I'm at home on a Saturday night, eating bad Chinese food and watching a high def documentary on PBS about covered bridges. Covered fucking bridges. Sweet Christ on a saltine, I should probably get myself one of them there girlfriends one of these days. Then we can do awesome stuff like... um... watch documentaries about covered bridges together. And sex. We can do that sex thing. I read a book about it once.

Ok, I exaggerate. It's not like I never get out. Last night was sushi and music with Alie, Lesley, Sandra, her guy Jim, Hedy, and a couple of her friends (I'm not sure if I'm supposed to mention them by name, given Hedy's tendency toward pseudonyms on her blog). The evening started with dinner at Origami, where I feasted on Maguro Toro (oily tuna) and Sari roll. Aw... yeah. Then Hedy suggested we drive 40 miles away to Loring Park, park our cars there, then walk 20 more miles to First Avenue where we'd be seeing Brother Ali. At the time, her explanation made perfect sense. It was a clear, warm, utterly beautiful evening, and a nice, long walk after dinner seemed very inviting. I repeat that it made sense -- at the time.

Until Brother Ali came on, I spent most of the time making myself big, splaying my legs, arms, ass, and shoulders in every direction to hold onto our primo spots against the rail upstairs as the johnny-come-lately jackals encroached on my comfort zone (to be fair, I'll admit that my comfort zone is about 50 to 60 feet). Where most of the 8 people in our party were, I have no idea. Were they all peeing at once? Getting drinks? Smoking? Peeing on smokers? What! WHAT, I wondered. Eh, whatever. It wasn't a big deal. By the time the main act started, everyone was there, shakin' theyz azz, doin' that thing, and other sayings that sound completely lame coming from me. Besides, while I waited for them, I was vastly entertained by people watching the slutty hoochie mamas I wouldn't bang with your mother's dick and the slant-hatted douchebag frat boys who could only have been more white if they bathed in a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and Crest White Strips.

Normally I'm not a huge fan of hip hop in general, but Alie invited us out to this show, and once I had checked out a few songs of Brother Ali's online, I figured what the hell. For $10, the price was right. Ali is a charismatic, portly albino dude who had the crowd in the palm of his hand the moment he stepped on stage. This was the last show of a 50 city tour, and Minneapolis is his hometown crowd. This was clearly who the people came to see.

The evening wasn't without its share of minor incidents, however. For a change, I wasn't involved in any (ok, most) of them personally, but Alie gave a tonguelashing to a short, greasy playa wannabe trying to mac on Hedy and wedge himself into our limited space. And according to the guy who kept trading places with his buddy against the rail to save his spot, Hedy "hated" him and was trying to steal his spot. He and Hedy seemed to have some banter going back and forth several times, and I couldn't tell if the animosity was tongue-in-cheek or heartfelt. I never got a chance to ask her about it.

After the show, I had to call into question Hedy's boondock parking decision. She drove, as did I, so neither one of us had much to drink (in fact, I had only one beer, albeit a big one). I don't know how the others fared, but Alie, Sandra, and Jim all had a few adult beverages circulating through their bloodstreams. A long, stumbling walk back to Loring Park didn't seem like a terribly good idea, so we marched a few blocks to a parking ramp to get Sandra's vehicle. On the way there, in a rush to catch up with Jim and Sandra, I almost knocked Alie to the ground. Luckily I grabbed onto her before she fell and skinned the shit out of her exposed knees. So I guess it evens out(?)

When we got to the parking ramp, Jim apparently recognized a Chinese guy in the lobby as the guy who they had paid when the entered the ramp. They began loudly talking to each other in Chinese (did I mention he speaks Chinese? Well, he speaks Chinese), and I couldn't tell if they were arguing, talking about the weather, or trading brownie recipes. I had a bit of a headache, and Alie needed some fresh air, so we rudely ducked out into the ramp while they argued about fudge brownie thunderclouds. When they emerged from their conversation, we proceeded to Sandra's car, and I drove, since she was still on the waning tail end of her buzz. I then almost drove us out the entrance somehow (I'm still scratching my head over that one), and we were on our way back to my car. Over the river, through the woods, past Sex World, to Jeremy's car we go! And yes, there were photos taken, but they are trapped in Hedy's camera for now. If she posts them, I'll throw out a link.

