However, the one devastating aspect of the commute switch is that I’ll never figure out if that guy is British or not. And it’s tough to give up on such an important project after four or five years of committed work.

People might think that a project dedicated to determining a stranger’s Britishness is both stupid and unnecessary. “Stupid” because I could just ask the guy if he’s British – but in my mind that’s cheating. “Unnecessary” because at this late date who really cares if someone is British? It’s not the 60s – the Brits aren’t really doing anything notable except for marrying off their second-rate comedians to our second-rate pop stars. (Editor’s note: confirm whether Russell Brand is really British or just stares like that because he’s an animatronic robot.)

Since the project is all but cancelled I might as well share my findings to date:

PRO: he’s tall and skinny. One might say he’s lanky. Brits are definitely lanky, while Americans tend to be fat. I’m not criticizing Americans for being fat. In fact, among my people, being fat is a sign of success and great power. (Please note that “my people” are fat Americans.)

CON: he has not worn any soccer scarves or called soccer “footie”, even during the Official Premier League P.G. Tips Championship Bowl season. Then again, if I was a Brit trying to fit in with Americans the first thing I would do is stop pretending that soccer is a sport for grown ups.

PRO: he wears a lot of fleece and off-colored socks. I’m not sure what it is with the Europeans and the off-colored socks but they definitely struggle with the basic “wear white socks with sneakers, but only with sneakers” rule. If he is British he probably calls his socks “stockings” and has street urchins darn them for him. Alas, I have not seen any urchins darning in his presence.

CON: he’s never once hummed a Rod Stewart song, talked about Rod Stewart, or worn an air-brushed jean jacket with Rod Stewart on the back. If I was British I’m pretty sure that all I’d ever talk about is Rod Stewart because Rod Stewart is clearly the greatest person ever to come out of the British empire. (Editor’s note: confirm that Roderick is of English and Scottish descent and that his birthday is January 10th and that he still hasn’t written back.) Admittedly I’m not sure if Brits love Rod as much as I do, but I really, really love Rod and would be outwardly proud to come from the same country as him.

I should probably confess that it isn’t entirely true that I’ve never tried to directly ascertain if he was British. Once at the hockey rink I hovered around him and his kids hoping he would yell at them, seeing how we all yell at our kids at the hockey rink (it’s cold and crowded and kids are stupid). But he never said a word, which might actually indicate Britishness (Brits don’t yell at their kids in public. They have the kid’s governess take away their figgy pudding as punishment for bad behavior.)

I should also probably confess that one day on the train I saw him sitting alone and I plopped my fat, definitely-American ass next to his skinny, probably-British arse, in the hopes that he’d call his wife or talk to the conductor. Once again, he never said a word. I pushed my luck further when the conductor announced the wrong train line and I said something hee-larious like “I hope that’s not where we’re going!!” and he just grunted in response (again, a very British rejoinder.)

So there you have it. I’m off the train and now I’ll never know if that guy is British. I mean, in my heart I know he’s British, but confirmation would have been nice.

Then again, he’s probably relieved that the creepy red guy has apparently disappeared from his life. It’s funny how one man’s scientist is another man’s stalker.

###

Is rock and roll dead?

It’s a question that I’ve been ruminating on for many years now.

In one sense, rock and roll can never die, because rock and roll is an attitude as well as a genre of music. It’s the spirit of revolution and free expression. The societal changes that rock and roll both instigated and reflected are now a fundamental part of our culture. In that sense (hey hey, my my) rock and roll can never die.

But the music that we associate with rock and roll has largely lost its relevancy in today’s pop culture landscape. The heavy backbeat and electric guitar-driven sound that we associate with the golden age of rock and roll (roughly from Chuck Berry to The Sex Pistols) was really just a 20-year blip in the music world. Singles have once again displaced the long player album. Rock radio is practically nonexistent, and the charts are consistently ruled by pop, R&B and country.

So, while the spirit of rock and roll might not be dead, the musical style associated with classic rock is certainly on the endangered species list. In many ways, the kids live-tweeting the 2012 Grammys awards said it best:

“Who’s Paul McCartney?”

***

There was not one person in the house on Friday night who didn’t know who Paul McCartney was. It was a room full of true believers, classic rock music fans gathered together for a trip down the Main Street of rock and roll. Behind the wheel was none other than Bobby Keys, Mr. Brown Sugar himself, the legendary sax man behind more iconic bands, songs and riffs than just about anyone else. His credits include everything from Elvis to Dion to Joe Cocker, all four Beatles, and of course, his long-time association as Keith Richard’s best friend and musical foil in The Rolling Stones.

The idea of building a musical revue centered around Bobby Keys’ discography is utter genius in its simplicity; for not only is Bobby an extremely affable performer on stage, but his presence – and the staggeringly gorgeous tone of his sax – render these songs as something more than just cover tunes. Yes, these tunes are famous for being written and performed by others. But Bobby’s role is so crucial that you just can’t imagine them without him.

This is the real deal.

***

Then again, it doesn’t hurt that Bobby’s band is packed with a few ringers. While this is clearly the Bobby Keys experience, Bobby shares the front of the stage with Dan Baird (Georgia Satellites) who really impressed me with both his incredible energy and his vocal flexibility. Imagine being asked to move like Jagger, to bellow like Cocker, to croon like Dion and to crow like Rod all in one evening. That’s a tall order for anyone and Dan really nailed it.

Driving the sound was the power duo of Steve Gorman and Nick Govrik – the Trigger Hippy bandmates – who set a steady beat and deftly moved from fast rockers to jazzy jams. It was great to see Steve in full Charlie Watts mode with a small kit and a big groove. Rounding out the all-star crew was keyboardist Michael Webb and guitar player Chark von Kinsolving, both of whom picked their spots well – knowing when to step up and when to let Bobby and Dan shine.

***

The setlist was a rock nerd’s dream come true with 5 Stones tunes, 2 Cocker songs, 2 solo Beatles numbers, 2 homages to Bobby’s inspiration King Curtis, the aforementioned Faces tune, Dion’s “The Wanderer” and a little honky tonk ditty called “You Look Like I Could Use A Drink”. It was one of those night where you knew every song as soon as the opening bars were played and you were thrilled to hear each and every one of them. And the night got even more special when the great Joan Osborne walked on stage to take the lead vocal on a gorgeous rendition of George Harrison’s “What is Life”. (My only regret is that Joan didn’t sing another song that would have demonstrated her full vocal abilities because, as all of us Beatles Rock Band experts know, the George songs are the easy ones!)

But beyond all of this – the great players, songs and performances – the most impressive thing of the night was the man himself. Bobby was clearly under the weather. You could tell how much of a struggle it was for him to perform. Yet whenever that sax touched his lips it was pure magic. Some form of aural alchemy occurs that allows Bobby to transform his breath into music that literally gives you goosebumps. Have no doubts: the sound of Bobby Key’s saxophone is the sound of classic rock.

And this night was his Michael Jordan game 5 1997 finals “flu” game. You can’t keep the greats down.

***

What more can I say about Bobby Keys & The Sufferin Bastards? They make good old fashioned rock and roll using the original recipe. If you want proof that rock and roll still lives (and it does as long as artists like Bobby Keys roam the stage) then go check them out.

***

(Full disclosure: If I were a real journalist I might be tempted to mention that I have a prior relationship with Mr. Gorman and that we interviewed Bobby Keys on our podcast last year. Rest assured that Bobby probably has no recollection of our talk and it wouldn’t affect my review in any way. Then again, you’d probably enjoy listening to the podcast – it’s a full hour of rock and roll history from the inside. Also, Bobby’s new memoir “Every Night is a Saturday Night” just came out and I’m sure that it’s chock full of more amazing stories.)

***

S E T L I S T (original artist version being covered)

Live With Me (The Rolling Stones)
The Letter (Joe Cocker)
The Wanderer (Dion DiMucci)
Soul Serenade (King Curtis)
Had Me a Real Good Time (Faces)
Sweet Virginia (The Rolling Stones)
You Look Like I Could Use a Drink (Dan Baird)
Brown Sugar (The Rolling Stones)
Whatever Gets You Through The Night (John Lennon)
*What Is Life (George Harrison)
Bitch (The Rolling Stones)
Harlem Nocturne (King Curtis)
Delta Lady (Joe Cocker)
E: Can’t You Hear Me Knocking (The Rolling Stones)

B A N D

Bobby Keys, saxophone
Dan Baird, vocals, guitar
Steve Gorman, drums
Nick Govrik, bass
Michael Webb, keys, accordian
Chark von Kinsolving, guitar
*Joan Osborne, vocals

Ever since the foodies took over the world we’ve been besieged with the concept of “food pairings”. Not content with insisting that food is only good when there’s some jizzy foam or liquid nitrogen in it, the foodies are now telling us what we need to drink with different foods.

