Josh

Oh, it's been a year since I updated, but now I'm leaving

2007-05-25T00:46:16Z

Party at my folks' house both Friday and Saturday for me to go bye bye Ann Arbor, hello LA.

I'll try to remember to send out some emails, but frankly, I've been so harried that I don't know who I've invited and who I haven't. I ran into a dude from the newspaper a couple days ago and was like, you're coming right, and he was like, wha-huh? I thought he was one of the first folks I invited, but apparently not. I made a list, but I wasn't good at following it in order, and I didn't always mark things off.

Anyway, if you read this, you're likely invited and know my email or phone number and address and will hit me up, yo.

I'm the new Opinions editor

2006-05-06T22:57:08Z

Look, I know I'm a liberal and that you hate me because I want homosexual atheists to have abortions while getting married in YOUR CHURCH. But when you argue that men are better at math and women are better at language, don't make me edit out a million different pronoun/possessive errors. It's "who's" for "who is," and "whose" for "owns." Jesus, girl, if your brain makes you so much better at language than I am, how come I have to edit out your million fucking redundancies and errors? And then you don't respond when I tell you to rewrite it because I'm a liberal? Fuck you!
(Also, fuck you other girl who I don't have an ideological difference with who just wrote stupid shit.)

Easter

2006-04-15T19:24:14Z

So, Amy calls me downstairs because she thinks she's found this horrible rodent death or something. There's loose fur, and a body that's not moving, all half buried in our garden. I get down there, and it looks like half a chipmunk submerged in the dirt. I can't get the body out with the rake (the rake is how Amy found it), so I grab a shovel. A delicate heave, and all of the sudden there's four baby rabbits squirming around. Apparently, the middle of our garden was where some dumb bunny chose for a warren. We ended up pushing 'em all back together (without touching them as much as possible) and then covering 'em up again with leaves. Cute but kinda creepy, I just hope they don't die.

I'm a porn star

2006-04-14T16:55:58Z

I'm in the shower, and I'm gonna put some conditioner in my beard after washing it. The conditioner's been left upside down, and I musta been squeezing it or something because as soon as I pop the little thing in the cap, it shoots out a tablespoon of white creamy conditioner across my face and chest.

Guitarzan.

2006-04-03T17:51:22Z

In a musical update, my efforts at learning guitar have paid off, big time. I can now play any song that consists of sloppily moving between chords A and D on an out-of-tune accoustic guitar. I know there are other chords, but these ones are mine. Any suggestions for a third chord that I may play, thus making me a punk rock GAWD? Or songs that are only D and A? For some reason DDADDAA doesn't sound nearly as rockin' as I had hoped. Perhaps I need an electric guitar to make it sound awesome. (If suggesting more chords, please make them the easiest ones. I eschew all complicated chordery as emblimatic of classic rock's bloated nature. Learn F? Why, I might as well record a Yes album at Conservatory! I'm punk rock all the way!)

In other news, that pants-rending noise that I heard while moving my parents' new freezer to their basement (I was lifting with my knees AND my back)? Yes, actually the sound of the front of my crotch rending. SPOILER ALERT— If I go commando, one whole testicle hangs out. Anyone have handy crotch patching lifehacks?

Arrrrrgh!

2006-03-24T18:12:42Z

This is why I hate trying to work for the Echo. They fuck my lede, and cut chunks out of a story that was dead-on wordcount. Why would a history of recording on walkmen and answering machines (history from about eight years ago) make "one" wonder how Berman would recount his life? That doesn't make any fucking sense. And why cut the origin of the name? The phrasing is broken up to seem more retarded, subordinate clauses have their dominant clauses lopped off. Christ, I need to stab these motherfuckers.

The story, as submitted, follows:

Telling the story of the Silver Jews makes you wonder how David Berman, the main actor behind the Silver Jews, feels about hearing it again.
Usually, the narrative goes something like this: Berman, Stephen Malkmus and Bob Nastanovich knew each other from school at the University of Virginia. They moved to New York, Malkmus and Berman got jobs as art museum guards, and they started performing noisy, improvised songs (often recording them by playing for people’s answering machines). They named themselves the Silver Jews as an homage to the Silver Apples, the Silver Beatles and the slang term for blonde jews.
Occassionally, the notion that the Silver Jews is/was a Pavement side project surfaced (as Malkmus fronted Pavement, and Nastanovich drummed for both bands, as did Steve West), especially as Pavement blew up. On the one hand, this led to many people picking up Jews albums who might not have otherwise. On the other hand, it’s always been Berman’s baby. Luckily, Berman was no Gore Vidal to begrudge success.