I received a check in the mail today. An unexpected check for an unexpected thing (that I should have expected but did not logically piece together). All I will say is that when it rains, it pours. And when it's dry, it's the fucking Sahara. That life rule can be applied to both money and women. When you're poor, you're poor. And when the good times stick a tongue up your ass, they waggle it around for good measure.

I really lost what I was going for there, but I think you get the point.

I'm really not in the mood to crank out a full concert review for this one (we'll see what tomorrow brings), but I went to the Three Days Grace concert at Myth up in Maplewood tonight. Psychostick and Army of Anyone opened for them. Psychostick--93x plays their song "BEER!" quite a bit. Once is enough. It's amusing. Qweeeeeehhhhhhh...ha ha...a song about how good beer is sung in a funny voice. Second time--qweh...ha. Third time--enough already. In concert--snore. They're whole deal, whatever that deal might be, is pure schtick. Hat's off to them if they can make it last.

Army of Anyone and Three Days Grace both kicked ass. And the chicks next to me were three syllable der-ruh-uhnk. I talked with a couple of them before they got so drunk they probably couldn't have sat to piss. Cute girls in kind of a skanky way, and much older than they looked. One was 34, but I didn't get the other's age. I have an idea she was younger than 34 chicky though. Dumb as rocks the lot of them. Though I can't say I complained much when they practically turned me into a stripper pole toward the end of the show. I'm sure Mary would not have been as tolerant of their antics had they been next to her instead of me.

Ok, I'm tired, but I'm going to run and get a few groceries and then hit the hay. I'm hanging out with Miss Employed for a while tomorrow and then doing some Christmas shopping with Mary. I have purchased a mere 2 gifts on my list. I'm really finding it hard to get in the Christmas spirit this year. I haven't put a single light or decoration up in my house. Not even dancing Homer in his Santa costume. Maybe the lack of snow and near 50 degree temps have something to do with it.

I had been hearing ads on The Current for The New Standards concert at the historic Fitzgerald Theater for a while. I thought it sounded like an interesting show. John Munson of Semisonic, Chan Poling of The Suburbs, and vibraphonist Steve Roehm take "new standards" from the modern era and put their own spin on them. I was listening to The Current on the way to the airport from work yesterday and heard that Dan Wilson would be joining them. That combined with my recent and sudden financial turnaround gave me reason enough to call up my usual concert buddy Mary. I knew she'd be up for it since she's a big fan of Trip Shakespeare, Semisonic, and Dan Wilson.

I first should mention the very pleasant coincidence of seeing my friend Kristina at the show. Not only did she happen to be on the job manning one of the cameras filming the event, but she also happened to be on the same balcony Mary and I were on.

With the exception of one song where Matt Wilson sang and played the electric guitar (I believe it was called "Descender"), the entire evening was acoustic, and at times, downright orchestral. They did a lot of songs I love, including "Under Pressure" by Queen (I have a strong suspicion from, a smattering of initial reactions when John Munson first played the opening bass line that some people honestly thought they were going to bust out some muthafuckin' Vanilla Ice, but maybe I'm giving people less credit than they deserve--wait, no I'm not). I also loved their rendition of Outkast's "Hey Ya" and Beck's "New Pollution." And Mary even got one of her favorites, "Snow Days" from Trip Shakespeare, during the encore (and check out this 25th generation dub of a live performance of that very song that I found on MySpace).

The crowd at the show was a trip in and of themselves. Young kids texting their parents sitting right next to them all the way to translucently white 50+ guys who couldn't clap to the beat of the music to save their lives. T-shirts and jeans to suits and ties. Everyone was pretty well behaved for the most part. It was assigned seating, and this wasn't exactly a headbanging type of show. Though there were a couple of drunken assholes who shouted random nonsense once or twice when one of the performers was introducing a song.