The whole food pairing movement started with wine. Traditional rules like “red with meat, white with fish, Manischewitz with matzoh” were replaced with more sophisticated combinations like pinot noir with turkey or chateauneuf du pape with cheez doodles.

Next, foodie nation moved onto beer pairings, which is patently ridiculous because any beer pairs well with anything. I’ve railed at length about the unnecessary fancification of beer, so I won’t go into it further, but enough with the monocles and the doilies already. It’s beer.

But all of this talk about drink pairings is largely useless because most people only drink alcohol with approximately 38% of their meals. What about the other 62%?  Will someone please think about the children?

Therefore I have taken it upon myself to create drink pairings that will help all of us every day. I’m talking about which diet soda to pair with your lunch. (Please note that these pairings are based on the sodas that are available in my office fridge and my usual rotation of lunch choices.)

Sprite Zero is a very mild soda with notes of lemon and lime – limon, if you will. I like to pair a mild soda with a bold lunch choice, for example BBQ ribs from the Redbones food truck. (Please keep this between us because my wife will be totes mad if she catches me eating BBQ at work this early into resolution season.)

Diet Orange Crush also features strong citrus characteristics, but is a much more forceful flavor that can dominate the palate. Therefore I recommend a food that can both stand up to the soda and yield to the soda at the same time. Something like a caesar salad with blackened chicken works well, as your mouth will delight in the interplay between spice, sweet and crouton.

Diet Mountain Dew is almost the beer of sodas. It’s so delicious and universally appealing that it can work well with anything. Therefore I like to do the Dew when eating sad soup for one at my desk (soup flavor is optional). The key here is that sad soup for one is, by definition, sad and Diet Mountain Dew is, by definition, extreme. A palliative for the soul, Diet Dew can turn sad soup for one into slightly-less-sad soup for one.

Diet Coke is a girl’s soda now, so I guess it goes best with skipping lunch and shopping, because ladies be shopping, amirite? No? Okay, I’ll see myself out now.

Coke Zero is a manly soda for macho men with bad attitudes who are just itching for trouble. And when I’m ready to rumble I like to fight through the long-ass line at the Paradise Bakery and get a nice roast beef sandwich. Best of all, free cookie!!!! (Okay, scratch that last part, which in retrospect doesn’t sound all that manly. But seriously, free cookie!!!!)

Diet Ginger Ale pairs best with saltines when you have a bad tummy. Let’s be honest – Ginger Ale is more medicine than soda. Ginger Ale is one of those things like Mary Jane candies or “My Three Sons” that seemed okay in the ‘70s, but are clearly terrible in an era when we have more and better choices.

Speaking of bad tummies, remember that it’s NFL championship weekend which means that you’re going to want to avoid the Men’s room on Monday at all costs. Trust me, it’s a goddamn war zone in there this time of year. Remember, just because you don’t work on that floor doesn’t mean you can’t use their bathroom!

Diet Mug Root Beer is another strong flavor that is sweet, with a hint of smoke, peat and malt. Some fruit also comes through. Oh wait, I just copied that from some scotch tasting notes. Mmmm dirt! How delicious. But seriously, root beer is kind of crappy, so I don’t care what you eat with it. Subway is always good.

I hope that you found this exercise valuable and rewarding. Remember, choosing a beverage has nothing to do with drinking what you like. It’s all about listening to some stranger on the internet tell you what to do.

###

***

It started, like these things always do, innocently enough. It was a full flight. I didn’t ask for the center seat.  I didn’t want the center seat. I got the center seat anyway. It was one of those big planes with 3 seats on either side of the aisle. I’m not sure if it was a 737 or a 787 and, quite frankly, I think people who know those details are weird.

“A plane ain’t nothin’ but a big ol’ bus in the sky,” a man once told me, but that man was a bus driver and I always suspected that he drank himself out of flight school.

On my right was a youngish black woman clutching a stuffed panda: a foreboding omen to say the least. On my left was an oldish white man. He was dressed snappily in a jeans, button-down shirt, and sweater combination. Neither seemed like they would be a problem. Or at least they wouldn’t be a problem that I couldn’t handle.

Behind me was a family with two lap babies. I was under the impression that the TSA now limited us to one lap baby per flight, but feeling generous I didn’t call security to have the uglier baby evicted. Both babies were crying before takeoff. Luckily I’ve had 2 children of my own so I’m well schooled in the art of ignoring babies while judging their incompetent parents.

***

When I’m flying I usually do a combination of three things: 1) watch an old movie; 2) try not to think about going to the bathroom (I have a tragically small bladder); or 3) listen to music and enter a half-sleep/half-trance state. As the flight wasn’t long enough for a movie and I had just been to the bathroom in the terminal I opted for the trance state.

And then those damn babies started up again. Jerks! Even James Carr couldn’t drown out their stupid cries. I resign myself to writing and got out my teeny-tiny laptop.

***

An hour goes by. I’m pleased with my efforts. Captain Jack makes the announcement that we’re starting our descent so I start to shut down all of my stuff. And then it happens.

“What do you say you give me a chance at that armrest for the rest of the flight?” angrily barks the old man.

A thousand snappy comebacks immediately flash into my mind. But I’m in a good mood so I calmly reply, “I’m sorry. Was I hogging the armrest? Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

It starts to dawn on me that old man isn’t just peeved, he’s furious. I’m talking throbbing vein in the forehead furious.

“Grrrflurgh! Why do you think I was hanging out in the aisle the whole time?”

Was that true? Let me think about what I noticed about old man: full head of hair and nice clothes (good), reading the Financial Times (douchey), drank 2 Heinekens (questionable)… occasionally stood in the aisle! So it WAS true!

“I’m sorry, I think you’re overestimated how much I was paying attention to you. I was listening to music and writing. I figured your back was hurting or something. Here, enjoy the armrest.”

Old man grunted and that was the end of the story. Or so I naively thought.

***

Now I was too distracted to enjoy iPod backgammon. Did I hog the armrest? Was I in the wrong here?

First, let’s establish that I’m definitely big for the middle seat. I’m not seat-belt extender big, but it’s still not a comfortable fit. Obviously the old man and I both wished I was smaller, but that wasn’t going to happen over the course of a one-hour flight. It did, however, call into question my long-standing “you can’t gain weight on a business trip no matter what you eat or drink” theory.

Then again, I was writing the whole time – on a teeny-tiny laptop. Which meant that I was leaning forward and crunched in towards the teeny-tiny keyboard. I don’t think I was using the armrests at all. Maybe old man was just angry/crazy/drunk on pre-skunked beer?

Furthermore, who really owns the armrest? Old man has his left armrest all to himself. Black lady has the right armrest all for herself. What does middle seat man get? Nothing? Both? What’s the official etiquette for this situation?

The more I thought about the situation, the more that I realized I was probably in the right. I was prepared to roast the old man at his very next misstep. His ass was mine.

And then I noticed that he was sitting there and stewing, clenching and unclenching his fist like a very angry, very crazy, slightly drunk old man. Perhaps I shouldn’t mess with him after all.

***

As we disembark I grab a used piece of gum from my seat pouch, because I am a great guy that picks up after himself. Entering the terminal I look for a trashcan and spot one off to the left. I make a bee line for it and throw my rubbish away.

And then I spot him. Hovering over me and glowering. THE OLD MAN WAS STALKING ME! HE WAS CLEARLY GOING TO KILL ME!

Naturally, I have a macho reaction upon noticing him and let out a surprised yelp, which I cover up by saying, “sorry again about the armrest!!!!” And then I casually ran away.

His eyes! They burned!

***

On my way to the taxi line I ducked into a men’s room to relieve myself. (And to ditch to the murderous old man, obviously.)

I made it! I’m outside! I’m free! Old man is nowhere in sight and the taxi line is a mere 50 yards away.

“SWOOSH!”

A door on my left opens up.

And there he is, mad as hell and staring right through me.

I underestimated my foe. He deserves to win. I accept my fate.

***

The last thing I saw was the glint off the metal and then everything went dark…+

I gave the cabby directions and sped off to safety.

But I can still see the old man’s face.

And I can still feel his eyes on me.

And I know he’s still out there. Searching. Stewing. Clenching and unclenching. Patiently waiting for his revenge.

***

Learn from my mistakes people. Don’t use that armrest if you know what’s good for you.

###

Perhaps I write about stuff that I like in order to associate myself with those creative endeavors. By reviewing things I create a relationship between myself and the object and that relationship helps to define my public persona. It helps me to show you, the reader, who I am, or who I want you to believe I am.