That success helped attract Drag City records, whose founder met Berman at a Pavement show. A few ultra lo-fi releases followed, recorded on a walkman. Berman got accepted in a graduate writing program at the University of Massachusetts and had that rare thing among grad students— plenty of time to write both poetry and new songs. He also found musical compatriots in members of the Scud Mountain Boys and New Radiant Storm King, giving the resultant album a country-rock hybrid flavor.

Flash forward a couple of years, past a few great American records on Drag City, a courtship and marriage to Cassie Berman, an acclaimed collection of poetry titled “Actual Air,” and a stint rehab emerging into the land of “club soda unbridled.”

Berman describes his new album Tanglewood Numbers, in an email interview, as “assertive.” It is, and it’s also his most relaxed and even cheerful album. The humor that Berman has always brought to his tales of wayward characters is still there, but there’s both more sympathy for people trapped in ugly situations and less irony in his gaze.

With more keyboards and a fuller, warmer sound, the album feels more through composed but, says Berman, “I also wanted it to have the natural havoc that comes with the quickly assembled, even if it took six months to find it.”

There’s plenty of blunt autobiography as well, such as the third track, “K-Hole.” With more than a little press focusing on his recovery from addiction, including a frighteningly open article in Fader, Berman’s songs about substance abuse play against what has been written about his life.
“I think the record is just me adding to the information, grafting my representation of my experience onto anyone who chooses to remember it, and file it away with the other convincing data that your mind might call up to sift thru base a personal decision on,” says Berman, describing his choice to deal with the subject matter on the album.

This isn’t a depressing addiction album. “K-Hole” is followed by a cheerful “Animal Shapes,” a jaunty duet with his wife about God and clouds. And there’s far less straight alt-country than on previous albums, with the effect of the album feeling more balanced and more mature.
“Because they are separated from each other by three or four years, I look back at them as soil samples taken from the planets in the solar system of my life,” says Berman. “’Tanglewood Numbers’ is my Jupiter. What's Sufjan Stevens up to now? His second state? I'm going to start working on my Saturn later this year. Followed by the disappointing double live album Uranus.”

With titles like “Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed,” and a well-known penchant for taking the piss to press in interviews, Berman’s description of his touring band’s sound promises a lively evening.

“The set won't even be half from the new album since we've never played the old stuff.
I think the band will sound like a barber on keys, a Polish-American stoner on drums, two sons of the nineteenth century on duel lead guitars, and a female cyborg in every bunk bed after the show,” says Berman.

Stuck in my head!

2006-03-21T19:11:07Z

Get the phone!
Who's it for?
Gargelor! Gargelor!

OMG!

2006-03-15T00:50:26Z

The latest loudly-bleeted gossip from the computer lab, after the girls left for about an hour and I had to answer some guy's question about how to print properly, is that this poxy girl's mom found her LiveJournal in which she detailed her sex toy habit and OMG! mom freaked out.

"I mean, it's just not the sort of thing that, like, I take pride in talking about with people. My sex toys. Especially not my mom."

Well, here's a tip genius-- how about giving the rest of the computer lab that courtesy.

We've got Harpers... Maybe we should try for the Atlantic

2006-03-13T22:02:29Z

This essay really sums up how I feel about a tremendous plurality of writing these days, and why I feel like I've retreated from fiction generally.
I know it might be reactionary in how conservative it is, and I'd hate to think that it's because I'm getting older that I might appreciate more things, but there are two traits that I really don't tend to enjoy in fiction— those pieces that try to force through a boorish vision of "this is the way things are, and I've written this to prove it," and those pieces that prize ambiguity and ornamentation as goals in and of themselves. I know that things often end up written or drawn or printed because they looked cool and tickled the fancy of whoever created them, but that doesn't necessarily do anything for me. I think for too long, I've dismissed a lot of analysis of literature because of a high school teacher who insisted that every moment of Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde was planned and positioned perfectly. I remember thinking that just because there's a house with a slanted roof doesn't mean that it's an allegory for the ego-id-super ego (she'd make a triangle with her fingers, just like when Stevenson has some scene that involved a steeple).
On the other hand, I know that there really are things worth looking for in fiction, and that the things that affect me tend to be images that reflect how a character is percieving his or her surroundings, not the author. Authors are people and I give far less of a shit about them than I do a good character in service of a book. When an author sets out to tell me what they think, it's almost always far less interesting than seeing what a character would think in the same situation, especially if it's backed up by something.

