Diesel and Electron Tubes

Remember how I haven't been able to come to concerts, dinners and bar nights for the last two years? No more! I'm switching to daytime shifts as of the week of July 7. Any shows coming up?

What it is, Web wanderers. After more than two years of fussing over how to fit the word "memorandum" into headlines, I'm officially writing again: Jake, Josh and I, with the assistance of a bevy of talented writers, have launched a website called Indefinite Articles. It's a sandbox of culture-related pieces falling into five core categories (with more slated to debut in the future), and I'm pretty happy with the pace we've set so far. My primary job on the site is writing and soliciting entries for "47 Words," a weekly (soon semi-weekly) collection of capsule reviews of everything under the sun, all exactly 47 words in length. Think the "Taster's Choice" snippets I used to run in the Daily Cal, but with less winking. Anyway, it's where you'll primarily find words written by me from this point forward.

A Craig Robinson illustration from wired.com. How many bands can you name? Extra points if you can identify each individual member of Wu-Tang.

The well has run dry but the Rich, he is still alive. New blog details to come when I actually get around to conceptualizing and coding it. I'm visiting the South for the first time on Friday!

As much as his movies are always way too long, and as much of a part of the hype machine as he's quickly becoming, I have to salute Judd Apatow's quest to rearrange Hollywood comedy so that all of the most awesome actors are the ones nabbing high-profile starring roles. Michael Cera (Superbad) and Seth Rogen (Knocked Up) certainly haven't been a bad start, and now he's finally shoving John C. Reilly from the perennial periphery into the spotlight with the upcoming Walk Hard. I can't deny it - I'm stoked. And with the Coen Brothers once again appearing to tread the path of non-shittiness with No Country for Old Men, I'm actually looking forward to a fall movie season for the first time in a while.



I finally gave in and picked up a Nintendo DS a couple weeks ago in anticipation of the new Zelda game, Phantom Hourglass. The game is basically Nintendo saying "Look what our new toy can do!" in the form of a traditional Zelda title, with lots of drawing on the touch screen and blowing into the microphone and yelling at non-player characters and other bells and whistles. But as much as these hardware functionalities are all gimmicks, I haven't felt this physically caught up in a game since Jake busted down my door triumphantly holding his brand-new copy of Guitar Hero above his head. The game has some tedious segments, but they're exclusively design-related; as far as introducing a whole new mode of gameplay, it's a total success.

I started to post an entry at work three weeks ago and then stopped, then I logged on just now and LiveJournal still had my saved draft on file. I think it's clear which side wins out in the debate of Techmology: Is It Good Or Is It Whack? But the bigger question lingers: Wot is... a planet?

This is definitely the longest posting drought I've perpetuated since I fired this sucker up six years ago. I feel like it's primarily because LiveJournal is so community-oriented, and the people who formed the core of my O.G. posting days have faded into the everlasting abyss of grad school and employment. So I still have other high-quality journals to read, but the oomph to post and interact as I once did has definitely faded.

I never really wrote about work when my place of employment shifted in April. There are definitely positives - the atmosphere is a lot chirpier and cheerier compared with ANG's doom and gloom, and I'm actually working with people who are legitimately, geekily obsessed with news design and style, something I couldn't really say before. The resident copy desk veteran has four shelves' worth of media-related tomes flanking his desk and isn't afraid to bust any given one of them out if it'll help him prove our boss wrong about some minute point. The paper doesn't hide that it's a rag for people to read while riding Muni to work and then immediately chuck, but that lack of pretense is pretty refreshing.

At the same time, even though I've only been in this line of employment for a year and a half, I'm getting kind of sick of working evenings for the sake of an arm of journalism which is interesting, but not at all what I originally joined the Daily Cal to do all those moons ago. When the Internet finally levies its death blow on the world of print media, whether or not I know how to use Adobe InDesign is going to become moot. Plus, on a more direct note, I'd like to be able to go to whatever concerts I want and not just ones that fall on Saturdays and Mondays. Though I do have some awesome ones coming up - the New Pornographers next week, the Pipettes in October and Jens Lekman in early November all have my showgoing future looking pretty bright.

In theory I'd like to start writing again, or, better yet, team up with Jake and David and finally cobble together that Awesome Website that every group of friends says they're going to launch. It's just so hard to break out of routine. I have my media absorption practically down to a schedule; new music on my iPod during work, books on my commute, during my dinner break and whenever Jen is busy playing some GameCube RPG, with the rest of my time devoted to plowing through my Netflix selections. It's all entertaining but it's gotten me kind of boxed in, and as a result I never really want to leave my apartment, which is bad.

