move on to other things.

But that is not here. Here is a place where teachers are fighting a fifty state battle against folks who have decided to only believe in science when they want to, like when it runs their cars or makes their food or keeps them from getting horrible diseases.

The GOP is fine with people turning to salt, the entire world being repopulated by two of every animal, walking on water, but millions of years of subtle, gradual adaptive changes? MADNESS.

For all the talk of this being a watershed year, woman on the ticket, it’s nothing more than a retarded-wolf in Woman’s clothing. She’s no different than the rest of them, beauty queen credentials be damned.

Hola, my people. I return from a month spent in Spain visiting the Virg, with more than a few food-for-thought souvenirs.

Numero Uno: I am no American patriot. Rather, it would appear that I am somewhat ashamed to be a citizen of the United States. And I’m not the only one. As opposed to exuberantly promoting our American-slang-slinging skills, the Virg, my sister and I spoke under our breaths in public. Given the Euro currency’s tour de force, it was a rare moment indeed to spot a compatriot, but when we did, instead of giving them a what’s-up head nod, we simultaneously began operating under a code of silence. We stared at them and were embarrassed by their Teva Velcro sandals and futile attempts to blend in with the surroundings by sporting the MC Hammer pants that are all the rage right now.

Numero Dos: Spanish people are fucking crazy. The Virg hails from San Sebastian, a small town located in the Northern Basque region of Spain. The second week of August is known as La Semana Grande (The Big Week), during which, for seven days straight, the world goes explosive. Each night a different European city puts on a fireworks show as part of a competition, and seriously, what can be better than that?

The explosiveness doesn’t end there. Immediately following every fireworks show, small children, teenagers, adults and even old timers line the streets of La Parte Vieja (the old part of town). A shot fires and suddenly men with plastic bulls mounted on their heads and shoulders come catapulting down the street. But these are not just your average plastic bulls, were there to exist some type of norm. These turbo bulls are instead loaded with white-hot sparklers that shoot out at least five feet in all directions. What’s more, this is not simply a parade or a moment for gawking. This is participatory event, no legal release required. People chase the bulls and bulls chase the people and it’s not uncommon to walk away with multiple wormhole-sized second-degree burns. And the drinking hasn’t even started. (more…)

Everyone’s cheering Biden right now, having conveniently forgotten that every time the man gets a healthy does of spotlight, he ends up saying something highlighting how crass and unthinking he can be. But that’s fine, because he’s old, and apparently old = experience this election.

I do like the idea of the “old man as attack dog” paradigm being used here, much like Cheney was for the previous two elections. The idea of the elderly as scrappy street fighters is strangely appealing, reminds me of my grandfather killing nazis with his fists and a sharp knife. Which didn’t actually happen, but see what ornery old people evoke in our minds?

And apparently McCain just picked a woman for his VP. She’s the governor of Alaska, which is tiny. But she’s pro-life, anti-gay, big on anti-corruption. So now we’ve basically got a weird Stark Trek-Mirror Image-style election. The young minority and his old sidekick vs. the old man and his young minority sidekick. The mind reels.

Only this is but the illusion. Deep down McCain is a man who’s flipped on his deeply-held beliefs to get the brass ring, so hooked did he become on fame and the thought of ultimate power.

McCain is Darth Vader.

Sure, Obama’s an empty suit, ape-ing religious themes and providing just enough of the the MLK/JFK vibe to make people forget he hasn’t done much more than lay in the cut and make sure he didn’t make any mistakes.

But he’s at least got the courage of his convictions, few as they may be. McCain’s all the worse for having actually been a half decent man, eight years ago. But he’s pulled a 180 almost as freakish as Pre/Post Thriller Michael Jackson.

Welcome to Thunderdome, y’all.

I’m packing the bags and going north to my homeland to take in some fresh air, peep the sea, (pee in the sea?) and then up to New Hampster for some lake action. That’s right sea and lake. Winnepesaukee, ever heard of it? It’s where What About Bob takes place. I plan on BBQing everything in the house, including my family members. Maybe I’ll hit up an arcade or two and then be the snooty guy who asks for a New York Times at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. I’ll let you know if I get any high scores. Avagoodone.