Overheard in the computer lab

2006-03-10T00:23:22Z

While I'm again trying to supplement my linguistics class with, well, whatever I can learn on the internet in order to counteract the combination of breezy, fast teaching style and the insipid questions of my classmates, I'm treated again to the loud ramblings of our computer lab attendant.

Farbeit from me to say, hey, y'know, maybe this shouldn't be some sort of coffee klatch over people studying. Oh no, I'd much rather hear how much The Fountainhead has influenced her thinking, and how she was raised on a farm, and how (OMG) Harry Potter tickets are, like, hard to get. (To what, I'm not sure, as it's at the $1 theater...)

How much do you think I should listen to before chiming in? I don't want to be That Guy (yeah I do), but they're sooo stupid, and the older (as old as me even) bearded guy is giving these two spotty girls with more eyeliner than Robert Smith such a fucking pathetic suck-up that it's about to make me cry. The dismissive way that one of the two girls describes her boyfriend is followed immediately by the pining, wistful mention of this guy's crush on a girl with a boyfriend. Yeah, you're laying it on pretty fucking thick if innocent bystanders can't help but notice the flailing attempts.

This is why when AskMetafilter has the recurring "I'm such a nice guy... Why won't she talk to me" bullshit, my immediate thought is "You're probably a whining wuss who needs an ass beating more than a blowjob."

Christ, I need to get out of here and get a beer.

On the way back:

2006-03-05T01:57:29Z

Highway exits that could be people's names:

Cecil Waugh
Fostoria McComb
Seymour Paddock
Florence Union
Uriah Atmore
Flomaton Wallace
Creola Satsuma
Prichard Citronelle
Theodore Dawes
Moraine Kettering
Anna Minister
Troy Covington
Wapakoneta Uniopolis
Napolean Maumee
Bently Bluffton
Opelika Hurtsboro
Rabun Perdido

Back from New Orleans

2006-03-02T20:53:01Z

Flickr set here.

New Orleans, day one.

2006-03-01T00:54:43Z

Day One: We spent a good 20 hours in the van, a 15-passenger monstrosity for a grand total of four people. Only three other students came on the trip. We got into New Orleans at about 4 am local time, and our hotel's front desk didn't open until 7 am. So, we took a brief tour of the city, looking for food. No food, folks, but plenty of liquor. All of the 24-hour joints that promised chow were closed or tapped, and it was hard to think about getting drunk. It did, however, give us the opportunity to see what a major American city would look like with a trash bomb detonated on it.

(Gotta go. More later).

A further update

2006-02-24T00:42:23Z

The only thing dumber than a reflexive undergraduate conservative may be the much older non-student longhair trying to hit on her. "Wow, that's, like, really something that, like, I've put a lot of thought into, but you're, so articulate about it..."

Fuckin' stab you all in the eye. (Every now and then, I hope that people thinking about enrolling in Eastern find this journal and get the fuck out before it eats their souls. I'd kill to find even ten cool people at this whole fucking school).

Two things

2006-02-24T00:40:08Z

One, I'm in the computer lab, right, getting linguistics drills from the internet (as after my class's quiz, the whole fucking class just stood outside the classroom and bitched about how everything was going too fast, and everyone was having the same troubles that I was). Anyway, the attendent is talking about how, like, she was watching Roger and Me in her class, and how some liberal started arguing with her when she was talking about how, y'know, like, corporations really have no obligation to the public or to their workers, and how people should stop wanting things taken care of for them, and that capitalism means fending for themselves, and, like, that's why we have a capitalistic society. I wanted to fucking throttle her, but instead just sat and thought about how the only thing dumber than an undergraduate liberal talking about politics or economics is a reflexive undergraduate conservative talking about politics or economics. Especially lit majors.

Second thing, I'm gonna be leaving on Sunday for a week (well, 'til Friday) in New Orleans on a journalism trip. Which'll be pretty fucking cool. Anyone got any ideas for things to do on my own? I'll have a digital camera and a laptop, so I may be updating here (you know, for the first time in months). If there's anything I should see or do, lemme know.