The whole evening was emceed by Mark Wheat. So I've always wondered quite generally--what is this guy's deal? Good radio voice. Check. Pleasant British accent. Check. Ability to speak more than two words without...an awkward...pause...while...he...seems...to search...for...what...to say. BZZZZT! But evidently he's well-liked. He's won several local radio awards. Probably for most non-contiguous dead air in a radio broadcast.

I find it hard to believe, but this show may very well have surpassed my all time favorite concerts--The White Stripes at the Orpheum in 2005 and the Raconteurs at First Ave a couple months ago. My $20 bought more entertainment than it could buy at a Smitten Kitten butt plug and lube blowout. Artists, dancers, acrobats, musicians (check out The Red Paintings), and a circus composer for the fuck sake!!! I was up front, dead center, and loved every moment of it. But now I'm tired and must sleep to work my straight gig on the morrow (as if I had a crooked one). More will come...if I feel like it. p0wn, p'zone, and breadstick you later, my cherubic spooge stockings. (Why am I talking like this lately??)

UPDATE: I posted a couple of blurry photos from my mobshitcam. I also forgot to mention last night that while my friend held our place (at the very front of the line no less--she was first inside and I was second once the doors opened), I crossed the street to Block E to piss and grab my friend a latte from Starfucks. On the way back, who should I meet rushing down the sidewalk but Amanda Palmer from the Dresden Dolls herself. I didn't say anything. Now I regret it. I should have asked her to kidney punch me or sign my balls or something.

So the Live concert went until about midnight, so I just got home not long ago. I'm not a huge fan, but I enjoyed their radio hits, and was surprised as all hell that they rocked my socks off. I mean literally right the fuck off. Nowhere to be found. Maybe the girl in the upper level just above us who flashed her tits knows where they are. My only complaint is the lead singer got a bit yappy a few times and wanted us to send our positive thoughts and waves of love to the Middle East. Just shut the fuck up and sing. I'm not here for you to meditate and blow the scent of patchouli up my unpuckered asshole. Sing. Ask us how we're feeling a few times. Are we doing alright, having fun yet, this song is called blank, hello Minneapolis, etc.

I feel I must also apologize, as I haven't been particularly bloggery this week. Yes, there have been some posts, but the quality has been subpar. I'm just busy is all. I mean I even resorted to blogging while taking a dump yesterday. Time is money, people. And time can't suck my dick like money can. I don't know what that means. I'm tired. I should go to bed. But to tide you over, here are a couple of fine pieces of artwork I created 6 or 7 years ago and recently rediscovered. I call them Before and After.

Maybe tickets aren't selling too quickly for this concert, and they wanted to fill up the venue, but the evil Ticketmaster is offering free tickets (but you still have to pay their stupid convenience fees) to see Live at Myth in Maplewood tomorrow night. Doors at 7, show at 9. Click on the link and enter the word HEAVEN into the Enter Special Offer Code box under the Complimentary ticket offer section

I've said it before, and I'll say it again--Jack White is fucking god amongst men. He is a living, breathing, writhing full body guitar orgasm, and I count myself blessed to have stood just a few feet from him for over an hour tonight. In other words, The Raconteurs rocked First Ave. I am quite sure I suffered permanent hearing loss, and it was worth it if the last thing I heard was that show. But I gush.

It was a fun night. It started by me leaving work early (with the boss man's approval) about 4 pm. By the time I drove all the way from work in Lakeville to downtown Minneapolis, parked, and hoofed it to First Avenue, it was 4:40. I thought for sure the line would be longer that it was, but there were only a couple of dozen people lined up at that point. Perfect!

