Last weekend was one of my best friends’ bachelor party. Naturally, we went to Vegas, rolling seventeen men deep. There was cocaine, ecstasy, alcohol, apricot mousse, more cups of creme bruleé than I care to mention.

Here’s how it went down, according to the notes I kept on my iPhone:

Screwdrivers & chess on the plane. I’ve always found drinking on a plane to be somewhat akin to the feeling James Bond gets when he wakes up in the morning. For me, there is nothing more Adult & Decadent than drinking at forty thousand feet. And both the bachelor and myself are avid chess fans. And yes, I play better drunk. I do believe I had the excellent idea to become some sort of drunk chess savant, cackling, slurring and burping my way to a world championship.

Beer tasting chart. The best man, as part of his Vegas Bachelor Party Master Plan, created a game revolving around tasting disguised beers. The person who correctly identified the most beers won…something. We never found out, as most everyone got too drunk to complete the challenge.

TV in the bathroom mirror. Welcome to the Flamingo Hotel, enjoy, and if you’ve got to go Number Two, we’ve provided you with a TELEVISION SET IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR, so you need miss not a minute of Celebrity Poker.

Jon keeps counting his money. Another of my oldest friends, inexplicably, would over the course of the weekend take his roll of money out of his pocket and count it at least a dozen times. We never found out why. He’d just slowly count it, put it back, then, perhaps an hour later, repeat the maneuver. And no money was spent during that gap.

…Nobody gets him, man, he’s the wind.

Will won’t sit down. Big Will, we call him, because, well, he is rather large. And he doesn’t sit. Over a three day period, I saw him sit a total of zero times. Never saw him eat, either, but he’s just gotta do that. Big Will, remember? (more…)

Another week, another dozen or so albums listened to. These is the gems, readily available on our MUXTAPE:

Angels - Pastor Tower Cannon
A short sweet sermon from our very own minister. Required listening for anyone who sins.

Time of the Season - The Zombies
Got this album from the internet with no artist attached, just the album title, Odessey & Oracle. Only when I wikipedia’ed it, did I discover it featured one of my favorite songs. Always dug this one, and never had any idea what album is what from. Hell, with my memory, I probably could only tell you who sung it 40% of the time. And yes, that’s the title, misspelling of “odessey” and everything.

You’ll Find a Way - Santogold
The single from Santogold’s album is wicked tight, but the album, like most albums, takes a bit of a dive in the second half. Too much like M.I.A. for my tastes. I mean, I like M.I.A., but I’ve got her album. I want M.I.A., I’ll just go listen to M.I.A.

Fortunately this song is the second track on the album, and I actually prefer it to the single.

Colleen - The Heavy
These guys came out of nowhere. For me, anyway. They’re British, but don’t hold that against them. They bring to bear some heavy soul that, from the first song to the last, keeps you moving.

The Equestrian - Les Savy Fav
I hated these guys. Hated their art rock philosophy, their sheen of indie cool, the tones of reverence music blogs used when speaking of them.

But then I heard some live jams of theirs. And damned if they don’t deliver. The lead singer’s voice is still a bit “i’m indie so i do high talky more than sing,” but they’re still rock n’ roll where it counts.

Nighttiming - Coconut Records
Again, there’s something in me that hates. This…thing, this elitist monster in my brain, it has a bias against actors who become singers, or singers who become actors, or anyone who becomes anything else, not because of any particular talent, but because it’s the Thing to Do.

So I came into this band ready to hate. Because, you see, this is a Jason Schwartzman joint. He of Rushmore, and other movies that are nowhere near as good as Rushmore.

And again was pleasantly surprised. It’s light, it’s breezy, it’s hip yacht rock for the 21st century.

Dropped - Phantom Planet
This is a holdover from the last playlist, because I’m still listening to it. It’s a good song, they’re a good band, I think they don’t get a lot of credit because they did that California song that ended up being the theme song for The O.C., and that’s a shame.