Update:

2006-02-03T19:04:49Z

Man, remember how I was talking about that guy Mike who "inherited some black people," and I gave the WTF?
Turns out he was a pathological liar. Stole his girlfriend's credit cards and ditched out when they were supposed to be moving down to Va. to live on this plantation. They'd been dating a while, but then wham, he's gone.

Now, the salient question: Is it more racist to inherit a business and use a weird vocabulary of slavery to refer to your employees, or is it more racist to make up a lie in which this happens?

(Man, his lie was crazy detailed. I was even refraining from making fun of his stupid tattoos because I thought maybe he'd take us on his plane! Stupid and venal, me. Heh. CRAZEEE!).

Beardy

2006-01-16T16:05:02Z

So, I'm standing at the Williams UMCU ATM, while Amy's getting some cash out and I'm waiting for her to be done. Some guy comes walking by, looking like he's in a pizza delivery uniform or something, and as he gets close, he says, "How's it goin', Beardy?"
I say something like "Ok, you?" and just hten, Amy gets done with her banking, and we start off toward the car, in the same direction as the guy. He starts telling us how he used to have a beard down to his nipples, and how the man (his boss) made him cut it off. He acted like he knew me, but I was in no real condition to suss out what the fuck he was talking about. But since we all walked at about the same speed, we ended up with about a block of conversation about the trials and trevails of beards in modern society. Or at least how evil bosses make you cut 'em off.
Both Amy and my parents have now started calling me "Beardy."

(This isn't the first time that I've gotten stuck in a weird conversation about my beard. I don't know, but I think I've written the other one before, from Italy...)

Classics in Internet Mentalism.

2006-01-10T02:32:43Z

From The Music Blog:

josh,
fuck you. thanks for the pathetic "i have no idea what i'm talking about write-up". you're right, we are just like great lakes myth society, except i'm going to fuck you in your mouth. you are impossible. also, my space is very very logical. you are a child in a puppet's body. correction (yes, this is for dramatic effect), you are a child.
fuck off (forever and ever),
jansen p. swy
the descent of the holy ghost church

From email (and someone else):

hello i just wanted to respond to "dose ann arbor need
any more garage bands,we have the avtars.well no we
dont because they all suck!the avatars are
shit.chris'box'taylor is the biggest asshole jerk i
have ever met.i my self an a guitarist and play heavy
metal and would notplay the clubs,because i rather get
signed
i woul hate to be 30 somthing and be in a local band
think in cool ha.as for you mr.stechmann you looke
like a compleat jerk and whom i would say have little
to go.
sincerly christin j.smith

My favorite part of this missive, this (if I may be Donovan) Epistle from Dippy? "Compleat." It feels like I'm being flamed by Shakespeare.

After a terse 'Good luck with that, Ace,' and vague notions that A&R men love people who don't play out, I get back:

ya send demo's i dont have a band im solo.the local
clubs suck and i rather sit at home and watch paint
dry .as 4 my spelling i type to fast but u i hope u
and the rest of the ann arbor local band get kicked in
the ass
i hope you all what s comung to you a kick in the
balls i spit on you and your crew fuck you and that
child molester box

How awesome is this? He thinks I have a CREW!

On Race

2006-01-03T20:45:16Z

Several moderately connected thoughts. First off, there's this MeFi thread which saw me being probably more of an ass than I should have been. But there has been a change in how liberals (and PJ O'Rourke) view the issue of race, and the candor with which we're willing to address it.
Similar to how I believe conservatives view sex, it seems like there's a patina of politeness that's been laid across race that smothers the superficial but ignores the truly dangerous.

Second, by way of vaguely offensive: An anecdote from grocery shopping. Amy and I were at Busch's and saw some other variety of bananas (shorter and browner), and Amy gave a brief rundown on them versus Cavendish bananas, which are the main variety.
Walking a couple of steps behind her, I say "Cavendish would be a good name for a black boy," and get the most horrified look from a 40-something white woman with "quirky" eyeglasses who was testing melons.
Well, Cavendish WOULD be a good name for a black kid. Just sayin'.