Or perhaps I write about things in an attempt to get the creator of the object to notice me, to realize that I get what they’re saying, and to convince them that we should become the very best of friends. And naturally I would want to write about Chuck Klosterman because I love Chuck Klosterman and I know that we would be BFFs forever if given the chance.

The only problem is that I actually have no idea who the real Chuck Klosterman is. I know who I think Chuck Klosterman is, based upon reading his work, but that’s merely Chuck Klosterman, the writer, as he presents himself to the world. The real Chuck Klosterman might be an entirely different person altogether.

Or perhaps I write reviews just because I like writing and I believe that the only way to get better as a writer is to write a lot.

Perhaps the answer is “D: all of the above”.

And now you’re wondering, what does any of this have to do with Chuck Klosterman’s latest novel “The Visible Man”?

Probably nothing and probably everything.

***

Chuck’s second novel follows his career as an essayist who seemingly writes about “low” culture but in actuality uses pop culture subjects in order to challenge people’s perceptions and thought processes. He is a brilliant thinker, a talented writer and a man, who by all accounts, is much taller than you would expect him to be. His first novel, “Downtown Owl”, attempted to capture the ennui of growing up and living in the Midwest. Or at least I think that’s what it was about because I have no idea what it’s like to grow up in the Midwest. It was an enjoyable read and my only criticism was that many of the characters sounded like Chuck, by which I mean they frequently possessed the same overly-analytical observational voice that defines Chuck’s essays.

“The Visible Man” does not suffer from this problem because all of the expected Chuck-ism* are now delivered through the voice of the antagonist Y____. This is a good solution because I love Chuck-isms and would be remiss if the book was completely devoid of them.

* A Chuck-ism is a trenchant observation about society, life or the human condition. In addition to making these observations Chuck also likes to employ footnotes, similar to the one you’re currently reading.

Here are a few example Chuck-isms from “The Visible Man”:

• “Runners despise their house keys.”
• “If an author wants to make a fictional character sympathetic, the easiest way to make that happen is to place them in a humiliating scenario.”
• “This is why facebook caught on with adults: It’s designed for people who want to publicize their children without our consent.”
• “It’s human nature to inject every old picture with positive abstractions.”

There are many more excellent Chuck-isms throughout the book, but you’ll have to read the book and find them yourself.

***

On the surface, “The Visible Man” is a sci-fi thriller about a therapist (Victoria Vick) who treats a man (Y____) who possesses a cloaking suit that allows him to observe people when they are alone so that he can study the “real” person. This narrative is delivered in the form of Vicki’s book proposal/manuscript about her relationship with Y_____. In other words, a novel that is a meditation on the “real” self versus public personas is delivered through a framework where the story is told indirectly, in the manner Victoria wishes to present her story to the world. This is a very clever trick, as the form of the book mirrors the central idea of the book.

And while the plot is basically a thriller (and an enjoyable on at that), the story really is a meditation on consciousness and the self. As Y_____ himself says, “The more I thought about this-and I thought about this a lot, for many, many years-the more it seemed like the only essential purpose of science was to define consciousness.”

So, is the “true self” the persona that we present to others, the person we are when alone, or the person that we want ourselves to be? Are we defined by our thoughts or our actions? Are perceptions of ourselves – or other’s perceptions of us – real or not? Who are we?

***

The funny thing about Y____’s scientific process is that he states that his goal is to merely observe people – never interact with them – in order to understand how people act when they’re alone. Of course this is entirely false because Y_______ continuously inserts himself in his subject’s lives. Perhaps he is the visible man because while he can’t be seen, his actions still have an effect on people. He is a living embodiment of the Heisenberg Uncertainly Principle  – the theory that the act of observation affects to object being observed.

And this is most notable in Victoria’s life. The mere fact of her relationship with Y_____ changed her significantly even before he actually took any overt actions.

***

Of course, another reading of this book could be that Y_____ doesn’t exist at all and everything happens in Victoria’s imagination.

***

I now realize that this isn’t even technically a book review because I haven’t actually reviewed the book.

Oftentimes I feel like when people review things they judge them based on whether they think things are “important” rather than whether they’re enjoyable. “The Visible Man” is a novel. It is meant to entertain. When I review comedy I judge its success or failure based on whether it makes me laugh, as that is the primary purpose of comedy. I’m not concerned whether it’s breakthrough or legendary or important. I just want to laugh. For books I judge based on readability. A good book is one that you don’t want to stop reading until it’s finished. And “The Visible Man” is certainly that – it’s an enjoyable, readable novel.

But sometimes things do rise to the next level. Sometimes they contain ideas that make you think, that challenge your perceptions and stay with you after you’re done reading. And that’s the difference between “good” and “great”.

By that measure, “The Visible Man” is a great book.

###

1) The brotherhood is metaphorical, not literal

There are no actual brothers in the Chris Robinson Brotherhood. The band is composed of Chris Robinson (vocals, guitar), Neal Casal (guitar, vocals), Adam MacDougall (keys, vocals), Mark ‘Muddy’ Dutton (bass, vocals) and George Sluppick (drums). The band started touring back in March of 2011 and has racked up an impressive hundred shows so far this year.

2) A lot of Black Crowes fans probably won’t like the CRB

The CRB (with the exception of Chris’s voice) sounds nothing like The Black Crowes. In many ways the CRB is the antithesis of the Crowes. The classic Crowes sound is loud, aggressive, rhythmically-driven, and tight. The CRB is mellow, spacey, melodically-driven and loose. The CRB is all about face-melting, not ass-kicking. In fact…

3) The CRB feels a lot like the JGB

While most people make the obvious Grateful Dead comparisons, the true reference point is probably the Jerry Garcia Band. When Jerry needed some spare cash, he’d grab John Kahn, Melvin Seals and whatever drummer was hanging around and they’d jam the shit out of Jerry originals and classic tunes from the rock and soul songbook. He was playing the songs he loved, they way he wanted to play them, and he hoped the fans would dig it. Same thing with the CRB.

4) The originals are amazing

The song rotation runs about 50 deep, with a nice mix of new originals, a handful of New Earth Mud/late period Crowes tunes and covers. The new songs are among the strongest that Chris has written in years. They possess strong melodies, nice transitions, ample room for jamming and lyrics that reflect a middle-aged perspective on life and love. “Star or Stone” could be a hit (if it was 1973), “Rosalee” is a great up-tempo jam, perfectly slotted as the first set closer. “Tulsa Yesterday” has a ‘Bird Song” vibe to it (which is a good thing). These are strong songs that have been road tested and I’d be excited about an album that contains: “Beware”, “If Your Wheel Don’t Roll”, “Rosalee”, “Reflections on a Broken Mirror”, “Star or Stone”, “Tulsa Yesterday”, “Tomorrow Blues”, “Vibration & Light Suite”, and “Star Crossed Lonely Sailor”.

5) The covers are for music geeks

The first soul musician I ever fell in love with was Otis Redding. Ironically, I never heard Otis do “Hard to Handle” when the Crowes broke through in 1990 with their famous cover version (I always thought it was a Dead tune). Now Chris is covering one of my all-time favorite Otis songs “That’s How Strong My Love Is” (which is really a Stax-era tune by OV Wright). I was thrilled to hear it in Somerville, and they did the King of Soul proud. The other covers on Saturday were “Crash on the Levee”, “Driving Wheel”, “Sugaree”, “Let’s Go, Let’s Go, Let’s Go”, and “It’s Late”. Chris is obviously obsessed with music and his cover choices show a depth of knowledge and a commitment to keeping the rock, country, soul and blues traditions alive. If you’re a music geek it’s a real treat to hear these tunes rescued from obscurity.

6) It’s all about the harmonies

The Achilles heel of every jam band is almost always the vocals, so it’s a real treat to hear a band that features not only an incredible lead singer but a great back-up singer in Neal Casal. Add in Muddy and Adam and you’ve got true four-part harmonies that take the songs to another level, like during the a capella section of “Ride”. I’d like to see them keep pushing the harmonies until they’re the frigging Beach Boys. And can someone please explain to me why they’re not doing “And We Bid You Goodnight”?

7) Neal & Adam are on fire

The unique thing about the CRB is that the sound is driven by having two lead instruments: Neal’s guitar and Adam’s keys.

I can’t say enough good things about Neal Casal (and I have previously when reviewing The Cardinals). I love his tone and his feel. I’m not a fan of guitar players who shred. I like guitar players who pick their spots, who build and release tension, and who take listeners on a journey with their solos, rather than trying to impress with their technical skills. Neal is a very emotional player and his tone is clean but not too thin. Best of all, he knows how to push the jam without ever losing the song.