California Dreamer - Wolf Parade
Got this album saturday. Sunday I was proclaiming it a disappointment. But I’ve been listening to it every day since. When they say it’s a “grower,” that doesn’t mean four or five listens. Oh no. It was days before I began to notice how enjoyable the songs were. This one’s long, and involved, it’s like this pasta I had last night, those thick hollow pasta noodles, and some chicken and some mushrooms with cheese on top and a marinara sauce, lots of elements that really come together well.

Damn, now I’m hungry. You go listen to some music, I’m gonna nosh.

Caitlin wanted me to tell her some Vegas stories, so we went to dinner.
We made plans to go to Swingers, ostensibly to oogle the waitresses there, as the place has a rock n’ roll theme that apparently includes making the waitresses wear short skirts and fishnets.

We could’ve just gone to a diner in the valley, would’ve been much easier. But I wasn’t willing to skip out on pumpkin pie.

Oh sure, I can tell stories anywhere. I can listen to her talk about those crazy cokeheads she lived with in the Valley just as easy as I can in Hollywood.

But I really really wanted pumpkin pie. And once she saw it in front of us, a tasty scoop of ice cream riding shotgun, she wanted some, too.

Waitresses weren’t that hot last night, but the PIE WAS. mmmmm.

Updated our Muxtape with the jams that’ve been on Repeat on my various music devices of late. Let’s go through it together, shall we?

Open Your Eyes - Bobby Caldwell
My friend’s dad, a one-time member of the Miami Sound Machine, played the drums on this track. But even if he didn’t, this is some damn fine yacht rock. White dude with soul, y’all. White dude with soul.

Ever Find Yourself - Emitt Rhodes
Singer/songwriter from the 70s who got chewed up and spit out by the record industry. But before he did, he put out an album of McCartney-ish goodness, featuring this track.

They Will Kill Us All - The Bronx
While I wait for this amazingly good L.A. band to finish their third album, I use their first album as methadone to the crack I am sure they are producing. The weirdest part of my appreciation for this band, and a grim statement on the record industry? The lead singer has to work as an usher at a local concert hall to help pay the bills. Saw him there one night, while I was working on a little side project. Told him he and his crew were aces.

Brothers and sisters, buy their albums, help these folks out. Man making music this good shouldn’t have to deal with our drunk asses. Unless we’re at his concert.

Screamin’ Eagle - The Dessert Sessions
While driving back from SF the other weekend, down the interstate freeway that was mostly desolation and dirt, I was reminded of Josh Homme, he who hails from the California desert of similar terrain. This is from the first album of his at times genius, at times downright nonsensical side project.

Waterloo Sunset - The Kinks
Was mellowing out to this one last Sunday, just takin’ ‘er easy, watching the sun come up. And proceed to cook the city like a tamale.

Angela’s Secrets - These Arms are Snakes
Always on the look out for new Rock, I stumbled upon these guys. This song is hot, reminiscent of the some Angel Dust-era Faith No More, but the rest of the record just falls into standard nu-rock territory.

From a Mountain in the Middle of the Cabins - Panic at the Disco
Simple little song, but far better than I’d ever expect from a band that used to have a “!” in their name.

I Will Possess Your Heart - Death Cab For Cutie
Fresh track, if for no other reason than it’s a song about a stalker…well, stalking.

What’s a Girl to Do? - Bat For Lashes
First off, go check the video over at youtube, then listen to this one again. Bit haunting, bit creepy.

Dropped - Phantom Planet
My current favorite song. Been listening to this at least a dozen times a day. Damn thing’s just so fucking catchy. I’m a sucker for hand claps, harmony and electronic keyboards.

What’s a tabernacle without a preacher? We’ll never have to find out, because we’ve got our very own Pastor Cannon, back to minister to our hearts and souls.

Pastor Cannon sought us out, said ours was the perfect venue to help spread his…unique message.

So open your ears, turn off your iTunes, tell that gossipy co-worker to shut it down, and give here a listen to Pastor Tower Canon:

Download link 

It’s one thing to be the honorary black sheep of a family, but it’s quite another to own that shit and not give a fuck. Meet Harry W—or H Dubs, as he prefers to be called on the streets—the star of my Passover weekend. Harry is cousin to one of my most favorite NYC friends, who, knowing my fascination with Judaism, invited me to celebrate the Pesach with her family in Falls Church, Virginia.