Third, while over at our friend Raquel's place, a couple of her friends popped into town on their way from Beaver Island to Pittsburgh. Mike, the husband of her friend (Cathy, I think? I don't remember her name) from high school, had just inherited a working tobacco plantation in Virginia, and was kind of coming to terms with it. It was huge (over 8,000 acres in his part alone), and had come to him through two deaths within a month. He now owned several antique guns, two airplanes, two mansions...
"And about 180 black people."
Yeah, he just said that he now owns 180 black people. Our mouths must have been agape, because he started to explain it (and/or equivocate).
Truncated version: Before the Civil War, the family had owned slaves ("because if they had freed them, slave hunters would have just rounded them up, even though the family didn't really want to own slaves." Magnaminous white people, helping blacks again), and after the war had kept them on because "none of them wanted to leave." Now they get paid between $500 and $1000 a month, and get free housing, health care and primary education (and have a fund for college, though Mike says that none of them have ever left).
He went on to refer to them as "my black people" for the rest of the evening.
If I had felt like I'd known him better, I might have called him out on it. But instead, it was, like, 15 minutes into meeting him. I did whisper to Amy "I think if you own them, you're supposed to call them African-Americans."
The entire evening was surreal. Soon they left, blaming his cat allergies (and not mentioning to their daughter that, y'know, his eyes might have been red because he was smoking pot in the basement...) and I was still at a loss. At least Raquel and Amy realized how fucked up it was...

Ah, the French.

2005-12-22T15:27:07Z

IN FRANCE a condom is known as capote Anglaise, or "English cap." A gentleman once went into a French shop, intending to purchase a dark cap, to wear in mourning for his wife, who had recently died. He knew the French word for cap was capote, so he asked for that. Several were shown him, but he wanted one English style, so he asked for a capote Anglaise. The clerk sent him to the drug department where he repeated his request to the lady clerk. She arched her brows and asked him what color he wanted. "My wife has just died," he answered, "so I want a black one."

"Such delicacy!" said the clerk.

Fuck you, Jennifer Granholm

2005-12-15T17:11:57Z

I am a Democrat, both large and small d. I think that there is a difference between the parties, and that the Dems are the best choice, generally.
I've even worked for 'em (though only briefly). But this is the sort of thing that I hate and one of the reasons I feel alienated from the party:

"Dear Josh:

I’m writing to ask for your support during a critical time in my re-election campaign.

My campaign finance report is due in January and any donation that I receive before December 31, 2005 will be recorded on that report. This is our first significant public financial disclosure and it is important that we send a strong message that the entire state can hear: We are ready!"

Really? I'd think that it'd just motivate the Republicans to raise more money. Isn't that the usual pattern, with both parties using the war chests of the other party as scare tactics? And I realize that this is a pretty common marketting tactic: to impose a false deadline to make it feel more urgent to contribute. But I resent being manipulated, and that's what you're doing.

"Won’t you stand with me as I fight to grow our economy, to protect our families and to educate our children?"

Yeah, sure. But why do you need my money now for that?

"I’ve been hard at work, creating a better Michigan for all of us:

* 279,000 jobs created or retained;
* 72,000 future high paying jobs to be created through my economic plan;
* 40,000 people to work now by accelerating construction projects;
* 70,000 more citizens with health insurance and drug coverage;
* 1,500 violent parole violators behind bars;
* Fighting for record-level funding for K-12 and scholarships for every Michigan child that wants a college education. "

I believe you missed a word: You meant record level funding cuts for higher education. I know, I know, that's mostly the fault of the Republicans. That's why I'm voting for you. But don't pretend that you're doing anything that great in moving Michigan forward when you're at best dragging your heels while the Republicans make things worse.

"Any contribution amount -- $100, $50 or even $25 -- can help ensure victory and keep our fight going for four more years."

Yeah, but when does it end? I'm not sure I want to be part of a never-ending battle. How about some specific things that you need my $25 for? I'll support your battle to buy stationary, but not to employ your husband dubiously at the public trough.

"Thank you for your time. Thank you for your support. Thank you for your help in electing me so I can fight for the principles you believe in during a second term."

