afrojet

Gadgt Control
For the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about buying a new cell phone. I’ve been having visions of glorious color displays, minimalist ring tones straight out of The Life Aquatic, the ability to post to this blog low-res snaps (taken in dark clubs where nobody but myself could identify anything in the picture), bluetooth, mp3’s, etc, etc. In short, I wanted it all.

But it dawned on me this morning that all the the reasons that I wanted a new phone were dumb and wrong.

I realized this only after I dropped my phone (for the hundredth time) on the hard concrete this morning. It landed with its display face up. The LCD, ever green and glowing with anger and frustration, looked up at me as if it were about to say, “Why do you hate me? I’ve given you the best years of my life here, buddy! Please stop with the dropping and the throwing and the leaving me out in your car when it’s negative fucking 20 degrees outside.” And it’s true. My phone, when it speaks, it speaks truth. I have put the poor guy through hell, yet it remains unbreakable by the abuse. Every time it gets dropped it responds with a, “Thank you sir, may I have another”. The phone is solid. It’s a hard plastic that can withstand this kind of torture. It keeps on roaming with full bars ever present. The phone rarely drops calls. It has no bells and whistles save for some rudimentary SMS. And that’s what I’ve realized today that I love about it; my phone is just a phone – nothing more nothing less. And my iPod is an mp3 player – nothing more nothing less. And my digital camera is a digital camera…you get the point. This new tech trend to combine as many of these devices into one device does not appeal to me at all.

I’m not a sadist. I enjoy simplicity. I don’t enjoy hauling all sorts of gadgets everywhere I go. But I appreciate the singular purpose that each device has to offer. I say to my little gadgets, “Be yourself! You’re brilliant just the way you are. Phone, you don’t need to be like iPod, And iPod, you don’t need to be like Camera. You’re all unique and I like you that way.” To illustrate: if I had a Phone that took pictures, I might actually forgo bringing Camera with me when I’m out and about. Then the photo documents of my life would be nothing more than a collection of throw away low-res snaps. And Camera would look at me like I was punk who didn’t care about things like craft.

My propensity to loose things also makes these combo tech pieces less appealing to me. It’s bad enough when I lose phones with all my friends numbers in them, but if I lost something out in the world that had data, photos, mp3s, client info, etc, etc, that would be really bad. As always, increased functionality comes at a steeper price. I’m sure the more I spent on it, the quicker I would lose it.

I actually did get far enough in the phone buying process where I was actually going to stores and looking at phones. I’m glad I did this because what I saw was that all the new phones available on my plan had all been whacked a hundred times with an ugly stick. Once more, they had been built out of such thin and flimsy plastic and with so many moving parts as to render them completely useless to my dexterity level. I’m sure any of those phones, on first drop, would explode into a hundred pieces.

And so now I’m done searching for a new phone. I’ll still keep one eye open. I’m open to suggestion. The market is overripe for someone to create a cell phone that’s actually lust-worthy. Until then, I’ll be searching for a new kick-ass Batman style utility belt to carry all my gadgets in.

Ghosts in the Wind Get Under My Skin
“Shut All Doors Securely And Tightly!” – this is the text of a sign I have made that I will be attaching to every door in the house at once. Seems that I live in a house that can only be described as “drafty”. Yet, drafty, as an adjective, doesn’t really do it for me. It’s too nice, like ducky or daft. The word I’m looking for needs to be much harsher in tone and must fully embody the creeping annoyance that comes from a door left slightly ajar that begins to beat on its frame from the push and suck of those windy ghosts who roam my floors. It’s driving me mad.

We like to leave a few windows open for the cats to perch on during the day. Depriving them of this would make us terrible parents. But the crosswinds that rip through the house in the later stages of April make it sound like we have a gaggle of small children living with us and they are constantly running around the house – up the stairs, down the stairs – slamming every door they go through. I work in my home office on the second floor of the house. My office takes up the entire second floor. But you need to open a door at the bottom of the stairs and at the top of the stairs to enter my office. This fucking double door combination is my wind-party nemesis. The worst offense occurs when I open the door at the top of the stairs, run down the steps and fly open the door at the bottom of the steps. This creates some kind of epic vacuum effect and the door at the top slams shut so hard that I have to *cringe* and then turn to make sure it hasn’t burst into a million little splinters.

This is fascinating stuff isn’t it? No doubt Dear Reader you are asking yourself, “why am I still reading this guy go on and on about the fucking doors in his house?”

To that I have no answer. Only you can dig deep enough into your own soul to figure that one out. I can only promise more of the same.

Ok. So what really annoys me is not the slamming doors. That’s loud, harsh, quick, painful only for a second. What really irks me is when I leave the bottom door slightly open and don’t close the top door all the way either. Then I’m fucked, because then comes the creeper – the drunk rhythm of the two doors talking to one another in slurred morse coded messages. Oh how we love to invent new and beautiful ways to torture ourselves.

Present solutions I have thought of include: a) renting a chipper from Diamond Lake Rental and feeding all the doors in the house to it or, b) installing some kind of door control spring like this one that gently remembers to close all my doors for me.

Also, and totally unrelated to doors (unless of course you slam your fingers in a door and begin to bleed), vegan friendly but completely disgusting Bacon Band-Aids.