Given that we were greeted at the door of her aunt’s house with shots of tequila (apparently it’s kosher), I knew the night was already going to be memorable. But when we sat down and Harry told the only other non-Jew there that she was “Jewing the wine,” I knew the evening would be something I’d never forget.

We began reading from the Haggadah and just after my friend’s uncle split the matzah and began passing half of it around for each of us to taste, Harry decided it was the perfect moment to burst out laughing and announce that that morning, whoops, he’d had a bagel for breakfast. Needless to say, his glassy eyes and Tourette-like outbursts were making it clear that he was not just operating under an alcoholic buzz. (more…)

So last week my department (yes, I’m in a department) went out to lunch with a couple of colleagues who were visiting from our corporate offices in Dallas. They were in town to perpetuate the reinvention-of-the-wheel corporate culture that my company is quite fond of, and to (and I quote) “get their hands dirty” and see “where the rubber meets the road”. They were nice enough guys, even though their mouths were crammed fulla corporate buzzwords and a very saccharine, aw shucks southern humor that inspired my most grimaced of fake smiles. But as the beers started to flow and the lips started to loosen, things actually became interesting in a much unexpected fashion…

For a variety of reasons, I’m not much of a “company man”, per se. I tend to keep to myself, do my work (or play laptop pinball), and then roll the fuck out. While I have fostered a few friendships within the 3% lunatic fringe to which I belong, I generally prefer to keep my personal and my work worlds quite separate. In this same vain, I mostly loathe these company lunches, rife with shoptalk and smalltalk galore, and all the Desperate Housewives and American Idol that a social conformist can eat. Although the meal is free, all that I usually hunger for is to be free. But not this time, for the Miller Lite’s that one of our special visitors with the twangy politeness kept ordering began to lubricate his leathery mouthpiece, and I subsequently loosened my grip on my tasty French dip (au jus), and listened up… (more…)

Took the day off work today, just didn’t feel like working a job I can’t stand on this particular day.

So it was IMing, not showering until 4pm, listening to a white and a quick trip to the developer to pick up some film.

This shot was waiting for me:

This shot is part of why I’m not sad about the end of Polaroid, though I’ve used Polaroid almost exclusively for over ten years, though Polaroid has helped make me the photographer I am today. Helped. No, it didn’t help, it made me the photographer I am today. I used it to meet people I’d never have met, talk to people I’d have otherwise been afraid to even make eye contact with. It showed me the wonder of photography. See, now I’m gonna cry.

But this shot. This shot and some other I’ve been taking, they’ve shown me the way. Polaroid was the nest, and it’s time to fly, man!!! Fly High!!!

This shot here is almost exactly like a Polaroid I took of Celisse, my lovely model that day out in the Marin Headlands, out in San Francisco. The fact that I can still take the kinds of shots I want, even though the Polaroid Corporation has decided to focus its attention on DVD players and TVs, that gives me hope.

Because when a film company decides to focus on TVs, a man is apt to lose hope in the world.

But, things change, all things end. There is pain, yes. But as the 3rd best Beatle said, this too shall pass.

Life is hard. I have to watch girls get kissed by other girls. I have to sit at dinner with family and eat delicious food, make jokes at Daniel Day Lewis’ expense, and give my adorable little cousin piggyback rides. I have to take portraits for a friend, all the while discussing photography and comic books. I have to trade music for a buddy’s flight to Ohio, playing snippets of my favorite songs. I have to hand my local comic book store guy a cd of rare Jellyfish tracks he’d been looking for for years, watch at he points to his goosebumped flesh, showing the world how jazzed he is.

I have to watch a ridiculous french thriller while eating Italian food with friends, heckling the film as it plays.

I have to go on a five mile jog through Beverly Hills with another friend, have brunch with yet other friends, and walk the Venice boardwalk, the mecca of jankiness, with other friends still.

Things are rough.

…

Shit, who am I kidding? This weekend was fresh.

I would like the world, the USA and New York in particular, to puh-lease get off the Pope’s nuts. There were army helicopters buzzing my office all day yesterday, street closures, a “beefed up security presence” and other hoopla making our fine city a big mess of hype.