Adam is a monster on the keys. Somehow a skinny little white dude lays down a fat groove that sounds like Merle Saunders. He’s got the jazz chops to jam, and the funk chops to groove. He kills it on tunes like “Vibration & Light Suite” but he also drops beautiful little solos on songs like “Driving Wheel”.

8) Actually, it’s all about the jams

The CRB is not a rock band. They don’t play any hits. Nearly every song contains a psychedelic spacey jam. The pace of tunes ranges from slow to mid-tempo. The show is nearly three hours. Every tune runs longer than 10 minutes. One of the songs has the word “suite” in the title. There’s no hidden agenda here – this is a jam band. So if you’re looking for a hard rock show, please look elsewhere. If you do come, please keep your phone in your pocket and save your chatter for the set break. Some of us are trying to connect with the universal consciousness.

###

More concert reviews and music essays here.

Now some people might say that Ryan squandered his term, which ultimately resulted in his big summer movie The Green Latern flopping. I take the opposite position and say that The Green Latern flopped precisely because the combination of Ryan Reynold and Blake Lively was far too sexy for comic book nerds to embrace.

You see, what you norms might not realize is that comic book nerds are smart. They know that they’ll never win the affection of a Blake Lively so they aim a little lower and lust after someone like Alyson Hannigan from Buffy (i.e. someone who is still quite attractive but not super-hot). Of course comic book nerds have no chance with Alyson Hannigan, either, but don’t tell them that. I said they were smart, I didn’t say that they weren’t delusional.

Anyway, back to Mr. Sexy, Bradley Cooper, who is certainly sexy enough to wear the crown. I like me some Bradley Cooper and I certainly don’t begrudge him this prestigious honor.

What I do begrudge is the apparently rising standards of womenfolk in judging male sexiness.

Dig this. When I’m travelling alone I like to watch old movies. I do this because nobody else wants to watch old movies with me and because movies (just like music) were much better in the 1970s. Hell, everything was great in the ‘70s when I was too young to enjoy it. Then stuff sucked in the ‘80s when I was almost old enough to enjoy it. Then things were great again in the ‘90s when I was still young enough to enjoy it. The things got shitty again in the ’00s, but I was too tired from the stupid kids to care.

What was so great about movies in the ‘70s? Well aside from the excellent writing, direction and acting, the music was super-funky, the clothes were hideously awesome and people said hip things like “dig this”. But truly, the greatest thing about movies in the ‘70s (and earlier) is that fat middle-aged men were legitimate sex symbols.

You see, I can compete with a 50 year old William Holden. I’ll go toe-to-toe with Robert Mitchum wearing a dirty trenchcoat. Humphrey Bogart? He’s mine, all five and a half feet of him. I’m sure even Ernest Borgnine had his admirers. It was easy being sexy back then.

But I can’t compete with Bradley Cooper and his stupid hair and washboard abs and dazzling smile.

So there you have it.

Ladies, if you want to bring sexy back could you please lower your standards to 1970s level? Think of it like the Bush tax cuts. I’m not asking you to give up everything – just go back to a reasonable level when we were all happy.

###

To many people, Andy had become a punchline. He was the cranky old guy with the crazy eyebrows that complained about everything.

But to me, Andy was an inspiration. He was the first writer that I ever truly loved. Even as a child I would read every book and column that he wrote. I tuned into the last 10 minutes of “60 Minutes” each week just to catch Andy.

I loved how Andy could wring so much humor and insight out of even the simplest things: a bar of soap, fruit, woodworking, technology. Andy possessed the rare ability to communicate ideas that connected with everyone, regardless of their backgrounds or beliefs. While on the surface it seemed like he was merely complaining about the inconsequential, in truth he was a trenchant observer of the American post-war experience. His essays were as much about how we were changing as a culture as they were about how frustrating it was to find a good repairman.

His writing style was simple, bold and confident. Like Kurt Vonnegut, his ideas were strong enough to stand on their own and they didn’t need to be couched in fancy language designed to impress. He said what he meant, clearly and concisely, and he never talked down or pandered to his audience.

He also, quite admirably, didn’t ever seem to care what his readers thought of him or his work. He detested celebrity and avoided praise in publicity. Andy was the antithesis of today’s facebook society where everyone is chasing “likes”. Andy could give two shits less whether you “liked” him or not.

Andy knew who he was, where he came from, what he loved (his wife and kids, football, woodworking, his Underwood typewriter) and what annoyed him. He said some stupid things (don’t we all) but he always owned up to his mistakes. He never forgot where he came from or the experiences that shaped his life.

His accomplishments far transcend being a old crank on television: he wrote for ‘Stars & Stripes’ during World War II, he helped to launch the era of television journalism, and he became America’s foremost humorist and observer. He always made us laugh, he usually made us think and he frequently made us mad.

A long time ago my Dad once gave me a card that read “To the next Andy Rooney…” Even then I knew that my dream in life was to write funny little essays like my literary hero. But the truth is that no one – especially not me – could ever be the next Andy Rooney. He was truly one-of-a-kind.

Thanks Andy. You were the best.

###

The big news is that for the first time ever, I’ll be live blogging my candy reviews. Please note that the evening usually features three distinct phases: first, I’ll eat the candy that we bought to give out, next I’ll eat the candy that my 4 year old secures during the early shift and finally, I’ll eat the candy that my 8 year old scores on the late shift. My intention is to eat one piece of every kind of candy that enters the house, with the exception of generic candy and size variants.

Candy will be rated on my patented 4 point scale ™, with 1 being a “shit sandwich” and 4 being a “Butterfinger”.

###

Twix: Featuring caramel, chocolate and cookie, Twix is a Gen X favorite, and for good reason. The cookie provides a lovely texture, the chocolate is tasty and the caramel is used judiciously, as it should be. A great way to start the evening. 4

Reese’s Crispy Crunchy Bar: Is this new? I’m a big fan of Reese’s, so I’m always up for another line extension from them. It’s like a cross between a Kit Kat and a Nestle Crunch. It’s okay but I’m not sure if I need the wafer AND the crunch. 2

3 Muskateers: Oh sweet nougat, I do love thee so. So light and fluffy, the 3 Muskateers bar is sophisticated, like a little bite of chocolate mousse. Give those 3 muskateers 4 stars! 4

Take 5: Perhaps the greatest candy bar invention in decades, Take 5 is pure genius: chocolate, pretzels, caramel, peanuts and peanut butter. The saltiness and hardness of the pretzel is a brilliant addition to the candy canon. Somewhere Milton S. Hershey is smiling. 4

Milky Way: It’s like a 3 Muskateers, but with caramel and the nougat is different (yes, it is. I once called the corporate 800# to find out in order to settle a pre-wikipedia bet. It is different nougat and I won the bet). But, I’m not a huge fan of caramel being the star of the show, so I’m not that big a fan of the Milky Way. 2

Milky Way Midnight: It’s the dark chocolate version of the Milky Way. The chocolate taste like the mounds chocolate. Interesting but not that great. 2

Snickers: Meh. Ever since I overdosed on peanuts on the South Beach diet (irony alert!) I’m not that big on whole peanuts. And the caramel again. I don’t feel that satisfied, either. 2

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup: The sweetest plum. Chocolate. Peanut Butter. And I love how the top layer of chocolate is a little too thick. Fantastic candy. 4

Twizzlers Rainbow Twists: While I generally prefer the chocolate, it’s nice to mix it up sometimes with something different. But these are just weird. They taste like Kool-Aid packets. Blech. 1

Mounds: You know, I’m really not that big on either dark chocolate or coconut, but the whole is definitely greater than the sum of the parts. That’s some good stuff. 3

Butterfinger: My childhood favorite candy. It’s one of a kind – peanut-y and chocolate-y with a unique texture inside. I absolutely adore Butterfingers. 4

(Must admit…11 bars into the taste test and starting to fade. Must press on and keep eating candy. America needs me. Perhaps a beer will help…)

Kit Kat: The original wafer candy, it’s light and crunchy and delicious. Plus, you get TWO of them! Woo hoo! 4

100 Grand: Chocolate, caramel and crispy, the 100 Grand is a little tough on the teeth. Like the US dollar, this one has been seriously over-valued. 2

Sour Skittles: Yeech, that’s just gross. They should probably leave the ‘sour’ to the ‘patch kids’. 1

3 Muskateers Mint with Dark Chocolate: Wow! I feel like I just brushed my teeth! It’s like a creamy After 8 mint. Actually, I never liked those too much. 2

Whoppers: Now I feel like I’m in a black and white movie. What is malted milk, anyway? Kind of good, kind of gross. It’s appropriate that there’s only 3 in pack – I’m not sure I could handle more than 3 in one sitting. 2

###

I can’t believe it. A mere 16 candy bars and I’m toast. I have brought shame and dishonor onto my entire family. To be perfectly honest with you I would commit seppuku right now if my tummy wasn’t so full of mostly-delicious candy.