Yeah, well, frankly, you haven't done that good at fighting for my principles the first time around. You've been extremely effective at fighting for vague reactions and putting a smiling face on Soccer Mom democrats, but not so good at reforming state drug laws, ensuring better funding for education, stanching the flow of blood from our industries, or preserving independent businesses here. The one thing that you've been best at, and don't get enough credit for, is appointing some excellent folks to try and undo all the evil that Engler did with the DNR for years. Aside from that, you're an empty barbie who speaks in platitudes and should only inspite loyalty from particularly slow-witted mongoloids. And I'm supposed to give you my money for simply being better than Republicans? On a certain level, this business model feels like extortion: If you demanded $25 because paying was better than being kicked in the crotch, I'd call you a crook. And certainly, I don't feel any more loyalty to you than I would in that "Say No to Crotch Kicking" campaign.

"Sincerely,

signature

Jennifer M. Granholm
Governor"

Yeah. It's really sincere to just type the word "signature." Or to have your flack do it for you. Go to hell, Granholm.

Most affirming virus spam ever.

2005-12-15T02:14:46Z

From: tess_tiongco CHOP@acer.com.ph (chopped so as to not add to the sender's spam.)

Subj: I love you more than the stars above.

Message: If I marry you,there are going to be some ground rules.

Attached file: youmessage.scr

The bar

2005-12-13T06:33:42Z

Maybe I started it.
This girl, who was one of John's friend's friends, started talking about how her mom had these things above her lips, these creepy things. If you know me, you know what I said: "Herpes?"
Yeah, yeah, she got all offended because this was the first (second?) time I'd met her, and I just implied her ma had herpes. Whatever. I thought she got over it, we made a couple of mutual jokes, no big deal.

She came along with John's friend Lisa. Lisa brought two girls, whose names have escaped me, to this trivia night thing (where I was for the free food after helping a friend move). They're all in landscape architecture grad school at U-M.

Luke, Pat's brother (Pat was buying the food) knows my father and asked how he was doing. I gave the standard ("pat") answer that he's enjoying MSU, working on his doctorate.

Whasserfuck (Herpes Mom) fires back: "What, he couldn't get into a real school?"

I said, "Well, not everyone wants to be a landscape designer." (Da's in for rhetoric and technical communication, U-M doesn't even have a program in it).

Apparently, calling it "landscape design" is a big no-no for "landscape architecture" students, so she makes a big show out of trying to remember just what park that is in New York City...
"You know," she says, "the one that's just a little off to the side... But still kind of Central."

One of her dumb friends isn't getting it, and is offering up all the park names she can think of, while the other one tries to coax her back toward Central Park.
"Yeah, and who's it by... Olyander? Olsen?" She's enjoying her friends tossing out names, since they're in on it. But by the time she has Olyander out of her mouth, I've already rolled my eyes and said "Olmsted."
She keeps going until I say it again, since her schtick is dragging on like a Family Guy joke— the milk would curdle and beer go flat by the time she got to her punchline.

"Yeah. You've heard of him," she asks, full of condescention.

"Yeah, and I didn't even have to go to school to learn who he is."

"Yeah, and Central Park, you know where that is?"

"Yeah, and maybe you'll get to plant trees there some day. That is what you learn at school, isn't it? Shame my dad didn't get in there. He could plant a lot of trees."

After about five questions, Lisa and her two friends split off, along with poor John, to form a rival trivia group (since we hadn't listened to their wrong answers on a couple of questions). The rest of the night, Lisa kept trying to tell me that she was mad at Pat because she had given him advice on women, which seemed apropos nothing, as Pat wasn't particularly hitting on any women, nor really needing her advice. I bit my tongue rather than point out that he might not be following her advice because he didn't want to end up with any squint-eyed bat-faced girls like her. Mostly it came across as the bitterness of a girl who thinks by telling a guy how to score her, he will, despite her being boring and not particularly attractive or smart.

Her friend offered me dating advice, pointing out that if I didn't listen to their answers, I was never going to have a girlfriend, and she speculated that I'd never been laid. I just got to be beatific when John pointed out that I'd been dating Amy for a long time, at which point the girl demanded that I give her Amy's phone number because 'once she heard how I treat women, that'd be the end of it.'

Luckily, I keep Amy chained in the basement, so there's no hope of this woman ruining my relationship with her.
It's a rare night when I actually enjoy the depth of conversation that Pat's ex-girlfriend Sarah can offer. At least I got to appreciate Amy more. Smart, kind and funny. Being thin doesn't make up for being venal, vain and stupid. Feel sorry for John though, since apparently last weekend he was almost a pylon in a Lisa Eiffel Tower, had the other guy not been so drunk that he put Lisa off of it. Now he's gotta keep swingin' away (if he'd been her first choice, Lisa would've just fucked him anyway— as such, I'd bet it's a blow for the ego).