The Chinese government just sent two old ladies off to “political re-education through labor” for applying for protest permits. What are those old ladies complaining about? They had their homes demolished to make way for Olympic construction. The government did this in front of the entire world, while hosting the friggin’ Olympic games; media crawling all over the place. Judging by the massive, balls-out opening ceremonies, the sprawling stadium complex, and the ridiculous lengths they went through to cover up their pollution, you get the impression they want to be taken seriously by the rest of the world. Unfortunately the Chinese government is made up of scary assholes. Lip synching is one thing, but you just can’t lock up old ladies, especially after you’ve bulldozed their homes.

According to my pops my grandparents used to go to Cuba before the revolution and party and gamble. I imagine they traveled by boat, dressed smart, ate a lot of deviled eggs and candied melons and drank vodka martinis, all the while strolling around pre-Castro Cuba. Sounds pretty amazing; I venture to say people in our generation may never party in such fine style as that.

Then I saw these pictures from my friend’s honeymoon cruise to Europe. Looking through their pictures, it wasn’t the exotic locations, the views, the ancient works of art and fancy outfits, it was these FOOD SCULPTURES that gave me hope. Who carves Indian chief heads out of watermelons anymore? A cauliflower puppy? An ugly chocolate (?) mermaid?! These were relics of the party past, ours to enjoy today! Ice sculptures I’d expect. Chocolate fountains, sure, but a quartet of fruit mice with roasted chickens as bodies?!

I hope to sink my teeth into a pineapple owl someday, and when I do, I’ll give my grandma up in heaven a little spiritual high five. There’s still good times to be had Grams, holla!

Photos: D. and A. Ambrose

More music for the masses.

This edition: LIVE TRACKS, Y’ALL.

Would - Alice in Chains
This song was one of the earliest ROCK songs I remember listening to. It was at the tail end of the Singles soundtrack, and pretty much the only song I listened to on that entire album. Followed these guys right up until Layne Stanley died. Damn shame, the man had himself one of those distinct voices that simply makes the band. They were just a bunch of guys after he died.

One Way Out - The Allman Brothers Band
Found love for these guys from the Almost Famous soundtrack, though I had earlier found Greg Allman from that narc movie Rush. Two great films, leading me to the best southern rock band there was. You shut up about Lynyrd Skynyrd, it was these guys that dug deep for some soul, came back with the goods.

Pop Life - Elvis Costello
I’m a fan of both E.C. and Prince, so this one hits me right in the kisser. Both artists have catalogues as long as my arm, filled with both diamonds and coals. But they’re each musical wizards in their way, and this track right here proves it.

Track 5 - DJ Z-Trip
First discovered Z-Trip when that movie Scratch came out (yes, I know, lots of movie references, I live in LOS ANGELES, what you expect???), when, during the first showing, Z-Trip came out first and worked his magic on, as the kids say, the ones & twos. He’s real DJ, no doubt, don’t let his whiteness fool ya.

Lonesome Tears - Beck
Mr. Hansen, on the album from which this song originates, Sea Change, got low down real. Discarding his trademark lyrical nonsense, he spun a record full of pain and loss. His, best, in my opinion, if only because of the authenticity of emotion that ran through it like a freight train.

These Days - Jackson Browne & Warren Zevon
I’m a huge fan of neither of these men. But this song is sweet and wistful, and they nail it, give it just enough of their own flavor. Which is exactly what I look for in a cover song.

Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division
I know nothing about this band. Well, almost nothing. I know they’re immensely influential. And that the lead singer is wicked dead. And that this song screams THE 80’s, in the best, darkest way. More Less Than Zero than Breakfast Club.