###

(Originally written on 10/31/08. If you liked this you’ll find my Rating the Snack Cakes equally delicious.)

]]> http://mitchblum.com/2011/10/25/the-evolution-of-the-masshole/feed/ 0 http://mitchblum.com/2011/10/11/9-great-ideas/ http://mitchblum.com/2011/10/11/9-great-ideas/#comments Tue, 11 Oct 2011 16:55:58 +0000 admin http://mitchblum.com/?p=1700 Once upon a time, before the magic box fixed/ruined everything, people shopped in large stores full of all different kinds of merchandise. The goods were helpfully organized into departments, hence the name “department stores”.

Historically, department store were good for exactly three things: 1) for women to get their makeup done for free before a fancy party; 2) for taking a poo in foreign neighborhoods where there wasn’t a hotel (fancy hotels obviously have the best public toilets); and 3) for paying $150 for a Mr. Coffee machine that cost $30 at Target.

One of the greatest of the classic department stores was Filene’s. The flagship store was located on the corner of Summer & Washington Streets in the Downtown Crossing section of Boston. Tourists from all over would come to shop at Filene’s Basement. (The real Filene’s Basement, not the crappy place at the loser mall that sells dated football jerseys, stale candy and executive desk toys.)

Ultimately Macy’s bought Filene’s and shut down the store. Some jerk from New York bought the building, tore it down and ran out of money before putting up a new building. And now we’re left with a giant, ugly hole in the middle of a giant, ugly part of Boston. Thanks a lot, jerk.

But I am not here to point fingers. My mission in life is to offer solutions. Poorly thought-out, ridiculous solutions. So let’s go!

9 Great Ideas for Filling the Filene’s Hole in Boston

1) DINOLAND BOSTON: Two things I’m certain of is that kids like dinosaurs and kids are stupid. Let’s turn the hole into the largest urban archaeological dig site in the world. Take down the fence, bury some fake dinosaur bones and charge kids and their parents $60 to excavate.

2) SEXHOLE BOSTON: Downtown Crossing used to be famous for two things: shopping and porn. The old combat zone was zoned out of existence years ago and half of the (non-porn) stores are now closed. Let’s get back to our roots and put all of the strip clubs, porn shops and whatnot in the hole with a retractable latex roof. Think of how many more free agents we’ll be able to sign if there was more porn in town! No more tipsy drives to Providence!!

3) HALF-PIPE BOSTON: I’m never quite sure whether to be intimidated by skateboarder kids or not. On the one hand, they wear all that scary clothing and make-up. On the other hand, they’re all skinny and weak from the drugs and the ennui. Either way, let’s clear those kids out of Copley by giving them a huge half-pipe to play on.

4) SPOOKYWORLD/ENCHANTED VILLAGE: Admittedly this is only a good idea for like 3 months a year, but it seems like Spookyworld and the Enchanted Christmas Village are always moving from venue to venue. Why not give them a permanent home?

5) FOODTRUCK DEMOLITION DERBY: I love this idea. We combine the super-hot trend of food trucks with the eternal appeal of demolition derbys. First, we eat. Then, we smash.

6) KEEP DIGGING: Okay, this is a radical idea. How about instead of putting up a new building we just keep digging and see what happens. Will we find the morlocks? Maybe Al Capone’s vault? Monsters at the center of the earth? China?!? Now I kind of want to know for real.

7) GIVE IT TO HARVARD: easy answer: we give the hole to Harvard. Then they can move Allston in to the hole, accomplishing their evil master plan decades ahead of schedule.

8) PAINT CAN “STORAGE”: If you’re like me, you have a lot of empty paint cans in the garage that you can’t get rid of. The trash men won’t take them, the recycling guys won’t take them, and the trash pickers don’t want them. But seriously, does anyone care if I just throwing my old paint cans in the fucking hole? I really want to get rid of them.

9) “PHANTOM” GOURMET: Okay, here’s the plan. First, we tell all of the Andelman brothers that there’s free food and potential advertisers in the hole. Then we murder* them when they’re not looking.

(*Please note that I am merely joking when I suggest that we murder the Andelman brothers. I greatly prefer Phantom Gourmet over TV Diner and I like that they take seriously reviewing regular food. I always liked Eddie on the radio and think he’s a real mensch. In fact, if you are an Andelman brother, I would very much like to be best friends and/or do some voice-over work for you.)

Well, there you have it. 9 great ideas for filling the hole. And to be perfectly honest with you, I didn’t really spend a lot of time or effort thinking them up. Imagine what I could come up with if I actually tried!

###

Standing in the shadow of Gram

“The Flying Burrito Bros” (a.k.a. the blue album) is one of those albums that just appeared in my collection; I have no recollection of buying or receiving the album and yet it’s always been there. It’s the third Burritos album and the first without band co-founder Gram Parsons (my ode to Gram is here).

Chris Hillman must have felt a lot of pressure to deliver a solid album without Gram’s substantial presence. While the Burritos were never a “successful” band they had a lot of buzz after their first album and the legend of Parsons was already growing. Rather than shoulder the burden alone Hillman brought in the unknown Rick Roberts (later of Firefall) to help with guitar, vocals, and most importantly, songwriting.

The blue album marks a departure from the “Cosmic American” music that defined the first two Burritos albums. Cosmic American music, as envisioned by Gram, was a mélange of country, rock, soul, rhythm & blues and psychedelia. This album is straight-forward country-rock, with a sound dominated by Sneaky Pete Kleinow’s pedal steel guitar. Unlike some country-rock albums, the blue album is a true blend of the two styles, rather than sounding like rock songs with a fiddle or country songs with a heavy backbeat.

Listening to this album is the aural equivalent of sitting in front of a warm fire on a chilly, rainy day. The mournful songs of lost love and road fatigue are buoyed by Jim Dickinson’s clean production. While derided as sounding “too slick” back in the day, 40 years later the album sounds warm and polished, with a nice mix between the instruments and the vocals.

Side A opens with a great cover of Merle Haggard’s “White Line Fever”, setting the thematic and musical tone for the album. Next up comes the staggeringly beautiful Roberts tune “Colorado”, which is one of the best Burritos songs ever recorded. Roberts’ vocals are pushed to the limit, showing flashes of the heart-rending honesty that defined Parsons’ vocal approach. “Hand to Mouth” at first seems to be another mellow tune until taking an unexpected turn into mid-tempo jam territory. Befitting a Gene Clark cover “Tried So Hard” features some nice vocal harmonies. The first side closes out with another Roberts-Hillman composition “Just Can’t Be”, which (with a little more fuzz box) would fit perfectly on The Gilded Palace of Sin.

Side B starts off with an absolutely perfect rendition of Dylan’s “To Ramona”, where the lushness of the arrangement seems to heighten the intensity of the lyrics. “Four Days of Rain” is another stand-out Roberts tune, lending itself to a tight performance by the band, with some great drumming by Michael Clarke. “Can’t You Hear Me Calling” is a decent, but not spectacular, honky tonk rave-up. “All Alone” is yet another wonderful Hillman-Roberts collaboration that ebbs and flows nicely. The album finishes with the killer track “Why Are You Crying?” which posits music as the solution to all of the loneliness, longing, tears and broken hearts expressed over the preceding 30 minutes. (Of course, it also begs the eternal question of why he offers to bring his guitar to sing her a song and then delivers a banjo.) Bernie Leadon’s banjo playing is invigorating and makes you wish, like love itself, that the song would last forever.

When I first heard this album I knew nothing about Gram Parsons or the Burrito Brothers. While I’d later come to know and love those first two albums, to me, this album defined the Burritos – a weird Byrds spin-off band that somehow made country music cool to a kid in New Jersey. (It didn’t hurt that they all sported great jewfros on the cover.) “The Flying Burrito Brothers” is a definitive and essential country-rock album that should be in everyone’s collection.

Ratings:

White Line Fever: 3
Colorado: 4
Hand to Mouth: 3
Tried So Hard: 3
Just Can’t Be: 3

To Ramona: 4
Four Days of Rain: 4
Can’t You Hear Me Calling: 2
All Alone: 4
Why Are You Crying: 4

“The Flying Burrito Brothers” (1971): 3.4

Previously: The Classic Album Project: Introduction

Next: Peter Gabriel “So” (1986)

###

The fact that there is such a thing as “beer snobs” is both oxymoronic and deeply disturbing.

In the never-ending battle between snobs and slobs, us slobs were fortunate to claim some of the most awesome things that our society has to offer. Things like beer and Doritos and pants that are neither jeans nor pajamas.