After a friend canceled on coming to the concert with me due to an unexpected business trip, and my brother crapped out because he forgot he was going to We Fest (how do you forget that you're about to spend three days drunkening yourself with spiritous beverages to drown out the pain of having to listen to country music????). I could have probably found a semi-random date or dragged along one of my other friends, but I kind of wanted that ticket to go to someone who would really be into the music. In stepped my coworker Phil, who himself plays the guitar, has recorded a CD and is a big White Stripes and Raconteurs fan. He likes the rock n' roll, that Phil.

The plan was that I'd take off early to snag a place in line, and Phil would work until 5 and join me later. Though I'd worked late a couple of days earlier in the week to make up for leaving early today, but there was no sense in two of us being gone in case something needed attention at the office. As I waited the hour-plus for his arrival, I was entertained by the rambunctious teenagers immediately in front of me in line. One wore a orange camo Ted Nugent t-shirt, and one, mentioned in my previous post, had very technicolor pants. And yes, I really did congratulate him for being able to pull off his pants, and yes, he really did misunderstand me in the worst way possible. Boy-hungry man perv alert! Back away, kids!

Actually and fortunately, they had a good sense of humor. At one point, their conversation (completely uninfluenced by me, by the way) turned to what makes an orgy? You have threesomes, and foursomes, but is a foursome an orgy? Or is just two sets of people doing it? One suggested that 5 is the minimum number to start an orgy. My only contribution to the discussion was asking them to please call it "group lovemaking" because "orgy" is such a charged word. There's just too much sex in this world already! Don't fuck. Make love. In the ass. With 5 people at once.

What did I say about man perv again? Anyway...

Phil arrived with time to spare, and once the doors opened, we made a beeline to be upfront and (off) center. The front rail was already filled up, but we staked out a spot just behind that row of people.

You're waiting for the part where I was annoyed by someone, so I'll just get that out of the way. Two people--one, the girl who was exactly as tall as I am (a little over 6 feet) who was standing next to me, then went to the bathroom, came back, and squeezed directly in front of me, and just stopped there. But the fault wasn't hers. Her friends were evidently just too drunk to save her spot. Incidentally, she was rather cute and had funky glasses. I swoon for cute girls with funky glasses. I missed my chance when she excused herself again and never returned. Not that I would have had the guts for a cold approach anyway.

Two--and speaking of drunk! The girl who was at varying points in the show behind me, beside me, and in front of me. She was so drunk she could barely stand upright and kept teetering back and forth into my back, side, or front, depending on where she stood--er, wobbled. Then when she started vigorously flailing one of her arms about, she thwapped me in the face. Apology. Wobble, wobble, scream, flail, thwap. Apology. Wobble, wobble, scream, flail, thwap. The last time I said something to the effect of, "you need to watch that hand." It made no difference since she soon took to hitting on what appeared to be a 12 year old boy and somehow wedged herself and her wild pitching arm about two people down. Thank God for her liquor-fueled pedophilia.

Opening up the show was Kelley Stoltz, who played upbeat, sometimes meandering hippy dippy music with a funky twist. It took a couple of songs, but the crowd really warmed up to him and his band. Then the crowd went apeshit when the Raconteurs finally came out. They played most, if not all of the songs from their album, including Intimate Secretary and Steady as She Goes. The also threw in a few covers, including a rollicking, shrieking rendition of Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down).

After the show, it occurred to me that Jack White may be the only man on this planet whiter that I am. I slather on sunscreen like pit sauce on brisket. What do you say? Is it time to get a spray on tan?

I just returned from an entertaining, yet frustrating evening at Myth in Maplewood tonight. The lineup was The Hush Sound, Dresden Dolls, and the headliner was Panic at the Disco (and I'm aware they spell it "Panic!" with the exclamation point, but I'd rather waste more time explaining why I'm not spelling it that way than fuck around actually spelling it that way). As I mentioned earlier, I went primarily for the Dresden Dolls, but also enjoy some of Panic's music. Unfortunately, this was an 18+ show, and a lot of chatty little teen princesses and preppy dipshits love Panic's music far more than I do. The Dolls' fans tend to be a little older or at least with more of an appreciation for angst than what's on sale at Ambercrombie and Fitch

I had never attended a concert at Myth before, as it's a relatively new venue in the Twin Cities area. I believe it's the first major concert venue in suburbia (or at least the first new one in quite some time), far flung from the hallowed halls of First Avenue & 7th St Entry or arenas like the Target Center. It is literally across the street from a shopping mall. My first impression was that it is much larger than I expected. The parking seemed inadequate given the capacity of the facility and the size of the crowd that was lined up around the building, through the parking lot, and down the street that ran past the mall.