I honestly respect someone who has dedicated his/her life to spiritual studies and instruction… seriously. Few people are devoted to much more than their daily coffee routine. BUT, the Pope is just a person. A human born from human parents. He is not the Lord, he is not God’s human representative. He’s just a dude. So, lets have a good time, wish him a happy birthday and bring everyone back down to earth, just for a second. Can we do that please? Thanks.

I’ve had this concept for an animated series rolling around in my head for some time now. Self-doubt and a lack of access to production funds has kept the idea from manifesting into Prime Time ratings domination. I turn to you, my BAT adherents and disciples, for your wisdom and guidance. Is “WHOSE MIME IS IT ANYWAY?” solid like Nader or weak like Hillary?

The basic concept is this: World-famous mimes Shields and Yarnell (click this link to jog your memory) are traveling with their four year-old son. Looking to found a Marcel Marceau museum in inner-city Chicago, they lose track of young Preston during a botched convenience store holdup. Shields saves the day by miming himself into a badass gunslinger, but in the commotion young Preston wanders off……and smack into the home of the Dayton Family. Hilarity ensues when the young white mime tries to enlist the help of the urban black family. . .WITHOUT WORDS!! Get it? He’s a mime! He can’t talk! HARHARHARHAHAHA! Oh my god, that’s so darned funny! Isn’t it?

Thinking he’s a racially-insensitive deaf mute with a bad habit for flashing offensive gang signs, the Daytons adopt Preston into their family. Each laugh-track filled episode follows Preston, in full white face makeup, and the Daytons as they try to figure out “WHOSE MIME IS IT ANYWAY???????”

Our very own Uncle Jemimah tied the knot this weekend and we at the Tabernacle (though NOT asked to officiate) are extremely proud, teary-eyed and full of good sentiment. Congrats!

Despite my previous techno-phobic diatribe, I must confess that I am abso-holycrap-lutely hooked on the 3D Pinball Space Cadet game that came standard to my what is now a jalopy of an IBM Thinkpad laptop that my company bequeathed me upon my entrance in to corporate whoredom. I’m sure eight years ago when I signed the company User Agreement they had no idea that, as I was scribbling my name on the dotted line, they were unleashing a digital pinball savant upon the universe. They also failed to account for the countless hours of unproductivity that would result as a direct effect of my addiction. I’m talking thousands upon thousands of hours, cumulative weeks, quite possible years of flipper (keyboard controls “z” and “?”) pounding shirking of responsibility and diligence. Now that I think about it, maybe I’m addicted to not working, and not pinball after all. Either way, my high score is staggeringly lofty, and truly humbling to the mere amateur. I would tell you what it is, but you might faint or succumb to an heart attack, and that would be too much work for my lazy conscience to bear. Yes, I said an heart attack, and I meant it.

It’s more than just slackeritis that has me deserving of Space Cadet knighthood. First of all, I fucking love this pinball game, just like its material forefathers, and I never have to rummage for quarters to play. It’s not like I would shed these troglodyte rags for a mere game of solitaire. Please. But it’s also the notion that I’m actually getting paid to play pinball. I’d love to actually compute my salary divided by my hours logged in pinball ecstasy and marvel at exactly how much my company has monetarily invested in my soaring scores. I doubt that they would love it as much. (more…)

First, my dad decides that texting is sw33t, and now I receive an an email from my mother asking me if I’m going to Coachella this year????

Has the whole world gone mad????

And when I told this 56 year old white woman that it was overcrowded and too pricey, so I would not be going, you know what she replied?

“I hear that!!”

I repeat: pray to whatever gods you believe in, get your house in order, because the end times are upon us.

My dad, in response to a text I sent him, ended his reply with an emoticon.

One of these: ;)

Winked at me. With an emoticon.

My dad, who drove a Rolls Royce, who loves hip hop and Sun Tzu, my own personal RZA.

Stories have been told to me about this man that involve him lifting a much bigger man up by his lapel. Of capers pulled, women seduced, victory snatched from the defeat of the ghetto.

Emoticon.

I now look to the skies for a meteor, or angels, or… a meteor.