You, detestable snobs, got snooty country clubs and crappy wine and stupid truffles (the gross mushrooms, not the delicious chocolates).

It was a fair deal.

But now the snobs want to muscle into our territory with their fancy, expensive, micro-brewed, overpriced craft beer.

Thanks anyway.

I am here today to sing the praises of mass-produced American-style lager. And I’m not talking about the ironic hipster love for PBR. I’m talking about genuine appreciation for regular beer.

In my nineteen years of above-the-legal-drinking-age, responsible, moderate-consumption-with-a-designated-driver drinking of beer I’ve tried just about every style and brand of beer. I’ve got nothing against stouts, pale ales, India pale ales or wheat beers.

(I do have something against those horribly overrated beers from Belgium. Whoever said that monks could brew good beer anyway? And what exactly are you trapping? Are there gerbils in my Chimay?)

But given the opportunity, I’d rather just drink a High Life or a Bud or a Coors Banquet (Molson and Labatt’s are fine too, my dear Canucks).

“But they’re brewed with adjunct grains like rice and corn,” you say smugly.

Guess what? I’m not a farmer. I’m not Michael Pollan. I don’t give a shit which grain they use to make my beer. And let’s be honest – both corn and rice are much better grains than barley anyway. Barley is gross. It’s on the bottom-tier with quinoa and the other loser hippy grains.

“But they’re made by giant, evil corporations,” you say conspiratorially.

Listen up, Ralph Nader. When you’re living off the grid and writing your manifesto you can rail about evil corporations. But a wise man once said that corporations are people. And while that wise man is kind of a douche, the truth is that corporations, like most things in life, are both good and bad. They make stuff. They employ people. They help build cities (e.g. St. Louis) and they help the government to overthrow peaceful island nations (e.g. United Fruit & Hawaii). Just because a corporation is big doesn’t mean that it’s evil or that it makes a bad product.

“But they’re lower in alcohol content,” you say drunkenly.

Exactly. What’s wrong with that? I’m not saying that I want to drink that weak-ass Mormon beer, but 5% alcohol is fine by me. I mean, it IS morning and I AM at work – just how drunk do you want me to get?

“But it tastes like piss,” you say superciliously.

First off: how would you know what piss tastes like, pee drinker? Har har!

But seriously, American lager is a distinct style that is rooted in European pilsners. And while it certainly has a lighter, milder flavor than ale, it’s crisp and clean and drinkable.

I don’t know about you, but I like drinks that are drinkable. It’s kind of in the job description.

I like to conduct a little experiment whenever we throw a party. I offer both expensive craft beers and cheap American beers. I put out fancy truffle-infused hors d’oeuvers and pigs in a blanket. And then I observe what people do (with the help of the videos cameras secreted throughout our house). Inevitably, the Miller Lite and the pigs in a blanket are big sellers. And as the night wears on more and more people extol the virtues of living the high life, because deep down inside all people love cheap American beer and tiny hot dogs.

Be proud. Be confident. Admit the truth: you, just like me, love shitty American beer.

###

And then the last needle broke and my focused shifted to mp3s and torrents. Instead of listening to albums, I found myself endlessly shuffling through thousands of songs on my computer and my ipod.

A few months ago my brother Steve generously gifted me a new record player – the fancy kind that can be used to rip your records into mp3 files. But instead of hooking it up to my computer I hooked it up to the good stereo with the beautiful Klipsch tower speakers in the living room.

And now we listen to records once again.

You know, I always suspected that technology would ruin us, but in the form of sentient robots seeking revenge, not ultra-convenient but crappy sounding audio files.

So what have I learned during my return to vinyl?

1) The sound is better. Not to go all Neil Young on you, but there’s some unmeasurable quality in vinyl that digital music can’t reproduce. I can only describe it as “warmth” and “fullness”. The only downside are albums that are badly scratched. (Like my copy of Neil Young’s “Harvest”.)

2) The sequencing. The artist put the tracks in a certain order, on both the A and B sides, in an attempt to guide how you experience each song and the album as a whole. Hearing the songs in the order that they were intended to be played in, not being able to skip tracks, and appreciating the peaks and valleys that come with having two opening and two closing cuts gives control back to the artist.

3) The thrill of the hunt. The ubiquity of digital music trading took away the challenge of searching for rarities and B-sides. No longer did I have to buy an entire crappy Disney album just to score a copy of Tom Waits singing “Hi Ho” (admittedly, a poor decision even at the time). But I found that I missed the fun and excitement of unearthing a hidden gem or a missing album. With vinyl, the thrill is back. I can hit up used record stores and spend hours flipping through the piles looking for a great LP.

4) The memories. I started collecting music at a young age and amassed a nice sized collection before switching to CDs in 1989. Flipping through the albums is like visiting with my super-awesome younger self. I can remember where and when I bought certain albums, who gave me that white vinyl copy of “The Beatles” (my cousin Gary), and what’s missing (I can’t find “Tattoo You” anywhere). That said, I still can’t remember what possessed me to buy every Squeeze album or the crappy soundtracks that Peter Gabriel produced (I bet even Peter’s Mom doesn’t own both “Birdy” and “Passion”).

Now that I’m back in the game I’m going to use this opportunity to revisit some of the classic albums that I’ve enjoyed over the years. I invite you to join me (and a few friends when they feel passionate about an LP) to talk about the artist, the album, the songs and what it all means. There will be no rhyme or reason to the selections. We’ll hop from genre to genre, from classic to modern, from famous to obscure, from acclaimed to derided. The only requirement is that we’ll review each album and rate each song/album on my patented four point scale:

4 = great (exceptional composition/performance)
3 = good (a song you’ll always listen to)
2 = okay (has some redeeming qualities)
1 = poor (has no redeeming qualities)

Coming Next: The Flying Burrito Bros (1971)

###

Like how to pose for a picture.

Coquettish half turn, eyes on the lens, no tension, warm smile – these are the techniques that you learn early and have to master before the Bar Mitzvah portrait goes on the wall.

And master them I did.

But the one thing my parents never taught me was how to approach the mug shot. Perhaps they thought that by not addressing the mug shot they would prevent me from ending up in the joint.

That’s obviously just bad parenting.

And now, all these years later, I’m kind of lost. I have no idea how to handle the mug shot and I don’t want to make a bad creative choice under duress – especially if I’m all cracked-out and internally bleeding. Jail sentences may only last a few years, but mug shots are forever.

So work with me here, people. Let’s think about the best approach for posing for a great mug shot.

Contrite: the classic mug shot pose is one of contrition. It says to the world “I’m sorry for what I’ve done” or at the very least “I’m sorry for getting caught for what I’ve done.” It’s a good play if you’re planning on getting out quickly and need to hit the family up for some cash. The only downside to the big ol’ puppy eyes is that other convicts tend to think you’re soft (or “fresh fish” in prison vernacular.)

Crazy Eyes: The opposite of contrite is crazy eyes. Nothing says “don’t fuck with me” quite like a crazy eyes mug shot. When you add crazy hair to crazy eyes we call it a “Nolte”. When you add a v-neck undershirt to a “Nolte” we call it a “Saddam”. Any of the three will be very effective in getting you into the most prestigious gang in prison, but the downside is that you’ll never be able to convince people that you’re not crazy ever again. (We call that a “Gibson”.)

Headshot: One of the hardest shots to pull off, the headshot is when you literally pretend the mug shot is your Bar (or Bat) Mitzvah portrait and you work that camera hard. You make love to that camera, which isn’t easy because you’re not exactly working with Dave LaChappelle in the booking office. When people say that Lindsay Lohan isn’t the greatest actress of our generation I remind them of her 2010 mug shot work. She looks radiant in that shot, even with the outdated orange jumper.

Smirk: I’m not a fan of smirking mug shots because they are fundamentally disrespectful. Look, you may think this is all a big joke, mister, but taking portraits is not a game. I always knew that Samantha Ronson was the weak half of the Lohan-Ronson coupling, but my suspicions were confirmed when she put on that Billy Idol-sneer for her mug shot. Bad choice, Sam.

Beatific: This one is my favorite. The trick is to project an entirely blank expression that allows the viewer to see what they want to see in you. Family members will view it as sad; fellow inmates will read it as resolute; and weird women that have conjugal visits with random prisoners will see it as sexy.

I think we have a winner!

Thanks for helping me out with this one.

See you on the inside.

###

One thing I’ve noticed, however, is that a lot of the same actors seem to pop up on many different shows. In particular, FX’s Justified seems to be the epicenter of the cable television character actor universe.