As my friend Mary and I stood near the cordoned off area where the tour buses were pulled up to the building, a guy who looked like a skinnier version of Chris Cornell emerged and began asking people in the crowd if they new where the nearest movie theater was. He asked the same question to Mary, and as she explained to him that we didn't know this area very well, it dawned on me that I always drive by the 17 screen theater in White Bear Lake whenever I drive to or from Duluth (usually that's the only time I ever drive to suburbs that far to the north). I mentioned that to him, then Mary remembered the one in Oakdale. He asked if anything was closer, quipping that they couldn't drive the tour bus to the theater. Prior to this, I had it in my head he was a roadie, but after that remark, it dawned on me that he was far too delicate and fancy of a lad to lug around heavy speakers and sound equipment. He must be a performer, but I didn't recognize him.

Mary whipped out her new phone with high-speed internet access (I have internet on my phone, but it's marginally faster than dialup--my shit is so 2005, ya'll) and began searching for nearby theaters. Meanwhile, I made small talk with Chris Cornell's amiable and delicate doppelganger. He asked if I was familiar with all of the bands playing, and I explained how I'd originally bought the ticket for the Dresden Dolls, had heard a few Panic songs and dug them, and was not aware there was a third band. He said that the third band was The Hush Sound, who I'd heard of, but had never actually heard.

It was about this time that a bouncy teen girl behind us giddily suggested that he get her and her friend in backstage since it was her friend's birthday. He smiled, said he couldn't do that, but perhaps he'd try to somehow say hello onstage. At this point I asked him directly which band he was with (I didn't know what anyone from Hush or Panic looked like), and he said he was here with Panic as a dancer and had appeared in one of their videos (I suspect it's this one). Now it all made sense. His wiry build, the fact that he'd be onstage, yet he wasn't being mobbed by adoring fans. Click!

By that time, Mary had found a discount theater just down the road showing slightly older movies like Mission Impossible 3. He seemed quite happy with this since they'd been on the road for quite some time and hadn't had a chance to see some of the movies listed. He thanked us, and thus ended our brush with a guy who isn't a star but does stuff on a stage that stars are on. My postcard to Mom is in the mail.

Finally the doors opened, and we slowly made our way. Inside, Myth reminds me of a larger version of the Quest in Minneapolis. Granted, the Quest does not have semi-private VIP lounges with balconies overlooking the stage, but both a second floor bar area with an excellent view of the stage. The Quest, however, usually limits access to the second floor to 21+, serving booze there while keeping the main floor dry. It undoubtedly makes it far easier to limit underage drinking.

Once past security, we made a beeline upstairs to get away from the throbbing throng. All of the spots along the rail were taken, but we found a pair of very short girls standing nearly dead center to the stage and settled in behind them. Maybe 20 to 30 minutes later, several more of their friends arrived and wedged their way in front of us. I found this annoying (me, annoyed? try to hide your shock), but they were also on the short side so fine, whatever.

The Hush Sound came out first, did about 30 minutes of very catchy, upbeat songs, and skeddadled offstage to make room for the Dresden Dolls. The Dolls opened with the frantic "Moonlight Madness" from their latest CD at which point the girls who had wedged their way in front of us began yakking loudly, quite obviously disinterested in the Dolls. Mary is not a shy person, to say the least, and ordered them to quit their yammering or go somewhere else. They then shifted the conversation to the two ditzs nearest me, at which point I snapped at them to zip it. One made a half-hearted comment under their breaths about "being allowed to talk" but they fell mostly silent...for the time being.