Marigold - Foo Fighters
I believe this song was actually a Nirvana jam, Grohl’s first attempt in the pole position. Small in scope, but tender and sharp. Sign of things to come. Dig this, The Foo Fighters have now been around far longer than Nirvana ever was. Probably, cumulatively, sold more albums, too.
MINDFREAK.

Falling Away From Me - Korn
Hearing Korn’s Unplugged set, you get a much better feel for the fact that they’re actually solid musicians. Stripped of all the tech, they still bring across some solid songs, and I gotta respect that.

Freedom - Richie Havens
He opened at the first Woodstock, stalled for 90 minutes because the next band hadn’t shown up. I suppose he’s the rare Black Folk artist, which is wild, but I just dig real hard on that gravel rubbing against sandpaper voice of his, howling his tune like the brother at the end of a chain gang.

Prince - Super Bowl Half-Time Show
Prince spent a lot of years just kind of existing. After Diamonds & Pearls, he put out sub-par album after sub-par album. And though his last two records have received some favorable reviews, you wouldn’t be wrong to think the magic was gone.

Until you listened to this performance, in which he goes MUSICAL GENIUS crazy over his own songs, Bob Dylan AND the Foo Fighters. Amazing.

LISTEN TO ‘EM ALL HERE.

A few years ago riding in Central Park I could hear some Diana Ross pumping far off in the distance and I could hear it gaining on me… Diana Ross was gaining on me! A few minutes later a short guy on a lowrider bike, dressed as though he were in a biker gang (which he was), calmly pedaled by with a huge rig consisting of house speakers and a car battery. Like it or not, he was pumping up the fucking jam for all. He rolled up to his pals, numbering in the thirties, all wearing the same gear and pushing similar rides. Gas consumption down, beats up; very nice.

It seems some young champs out of Queens have built their own rides in this vein, but have taken it to the next level, integrating the bikes and the sound system as one and throwing in some glitzy LEDs in for extra visual appeal. One of the bikes is named “Basszilla.” I can’t imagine how much the neighbors hate these kids but they’ve got my full support. Maybe that’s because I live in Brooklyn and don’t have to hear them busting up the street with “Electric Avenue”. A short film is set to come out about it and I for one would like to see it.

I had the distinct honor of seeing the one and only Mr. Neil Diamond at Madison Square Garden last night. I’m a big fan of his early work, particularly back in the 60s when his shameless display of emotion was paired with copious tambourine banging and back up singers. He sounded like Jesus F. Christ himself on those tracks. Still young and cocky, he also wasn’t afraid to show his pathetic side with the original classic Red Red Wine. Dear God, a singer has never sounded more pathetic or worthy of suicide than on that song. Neil’s last two albums are a bit of a departure from the classic Forever in Blue Jeans stuff, this time produced by the legendary Rick Rubin. His hardcore fans I sense are skeptical of this stuff, but I think history will judge it well, it’s solid music. Granted maybe those with high waisted pants are more likely to dig it than you or I, but it’s good. I wanted to see what kind of show Neil brought to the fans circa 2008, I was not disappointed.

The venture to MSG for the show was impromptu; my lady also likes her some Diamond and she got the tickets; some nosebleed seats in the very highest possible altitude of the arena. We basically had our own beer vendor and eerily empty, clean bathrooms. The show was direct and to the point; it started on time, the stage was pretty simple, and the band was ALL pro. Three backup singers, a percussionist, a drummer, two guitarists, a keyboardist, and the man himself. They rocked. As Neil put it: “Give it up for the greatest band in the land, MY band!”

The concert was how I imaged heaven to be. All my old relatives that have passed on were there, standing, rocking in their old, slow but very sincere way, waving hands, boogying mildly and singing in unison. It reminded me of one of those Pepsi ads where the whole world was united in a big crowd bouncing a giant beach ball around, having a grand old time. But in this case, the beach ball was the Love of the Diamond. Nobody was excluded from rocking to the classics. A very slouchy, somber looking man sitting by himself had a subtle smirk on his face the whole show as if to say, “Neil, you old devil, I’m with you, I believe in you goddamnit” More powerful than a loud yell, he’d occasionally raise his pretzel in approval, toasting the Diamond in his quiet but completely sincere way.