For your benefit, I’ve the created the definitive visual guide that shows the many connections between Justified, Deadwood, Breaking Bad, True Blood and Burn Notice. Memorize this chart and impress your friends!

A Visual Guide to Cable TV Character Actors

Recently I had my first opportunity to test out the new Hubway bicycle rental system and answer the question that’s been on everybody’s mind: are these bikes an urban transportation miracle or the devil’s playthings?

For those of you that don’t know what I’m talking about, bicycles are wheeled transportation devices that are manually powered by pedaling and some kind of kooky system involving chains and gears. Hubway is the name of the fancy bicycle rental stations that mysteriously appeared throughout Boston some time after the pay toilet kiosks and some time before the food trucks.

(By comparison, the good news is that they’re not used as hobo heroin dispensaries like the pay toilets. The bad news is that they don’t serve delicious Redbones ribs like the food trucks.)

Actually, I tried to rent a bicycle a few weeks ago but couldn’t get the kiosk to accept my credit card. You might scoff, but my platinum Discovery card saves me 3% on all Sears portraits and I’m going to keep using it wherever and whenever I can.

After so many days of rain I thought that it would be nice to bypass the orange line and bike from North Station to Back Bay, where I knew there was a drop-off station near my office.

The rental process was fairly simple: swipe your credit card, enter your phone number and zip code, pick either 24 hour or 3 day rental, quickly read and approve the 176 page agreement, and print out a rental code. The bike easily unlocked and I was on my way.

My first revelation was that the ride from Causeway Street to Huntington Avenue is almost entirely uphill. My second realization was that chubby, out-of-shape guys biking up Beacon Hill are excellent candidates for having a heart attack, or at a minimum, breaking the sweat shield before work.

Although the ride was quite trafficky, I almost died only once. Now in fairness to the guy that nearly hit me I might have been running a slightly red light. Then again, he was also running the same light and I went for it first. Then again, he was in a car. Then again, if I yield in that situation I’d never get my right-of-way powers back again.

Riding the bike was not the big time saver I’d hoped for. It turns out that there are a ton of lights between North Station and Back Bay and you can only run so many of them. The ride took about the same time as walking and more time than the orange line, plus I couldn’t play iPhone backgammon (which is okay because the computer is a total cheater, constantly rolling doubles).

On the way home I picked up another bike near the Christian Science Center and found out (after unsuccessfully entering my code 17 times) that you need to get a new code even if you’re within the 24 hour window. Sure, it said that on the kiosk, but my plan was to rent a bicycle, not read a lot of stupid words.

The little basket on the bike is generously sized but not large enough to hold the 180 gram vinyl copy of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” that I bought at Newbury Comics during lunch. Obviously my record purchase has nothing to do with the bicycles, but I wanted to make sure that you knew that I won the hipster douchebag badge for the day by both renting an urban bike AND buying a classic LP.

The ride back was more of the same: traffic, lights, sweat and the realization that I would miss my train. When I arrived at North Station all of the drop-off racks were full and I was stuck with a bike that I couldn’t get rid of. Luckily, 2 other guys were in the same predicament and we made a great team: they were up for reading about what to do in such a situation (answer: find another kiosk with empty racks, duh) and I knew where Staniford Street was located.

Bike returned, crisis averted, second train made, and the metal taste in mouth and tingly arm sensation eventually dissipated.

The bikes are quite nice, with fat tires and 3 gears. They’re girl frame bikes which obviously made me feel slightly sexier. It cost me about $6.70 ($5 for the bike, $1.70 for the water at North Station) and I didn’t save any time.

Bottom line: the bikes are pretty cool but you’ll get sweaty on the way to work and you might miss your train on the way home due to the empty rack issue.

One thumb up for Hubway bike rentals.

Two thumbs up for Redbones ribs.

###

My friend Ryan, upon learning that we would be vacationing in Montreal, suggested that I compare and contrast the American amusement park experience with the French-Canadian amusement park experience. This is obviously a brilliant idea, reflecting what famous French guy Baudelaire wrote in his treatise “L’existence N’a Pas de Condition de Hauteur”: “A nation’s soul is revealed in its amusements.”

Introduction

Entering this challenge I naively assumed that La Ronde would be just like Canobie Lake because the amusement park experience is such a specific and consistent experience that it wouldn’t seem to matter where you are physically located. I’ve been to lots of amusement parks in my day and it’s always the same: long lines, trashy patrons, crap food and mild sunstroke. And in most ways La Ronde delivered. But the differences were obvious – and in some cases – deeply unsettling.

Cuisine

The first noticeable difference was the food. There were multiple signs promoting fresh fruit AS A SNACK, as if fruit was something that normal people willingly ate as a snack. Worse still, the Dole people were selling grilled bananas. Not deep-fried banana candy, not plantain chips, but regular bananas grilled in the peel. Now I know that the Dole Corporation has quarterly earnings expectations to meet and there aren’t any more Hawaiis to invade, but BBQ bananas? Someone better be taking the fall for that one at HQ.

There was no delicious Kayem hot dog kiosk, but they did have a Slush Puppy stand – which was comforting. Sadly, the Puppys tasted terrible. And guess what the worst flavor was? That’s right – banana.

Advantage: Canobie Lake

Clientele

Heretofore, I always thought that Canobie Lake was the whitest place on Earth.

That was, of course, until I went to Montreal. There are 2 types of people in Montreal: white people that speak French and white people that speak English. I thought I saw a black person at one point, but it turned out just to be a shadow.

And what’s with all of the French? Waiting in line is infinitely worse when everyone is yammering away in a weird language that isn’t as pretty sounding as people claim it to be. To me, a true romance language involves a mouthy girl from Revere loudly plotting to kick some bitch’s ass for talking to her boyfriend.

Advantage: Canobie Lake

Couture

The patrons of the park definitely looked different in other ways, too: jorts were extremely popular for both genders. Someone might want to tell Canada that America has decided that girls are allowed to wear Daisy Dukes but boys aren’t allowed to wear jean shorts anymore. They’re really not up to speed on jean short etiquette up North.

Tattoos, such a common sight at Canobie Lake, were in short supply in Montreal. There were a few inked up people at the park, but by and large most people were tattoo-free. Surprisingly, I missed all of the tattoos. I mean, sure, I usually remember to look at your cleavage spilling out of your too-tight wife-beater, but that giant boob butterfly is always a welcome reminder.

On a related note, ALL of the men were wearing their shirts at La Ronde. I’d estimate male shirtlessness at Canobie at approximately 40% so it was weird to see so many men dressed up all fancy-like. I suspect that the lack of tattoos is related to the lack of shirtless men, but more research will be required. (Ed. note: submit thesis topic: “Tattoos and their Relationships to Male Shirtlessness” to phD advisory board.)

Even with all of the shirt wearing, I did not see any Ed Hardy shirts, which is obviously terrible news for Ed Hardy and Christian Audigier if they can’t crack the Canadian amusement park demographic. On the other hand, Sarah Palin will be happy to know that rectangular glasses are still very popular in Montreal.

Also in short supply were band tee shirts. I was expecting to see a few Blink-182 shirts (they were in town) but saw none. I got one Beatles shirt, one Wu Tang shirt, one baby in an AC/DC shirt (ironically cute) and an Alice Cooper shirt. Not represented were Canadian legends Celine Dion, Justin Bieber, Neil Young, or Bryan Adams.

I saw two Red Sox tee shirts, but no Blue Jays or throwback Expos shirts.

Facial piercing were pretty popular, with random lip stud and painful eyebrow thing seeming to be the most popular. I noticed a few grommet ears but no gold teeth or grills.

And only one rat tail.

Advantage: La Ronde

Behavior

Another big difference is that Canadian children seem to be worse behaved than American children, but Canadian teenagers seem to be better behaved than American teenagers. I’m not sure what this actually means, but it gives Canada more of a “Lord of the Flies” vibe while America has more of an “Outsiders” vibe.

I also learned a lot by conducting a simple experiment: wearing a Bruins hats. Now, if some Frenchy got off a plane at Logan wearing a Habs chapeau they would be pleasantly harassed early and often. At La Ronde my hat went unnoticed. No one yelled anything. No one pointed or mumbled insults in French. No one dumped a beer on me. One guy actually said “nice Cup” and talked about being a Montreal-native Bruins fan.

This obviously confirms our long-held suspicion that Canadians are pussies. (Just kidding – it confirms that Canadians are super-nice people absent of any massholic tendencies – and they just get nicer as they get older.)

Advantage: La Ronde

Rides and Other Stuff

The good point for La Ronde is that they have many more roller coasters than Canobie and far fewer barfy spinny rides. That suits me well now that I’m an old man who hates spinny rides but still loves coasters.