Mix

2005-12-10T17:01:14Z

Oh, and yesterday, I put up a new mix on my music blog.

And on a related note, Brandon, Zach, Sarah and I are finally trying to get an AnnArbor/Ypsi music blog off the ground...

Fleetwood FIGHT!

2005-12-10T16:59:40Z

Last Friday (Saturday) I meant to go down to see Brendan Benson at the Pig. I heard he had some sorta Supergroup (SSM?) opening for him, and I've never seen the dude (I thought the coupla songs I heard were OK, but nothing that captivated me), and I thought after, like, five years of doing the column that I should go down and finally see what makes the hos' panties wet, or whatever.
But, my friend Andrew called, and my girlfriend wanted to come out, and Andrew had some vague girl from the rehab center that he wanted to hook up with, and I was the only one that was on the list, so we ended up at the 8-ball. I really meant to see Benson, but whatever. We got drunk downstairs and that was more fun. By the time we got up to see him, they had waived the cover, Amy'd gone home, and Andrew's girl never showed up. (I say that's because she doesn't like him nearly as much as he thinks, and because the coworkers that alledge she does are liars hoping for workspace drama). So, we saw one and a half songs from Benson, which were OK, kinda generic pretty boy pop. I now understand what makes the hos' panties wet.
So, we go to the Fleetwood (which despite persistent rumors is not closing), and hop right down for a seat, because we're awesome and beat the bar crowd. Monica's working and flirty, which is nice when you're drunk.
So, there are two guys there who can't seem to get a table, and are kinda loudly berating everyone. Andrew and I are running an internal pool on whether they're actually gay or just drunk, as they're very affectionate in their efforts to calm each other down. I don't press cheek to cheek with my friends like that, but maybe I'm repressed.
Anyway, they insist that the folks at the Fleetwood open up outside seating (with an outdoor temperature of like, 7°) and when they're refused, they start swearing at everyone. There's a terse "Get out" from the cook, they do a round of "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," at the patrons, we sing a chorus of "Na-na-na-nah Na-na-na-nah..." You get the picture.
Suddenly, one of the women sitting at the table next to us decides that she needs to give them the bum rush outside, shoving them out the door and yelling at them to get the fuck out. The guy she was with goes with them, and once she's got them out the door, they start whaling on the guy she was with, who seems confused as to how his girlfriend (I assume) managed to start this fight then disappear. She's back at the table next to us, pontificating.
"I'm a teacher in Detroit, and I break up fights all the time," she says loudly. This stocky white woman is already taking props for how she handled the situation while the guy is still getting the crap kicked out of him outside.
So one of his friends from the table goes out there too, and suddenly it's a real brawl. The drunk guys aren't coordinated enough to connect often, and they're a lot smaller, but they've got that alcohol courage, right?
So the cook gets a pipe wrench and goes out there. He's standing there, trying to break things up, but he drops the pipe wrench pretty quickly. (He says afterwards "I realized how heavy that wrench was, even though they weren't scared of it, and how much it would hurt to get hit with it. And I thought, if I hit one of these guys and it really hurts him, I'm gonna get in trouble.")
So now it's five guys, four of them actively trying to whale on each other, a fifth skinny cook trying to pull them apart, while the woman is still inside being like "I don't take any crap. I just threw them out," right as the brawlers manage to pop the plexiglass window in front of the table to the right of the door clear out onto the plates of the people eating.
So then, it's been about five minutes, and the cops show up. One car, then ten seconds later, another car, then ten seconds later, a third car. So we've got six cops out there pulling people apart, and while the bald drunk guy lands a hell of a punch on a cop, they get things settled down. I'm not sure it hurt the cop all that much, as he looked more surprised than anything, but it was one of those hits to the face where it's best described by putting your hand over your mouth and going "Oooh."
After a stern talking to, the cops let everyone go. Both Andrew and I suspect that if there was a black guy involved he'd have been tossed in the back of the cop car, but since they were all well-dressed white people, it was "Don't do it again" time. The guy who had been with the schoolteacher comes back in with a massively bloody nose, while the woman is STILL talking about how well she handled the whole thing, and yet he doesn't smack her. Maybe she was his ride.
Anyway, we tipped well.