So yeah, that's me in a nutshell. I'll figure out where the hell to go next before too long; in the meantime if you want to see me on Saturdays or Mondays, I'm probably not doing anything and secretly craving sweet, sweet beer. Or coffee. Or Spices 3, AKA Oakland's Palace of Death By Post-Nasal Drip.

» I was jogging around Lake Merritt last week and Emerson, Lake & Palmer's cover of "Hoedown" came up on shuffle. For 3 minutes and 47 seconds, I was driven by the pure energy of the gods.

» Has anyone read the Adrian Mole series of books? Are they awesome? The descriptions I've read make it sound like a less misanthropic John Updike for kids. Plus I saw Youth in Revolt described as "a combination of Adrian Mole and Portnoy's Complaint," and the two of the three I've read in that triad are totally fucking sweet. Recommend me books!

» Shoot 'Em Up has the same plot as Yoshi's Island.

Welcome to my brain!
One of those things about adopting a daily routine is that performing the same actions and, therefore, hearing the same sounds on a regular basis has resulted in me getting the exact same songs stuck in my head, day in, day out. Examples:
(1) When the elevator door closes as I show up to work, it makes two thumping noises that evoke the two rhythmic drumbeats at the beginning of Men At Work's "Who Can It Be Now."
(2) When I toss my lunch into the toaster oven, it makes a rhythmic clicking noise that is immediately supplanted by the beat of Devo's "Freedom of Choice."
(3) The Examiner has a feature on its local spread titled "Heart of the City." Even though I technically work for the paper's Peninsula edition, in which said text reads "Heart of the Peninsula," it doesn't stop Jay-Z's "Heart of the City (Ain't No Love)" from lodging itself in my cranium. Also, on a side note, as far as I can tell nothing newsworthy has happened on the Peninsula since the dawn of time. Except for a chunk of the Tongan royal family getting killed on Highway 101, of course. Still, it feels like every photo I run is a picture of an empty building.
(4) The escalator at the 19th Street Oakland BART station isn't oiled very well, and it makes a moaning gear sound bizarrely reminiscent of the sampled blues harp that opens INXS's "Suicide Blonde."

I finally gave Deadwood another chance, and all of a sudden I really enjoy it! Which is superlative, because I'm big on "things I don't like" being promoted into the "things I like" category (as of this writing, Entourage can still blow me, on the other hand). For a while I thought that the swearing was all hype, because it didn't feel like any more F-bombs were being dropped than on any other HBO show. Then I got to the episode with the Chinese dope courier who knows no English except "WHITE COCKSUCKER!" Christ, I stand corrected. Oh, racism.

Updates on life, work, recent cultural absorption pending. For now...


Ladies and gentlemen,
I am proud to present...
RICK ASTLEY!

Big ups to J.P. Carman, Michael Apted's Up Series and Alan Arkin's existence in general. Again with the fuckin' chicken?!

Douche clown time is over. I want to get up at 8, clock in at 9, drive home at 5 and join the rest of civilization in their precious weekend. How to go about this task remains a mystery.

Robert A. Caro's The Years of Lyndon Johnson is the Harry Potter of politics, told from the perspective of Draco Malfoy.

In case you've been wondering what the hell I actually do at my job:



(note: did not actually print. That's why I still have a job.)

2007! A few quibbles with work aside, the cosmos has spontaneously shifted in my favor. I feel like this video accurately sums up my last couple of weeks:

A swift sweep of quality individuals temporarily returning to the Bay has been overtaking my world for the last week or so, but I just keep on dune methane. David's in town for two weeks, so on Wednesday we hit up the city for a few hours and, completely by impulse, wound up stumbling into the Castro Theatre for a Bogart double feature. Most importantly of all, thanks to David's connections in Lucknow, after years of yearning I now finally, finally have the ability to mark any document I disapprove of with a giant red F:

Where do you think you're going?

Nobody's leaving.

Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas.

No, no. We're all in this together.

This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here.

We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happ-iest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye!

(translation: happy holidays, everyone!)

ADDENDUM: Well, not everyone, actually. What kind of sick, demented cosmos has to exist to deprive humanity of James Brown on December 25th?! RIP.