Instead of the traditional 48” height requirement kids needed to be 52” tall to ride the good coasters, which sounds like bullshit until your 48” tall son almost falls out of the Yankee Cannonball (don’t ask), so I guess they take their safety seriously at La Ronde.

Also for your safety they restrict smoking to designated smoking zones. These zones are conveniently located every 10 feet (smoking is very popular in Montreal) so everybody is happy.

Unfortunately, the lines at La Ronde were outrageously long. Even second tier rides had waits of over 45 minutes. That’s a lot of line time with a bunch of unruly kids (and surprisingly well behaved teens.)

La Ronde also cost $190 for a family of four, which is a lot more than Canobie Lake (not even counting the coupons available at your local McDonald’s, Market Basket, or Tedeschi.)

Canobie Lake is a quick and pleasant 45 minute drive from Boston, but La Ronde is actually located in Montreal, so good for them for having an amusement park in the city.

Advantage: Tie

Conclusion

Isn’t the true measure of an amusement park the happiness it brings to children? The joy it creates and the love it spreads in the community? Isn’t it enough to appreciate the magic and the merriment? Doesn’t it cheapen the experience by judging one park against another?

Nah, Canobie Lake is better.

But La Ronde is certainly worth the visit if you’re in Montreal.

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Once you’ve seen one shark angrily (yet unsuccessfully) attack a diver in a cage you’ve seen all sharks angrily (yet unsuccessfully) attack a diver in a cage. It’s entertaining for about 20 seconds. Unfortunately, shark week lasts a lot longer than 20 seconds. In fact, it lasts a whole week longer than 20 seconds.

What do we learn (or re-learn) each Shark Week?

1) Sharks love blood. Do you know who else loves blood? Vampires. Sexy vampires and their sexy human frenemies on pay cable TV shows. What would you rather watch: boring sharks being taunted or Anna Paquin inexplicably falling in love with a murderous vampire within 3 days – even after her dead grandmother told her not to – just because he’s sexy and has amnesia? Exactly.

2) Sharks have a lot of pointy teeth. You know who else has pointy teeth? Those crazy people who get the snake tattoos all over their bodies and split their tongues and file their teeth into points. Those people are awesome. I will watch them on basic cable anytime. My only question is: why are the fake snake people always British? And my other only question is: why the fuck are you trying to turn yourself into a snake? It looks stupid, it’s expensive, it’s painful and you still don’t actually look like a snake. You just look like a person with scale tattoos, a broken tongue and pointy teeth. Talk about bad life decisions. That said, Human Snake Guy Week still sounds way more appealing than Shark Week.

3) People that taunt sharks on TV are jerks and deserve to get eaten. Didn’t we learn anything from the sad Steve Irwin (man taunts animals for a living, one day man get poisonous stinger in heart and dies) incident?

Seriously, what did sharks ever do to anyone to deserve such treatment? Kill lots of people, you say? Well let’s debate this all legal-like. You be the prosecutor and I’ll be the shark defense lawyer:

Prosecution: Sharks are murderous creatures and deserve whatever they get. They’re killing machines by nature and cannot be rehabilitated or integrated into polite society.

Defense: Sharks rule the kingdom of the sea. Humans enter the sea at their own peril.

Prosecution: But you attack people at the beach all the time!

Defense: Humans can have the beach, but once you enter the water, you’re fair game.

Prosecution: But that’s not fair! Humans like swimming at the beach.

Defense: No, what’s not fair is fat 50 year old men in Hawaiian shirts making shark fins on their heads at Jimmy Buffett concerts. Those men deserve to die.

Prosecution: Agreed. Case closed.

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I know that you’re not going to like this, but I need to get it off my chest: I hate Scooby Doo. I honestly believe that Scooby Doo (both the dog and the show) is the worst popular cartoon in existence. The mysteries are stupid. The characters are boring. It’s not even slightly funny, hence the need for a laugh track. I can’t fathom why people like the show. I really can’t fathom why I married someone who likes the show.

I have a worse confession to make.

I know that you’re really not going to like this, but I’m tired of living a lie: I love Scrappy Doo. He is, by far, the best and most interesting character in the Scooby Doo universe. I don’t understand why people dislike him.

Actually, I do know why people hate Scrappy Doo. They think that he’s the “Cousin Oliver” of Scooby Doo and his carefully calculated addition to the cast ruined the show. Counter-point: Unlike pre-Oliver Brady Bunch, Scooby Doo was already a terrible show and the addition of Scrappy made the show marginally better. Rather than thinking of him as a Cousin Oliver type, I prefer to think of him as a (less-gay) Steve Perry type, who saved a floundering Journey and drove them to their greatest artistic achievements.

Things I like about Scrappy Doo:

1) He’s not an addict. Unlike the two cowards Scooby and Shaggy, Scrappy doesn’t need the promise of a quick hit to solve a mystery or enter a foreboding locale. Scrappy is tough without the junk.

2) He’s a bad ass. Scrappy brings the ruckus. He’s neither afraid of supernatural creatures nor handymen that dress up as supernatural creatures. Scrappy will kick your ass without thinking twice. One of his catchphrases is: “Lemme at ‘em! I’ll splat ‘em!” No equivocation there: Scrappy is always ready to rumble and he’s confident that he’s going to win.

3) He’s an empowering role model for children. Even as the smallest member of the Mystery, Inc. gang he’s still the strongest, the bravest and the second smartest (behind Velma). Most important of all, he teaches our children the valuable life lesson that all of your problems can be solved through violence.

4) He’s got great catchphrases. In addition to the aforementioned “Lemme at ‘em! I’ll splat ‘em!” Scrappy is perhaps best known for his rousing battle cry “Ta dadada ta daaa! Puppy power!” Compare that to Scooby’s pathetic “Rut-Roh!” or Velma’s “Jinkies!” Actually, don’t compare them because Scrappy’s catchphrases are awesome and the rest are terrible.

5) I went to college with a guy named Scrappy. He was a good guy and we had some fun times together, although apparently not enough fun times for me to remember his real name. And he might have been an addict. But I’m not here to judge.

So there you have it. Scrappy Doo = Real. American. Hero.

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The bottom line is that I don’t need to know you to really know you. When you’ve been in the human-watching game as long as I have, you pick up a few tricks along the way.

For example, I could probably write a book about you (or at least a modestly priced e-book) just by studying what time train you take to work in the morning.

“Whaaaaat?” you inquire nervously, “you follow strangers around just to see what time train they take? That’s creepy.”

“Of course not,” I reply defensively, “I only stalk strangers on the Newbury/Rockport line in Boston. I have associates that handle other territories.”

What Your Train Says About You

You Take a Train in the 5 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear an old suit. You carry your belongings in a bindle. Your favorite food is mulligan stew. You will burglar if necessary, but you avoid violence whenever possible. You are respectful to women and children but definitely not to Johnny Lawman. Your favorite drink is tokay wine. Your drug of choice is opium. You are, obviously, a hobo, because no regular person takes a train before 6 in the morning.

You Take a Train in the 6 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear a custom-tailored suit. You read the Wall Street Journal or the Financial Times. You have a large diamond in your pinky ring. You are still peeved that the nanny’s quarters are too close to the kitchen in the house you rented in Newport. You are nervous that your wife will find out that you got the nanny pregnant, but then you tell yourself that captains of industry just weren’t meant to be monogamous.

You Take a Train in the 7 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear business casual clothes to work. You have already consumed 6 cups of coffee. You are feverishly typing e-mails while yelling at people on the phone. You are late for a meeting, actually 2 meetings, because you are always double booked. You are peeved because someone had the nerve to plop down in the middle seat next to you. You can actually feel your arteries clogging from all of the stress and kind of hope for a heart attack just so you can get a few days off. (Helpful tip: slackers should avoid the 7 o’clock train at all costs.)

You Take a Train in the 8 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear jeans or shorts to work. You are sweating from running late for your train, even though you’re not getting to work until 9:30-ish anyway. You are still a little hung-over from last night. You are playing one of your kid’s games on your ipod. You forgot your wallet again and have to give a sob story to the conductor. You’re living the American dream! (Helpful tip: slackers are always welcome on the 8 o’clock train.)

You Take a Train in the 9 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You are wearing pyjamas and pretending that they are sweatpants. You are drinking peppermint schnapps out of your travel mug and pretending that it’s coffee. You are reading ads looking for medical experiment volunteers and pretending that you have lupus. You are considering eating the half of bagel that you found on the floor. Oh, who are you kidding? You know that you’re going to eat the bagel. Trains aren’t that dirty.

Weird, huh? It’s like looking in a mirror! Next week: something else.

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Oh yeah, I also wrote this thing you might like: Riding the Rails, Boston-style.

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