that is so awesome...

Big high five, ma'am.

... and fuck you, mister.

Kimchi

Good golly, I never had it so good.

My life had been sorely lacking, but then Brooke
got me all hooked up. I now have large quantities of Kimchi in my life, and life is so much better.

It's funny how the circles and patterns in ones life so easily become ruts. How many times have I rode or driven past the Hyundai Asian Market on Ellsworth? I've surely looked at the sign, but not seen it. But behind all the movie posters is a veritable bounty of mysterious seafood parts, kelp in all sorts of forms, the beloved Kimchi, and all sorts of other goodness in packages that haven't a single readable (to me) western character on them. Good thing they like to put pictures on the outside so that an ofay like me knows what they are. And good thing they don't sell baby food there.

There's a handful of other little shops over on Packard near Two Wheel Tango that surely have other delicious, economically priced delights just past their various Arabian-, Pakistani-, Indian-, and Japanese-awninged entrances.

I know it. I've been there. But I had forgotten. Sorry about that.

See you soon.

Blowout Breakdown

Quick, while G has no home internet connection, I'll beat her to the punch on the musical reviewings.

Went to the Metro Times 11th Blowout over the weekend. Er... I mean, Thursday and Friday. She took Thursday, I took Friday, and the drinking non-driver had the responsibility of picking the bands to see. Overall, I gotta say that I don't know if I'll be going back next year. (sheesh, is this some sort of habit forming of resolving not going to festivals again next year?)

So on Friday, in order:

Novada at the New Dodge: What... the... fuck... Can you possibly be more annoying? I mean, sure... you went to Rock Band School and you want your money's worth, but the frontman trying to channel Jim Morrison (by pretending to be moody and performing swinging microphone antics), Michael Hutchence (by paying too much attention to yourself and performing swinging microphone antics, and Pete Townsend (by full-arm-swinging strumming a guitar to no perceivable effect) at the same time... just comes off as cheesey. Maybe it impresses the high school girls, but the Fallout Boy haircuts (er... hair sculpting) just show the lengths to which you will descend to suck mightily. Next, please. (New Dodge is a pretty cool space though - too bad they only have shit yellow piss beer to drink)

We walked out loong before their set was over to get to the Painted Lady early. Caught the end of rapper Leaf Erikson who - by their own admission - weren't anything special. "There's some real musicians coming up so stick around - we're just a bunch of drunk freestyle rappers". Turns out Deastro isn't much either. Described by Metro Times as "Wunderkind", it was one dude playing samples on his MacBook. There was a drum set on stage, and he did a soundcheck with it, but I fail to see the musicianship of queueing up samples. It might as well be a recorded track at that point. Might as well have been DJing. Which is not what I came for. Next, please.

Screamray at Baker's Streetcar: Messy (in a good way) inaudible vocals, but at least there was some unaffected sincerity. I wasn't blown away, but after the three acts just seen, it was a welcome relief. I'll give 'em an "enh... not bad". I wouldn't pay $10 to see them play all night though.

Mazinga at Atlas Bar: Seen posters in Ann Arbor for years for these guys, and supposedly all punk and whatnot. The songs on their myspace page sound pretty good. They were pretentious and tedious. They dedicated their set to Gary Gygax (who died recently), but I think Gary would have been ashamed to be associated with the sad display they put on. The singer in the middle of the song wandering out to "check the mix" (as G assured me that's what he was doing... I thought he was "taking it to the people"), and then ineffectively trying to order a glass of water (took him 3 tries) from the bartender by putting the mic down and shouting across the bar and gesturing wildly in between verses of the song pretty much turned me off. Next, please.

Friendly Foes at The Belmont: ooh, now they were GOOD. Only saw the last three songs of their set, but they were together, had well-written music (reasonably full arrangement for a three-piece), energy on-stage without pretense... I would pay $5-10 to see them again for a full set. The Belmont is a weird venue - the band off in a hallway... but they had good beer on tap, so they get a tip o' the cap for that.

And lastly... Banana Convention at Jean's. Clearly the worst bar. Band at ground level, drums up on stage. Impossible to see. Don't need the drums at ear level AND mic-ed. Oh yeah, and I actually stooped to have a PBR just to see what's so special. What could be so good that all the hipsters and butch dyke hotties seem to gravitate to it? Well, it ain't nothin' but another tasteless yellow beer. Might as well be Bud Light or Keystone or Miller. They all taste the fucking same. Of course, here I am getting slowly hammered on Talon... ok, back to the music. Banana Convention was pretty damn good. If only the dude in the yellow coat could either be useful or get off the stage - couldn't hear a damn thing from him and the tambourine and toy accordion didn't make much sense. The frontwoman with a HUGE voice in a teeny-tiny little human. Guitarist with a weird expression, but clearly some chops. Bass player a youngun - babyfaced, but solid. Drummer with that jam band cymbal/high hat work and chops there too. They pass the $5-10 test. Winners of the "I'll go see you again" competition, but a close race with Friendly Foes.

my latest crusade

... takes shape slowly. Nevertheless, I hereby declare it to be my Official Rant of Note: Single-Occupancy Gendered Toilets (SOGTs).

A cafe, a bar, a restaurant has two single-occupancy toilets. Why ever would you label one for one gender and the other for another when they are identically furnished? It just doesn't make sense. I mean, if there's a urinal, there might be some sort of rationale to call it the men's room, but there's no reason why women can't use it. Heck, women should have urinals available to them too - case in point.

Anyway, the traffic jam outside a SOGT that sometime results, from one being occupied and the next customer being of the same gender, is so unnecessary. The example (here, last paragraph) that catalyzed my crusade repeated itself yesterday, at the exact same cafe. And in the latest episode, the guy waiting in line came back to the table, "got permission" from his girlfriend to use the women-labeled restroom, and proceeded relieve his need.

I can understand the need to label restrooms when they are multiple-occupancy and one should not barge into the other gender's territory for reasons of "decency" (or at the very least, adherence to societal norms). The casual user might not know whether the toilet is single- or multiple-occupancy, so it's understandable to hesitate. But the whole reason for my crusade is so that business owners start making sense with their toilets.

Because if you can't be reasonable about excreting, what can you be reasonable about?

interstitial moments

Those moments between, none of which are noticeable, that make up the whole. The thing that fits between the other things.

In a community - the rhythm of the day, the habits of the neighbors, the bus schedule, the street traffic. What makes it different from other places.

In a relationship - the moments that pass, small, and many. Quiet or routine. The pattern of them IS the thing.

Things you can't invent or intend. Experiences or history that one would never know if one hadn't put in the time and been there in the slack times as well as the pivotal "ich bin ein Berliner" moments.

A carpet as metaphor... for some, the carpet of existence is low-pile indoor-outdoor utility grade, where a pebble cannot intrude because it bounces off. There, the grit is meaninful and prominent because it's the only thing in between. In the deep pile shag existence of the murky messy wild, the cat hair mixes with the peanut shells, the spilled wine, and the spontaneous frenzied fuck-sweat, forming a soft rich patina over each day, and if there's a little grit, no one notices other than the spoiled little princess sleeping on the pea.