His new songs are as good live as they are on the album, I think they’ll find a home in his classics files someday. Neil is still a very hammy performer; lots of outstretched arms and near-tears facial expressions, but you just can’t help to buy into it. Whether it’s the mass Diamond hysteria going on all around you, or his emotional, balls-out optimism, or his face superimposed over a flying bald eagle and American flag; it’s surprisingly not easy to laugh off. He’s good. No, he’s a genius. A goddamn genius.

I like a challenge. I particularly like pushing my flimsy body to it’s very unimpressive physical limits. Whether it be finding the most potent drink on the menu and sipping it slowly for 6 hours, or riding my bike really fast, until I get tired, then riding it slower. Call me a man of danger, strength, or just pure WILL, call me what you will, but like I just said… up top there.. I like a challenge. For this reason, I’ve decided to answer the manly call to be able to DO ONE HUNDRED PUSHUPS IN SIX WEEKS. Every night while you’re stuffing your face with peroggies and chocolate bon-bons, think of me, doing somewhere between one and one hundred pushups. Do this for six weeks, or until you get bored. OKAY FATSO?! I’ll be sure to update you all on my status. Don’t be surprised if you don’t even recognize my posts cause they’re so goddamn muscular. Wimp.

Home improvement is in my blood. Almost as soon as I stopped breast feeding, I was suckling at the teet of PBS, taking in the sights and sounds of This Old House as my dad snoozed on the couch. I’m confident that had I been tall enough at age 2, that I could have used a router to carve a rocking chair out of a solid piece of oak. My early years were spent watching him work his handy magic around the house, fixing all the strange things that new houses don’t have; pocket doors, weighted window sashes, horsehair plaster, and weird locks.

Before I was allowed to actually “fix” things myself, I was given some random tools and I tinkered. I nailed stuff to trees. I made wooden “gifts” for my family at Christmas time. I sawed shit in half for no reason. I customized my neighbor’s Nash skateboard to give it a “fish tail look”. When my hamster died I built a creepy little wooden cross for his grave. I made trip wires from green floral wire and inevitably tripped over them a week later (success!). I built a tiny fort out of an old door and some cinder blocks that we covered in snow. After wailing on cars with ice balls I’d duck into it, totally invisible to the angry motorists who prowled my yard (success!).

My senior year in high school I felt ready to put my skills to a much bigger test. I took a job with a friend to fix up a house for resale, the real estate move now known as a house flip. His father’s friend had bought it at auction, and couldn’t have paid more than thirty-five dollars for it; if only you could have it torn down for that much. The house was in Revere, a grimy sea town just north of Boston, famous for it’s dog track, polluted beach, and vast fleet of junky Cameros. The house was as shitty as it was big; 3 floors and a basement apartment. We had no boss on site, no tools to speak of and no set list of things to do. This is what we did have:

1. Big fucked up house
2. Wad of cash
3. Sense of manly purpose

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The bag is pretty big, it’s got stuff in it I never carry around. I rarely have more than a phone, keys and wallet, now I’ve got lodging, bedding, dinner/lunch/breakfast (in that order), and entertainment (flask) all strapped to my back, and all of it is going on a boat with me. I tried to remember what kinds of food other people had last year that I’d wished I brought. There was a frozen Snickers bar, some pepperoni; all I had was non-perishable granola… lame… Not this time. I will make eggs and coffee on the island, I will grill chicken wings with Dinosaur BBQ sauce, we have sangria and beer punch. I will drink cold beer and sip whiskey from my flask. Basically, I will do my best to seem like we’re not really camping. Except for the sleeping outside part, on an island that used to be home to a children’s hospital, that burnt down. Did I mention that? We oted to not bring a ouija board, the reason? They draw evil spirits. Duh. When I next write I’ll smell like fire smoke, have three days of beard on my face and will have seen… the other side…