After the first tune, the Dolls launched into probably their most well-known song, "Coin-Operated Boy," delighting the crowd with their usual on-stage replacement of the line, "I can even take him in the bath" with "I can even fuck him in the ass." Then waves of irony pulsed from the stage as the singer from Panic came out and helped them do a cover of (I can't make this up) Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time." Evidently this is not the first time they've covered that song (portions of the linked video are NOT work safe).

This was followed by a cover of an obscure European songwriter from the 60's and an ill-advised Leonard Cohen cover that really started to lose the crowd. It was at this point that one of the airheads I'd previously barked at began yelling a conversation to her friend about 6 feet away from her. I gave them about a minute before saying something to the effect of, "Excuse me, but would you shut up??" Six-feet-away girl then loudly says to one of her friends, "Is this guy serious? He just told me to shutup!"

Blonde ditz girl struggles with a response for several moments, then turns to me and says, "I don't know what your problem is, but you have to accept that this is a social function and people are going to have conversations." A SOCIAL FUNCTION? Let's see. Looking at my ticket stub, it distinctly reads "Concert." Not a box social, ice cream social, or mixer. A concert. Where people come to listen to artists performing music on stage. Yes, concerts are loud, and people will be making comments to each other or yelling at a late-arriving friend to guide them over. But this conversation had narrative, characters, a climax and if I didn't stop the train in time, there would even be a denouement. Fuck if I was going to let there be a denouement!

"We're just talking!!!"

"Then go fucking talk somewhere else! I paid to hear the music, not you yelling 6 inches from my ear."

Then she thought she'd get personal, assuming Mary and I were "together" and said, "I'm sorry if you're having a shitty date, but don't take it out on us." I'm not even sure what that was supposed to mean.

"Who said I was on a date?"

She glared at me, intending to stare me down.

Side note and word to the wise, attempting to stare me down is like trying to stop a 747 with a Lincoln Log and a Coke can. I have a cold, dead stare that will drill a hole to the back of your skull. You will watch care and emotion drain from my visage and wonder if I have a soul, then realize that indeed I do--yours.

At a loss for further argument, she turned around and neither she nor her friends said anything above a whisper for the rest of the set.

Thankfully, this confrontation concluded before the end of the meandering Cohen cover, and I didn't feel I had really missed out on anything. But now we've had three cover songs, two of which no one has ever heard. Can we get back to YOUR stuff please? Hearing my telepathic request, they announced they would play "Half Jack," one of my favorites. They started with an improvised drum-heavy intro that must have gone on for 5, maybe even 10 minutes. Brian, the drummer, banged away so frantically that he broke 3 sticks. Impressive and fun to watch for a while, but they milked the intro to the point you could imagine the crowd collectively checking their watches. Finally, they moved forward, nailed it, and left the stage. I was disappointed they didn't play more of their own stuff, but happy with those they did play.

By this time, Mary and I were so hot, sweaty, and tired of being surrounded by the N'Sync teenybopper set that we decided to bolt. I seriously contemplated staying for the first two Panic songs and yammering with Mary about Home Depot and Bed Bath and Beyond as close as possible to the girls in front of us, but decided it wasn't worth standing there while they set the stage up. We stopped by Taco Bell for a quick bite on the way home, but I kept my order pretty small. I'd already feasted on the soul of a chatty blonde and was coming down with oral diarrhea. I knew I was going to be up all night with that shit.

I have been engaged in a secret quest. Though not so secret to most of my friends and family. A quest I must keep a secret for fear of the wrong people finding out. This quest doesn't involve aluminum foil on my head or coat hangers hanging from my ceiling, but it involves bettering myself and being happy. Eh...most people who would give a rat's ass already know what I'm talking about, but it's fun to be mysterious sometimes. Usually I'm very direct. For example, I like boobies. That was pretty direct.

Oh, and I can't wait for the White Stripes show tomorrow night!!

P.S. Boobies!