Fans of The Game
I’m not sure if I’m a bigger Melvins fan or a Twins fan. Hopefully I’ll never be faced with the horror of having to choose between taking tickets to a Twins playoff game or attending a Melvins concert on the same night. Stranger things have happened. But hey, this video of King Buzzo at the Twins v. White Sox game in Chicago last week has to be one of my favorite things ever. It’s especially wonderful cause Buzzo’s sitting right next to former Twin great, Kent Hrbek. And in circling Hrbek as Bert Blyleven is want to do, he makes some hilarious comment about the King’s hair. Precious.

Sifting Through Cannonballs
I just took the ailing auto to Lehman’s Garage for the third time in as many weeks. The car, I believe, is just beginning to feeling all of the 100,000 miles that have been put on her. Two days ago the mysterious ‘check engine soon’ light came on. But what exactly does that mean, check engine soon? The manual really doesn’t say. It’s just so general. Does ’soon’ mean tomorrow, a week, a month? Can I get more specifics please? The check engine soon light should be replaced with a ‘check savings account soon’ light, cause it’s really anyone’s guess what is actually wrong with the car.

It’s the misses’ birthday today! Whoop whoop! We spent our morning coffee time watching her family video tape, that was put together sometime in the 80’s and features some terribly cute footage of her prancing around in various little girl dresses at the tender age of one and two. The video has no sound, which is a bummer because even at such an early age you can tell she’s talking up a storm. I’m bummed that I don’t have such a video tape of my own early years. I would very much like the opportunity to see what I was doing at the age of one. I especially would like to see footage of my with my old green machine. Ahhh, now that would be very touching.

Because of said birthday, I will definitely not be attending the Ornette Coleman show at the newly reopened Walker Art Center tonight. Nor, will I be at the M83 show at the Triple Rock. I’m decidedly bummed that I didn’t get my shit together last night to get over to the Walker for Ed Templeton’s talk and gallery opening. Too much going on in the spring.

Has anybody else noticed that this year is going by seriously fast? What gives?

Also, I’m completely in awe of this new type font, Deréon, that was created exclusively for Beyoncé Knowles‘ new fashion line called House of Deréon. Typically, I make it a point not to listen to music produced by artists with clothing lines, but this typeface may have me reconsidering that rule. Just look at those exquisite letter-forms, those swashes! Beyoncé, you are not just a naughty girl, you are a very lucky girl. She gets the typeface all to herself for six years. Damn.

And, WTF? video of the day belongs to Mr. T doing a horrible rap about being nice to your mother. Which reminds me: “You wanna know why nobody ever dies on the A-Team? Because they don’t take drugs. And you shouldn’t take drugs either. Make it a good scene… positively!” – Crucial Youth.

Why They Call Me Mr. Happy

Back to the Triple Rock for NoMeansNo last night. The evening started out right where my last venture to the Triple Rock left off – with violence! As I walked up to the club around 8pm there were two ambulances outside and a fire truck. An employee from the club had a bucket of boiling water that he was pouring all over the sidewalk to try and erase the blood that had been spilled. The only information people would divulge was there had been an ‘altercation’ moments before. Right then I knew that the night was ripe for good things.

Can I say a few words about seeing NoMeansNo live? Simply amazing. Total presence. Total Joy. For three guys who have to be pushing 50 they lay down a rock n’ roll lesson plan of pure punk rock pedagogy. For any rock bands out there, NoMeansNo have set the bar from which you must try and and reach.

There was a great vibe in the crowd last night. Band was feeding off the crowd and vis-a-versa. Double encores that included a Clash cover, “I’m so bored with the USA” (very appropriate coming from a Canadian band) and a ripping cover of AC/DC’s “Shot Down in Flames“. Brilliant.

After the show people were wandering about outside with dumbstruck smiles – searching for words to explain what they had just witnessed. There’s something about watching a band that’s made up of three guys who look like they could be your father completely and mercilessly pummel you with their elderly seniority. It makes you pause and question your own youth and the milestones you have achieved.

Still outside the club, the craziness ensued. One gentleman, who had completely lost it after having his bowels farmed by the Canadian sonic superpower had lost all his wits and was running around attacking people in a jovial yet off-putting manner. I though I had escaped his presence while walking to the car but before I even knew what hit me this guy had sprinted toward me, yelled something about my “blue” t-shirt and then jumped on my back like he was a human backpack. I struggled to free myself but he had a firm grip and I didn’t want to retaliate too strongly. He kept yelling, “I want to bite your ass!” over and over again. Finally, I was able to remove the plastered parasite with the help of some of his friends who were doing their best to try and contain his manic molestations. I wanted to say, “Sir, what part of No Means No do you not understand?”. God damn, another fine night at the Triple Rock!

NoMeansNo photo lifted from here.

Friday Fav’s: Savage Yet Tender Edition
My favorite product of ‘05 that you can buy for a dollar has to be the Sharpie Mini key chain. Unfortunately, I grabbed mine in the dim light of an Office Max yesterday afternoon and discovered in the light of day that I had purchased a purple one instead a black one. Damn Office Max and their fluorescent lights. Collect them all and use them as the new mood ring.

Favorite simile of the day comes from Robbert Sabbag’s Smokescreen: A True Adventure. How do writers come up with this stuff?

“Granted, this was not the first use of the word “fuck,” not by any of the three smugglers, and certainly not since the initial shock of the radio announcement had hit. But Hatfield’s use of it here was like the overture now to an entirely new symphony of invective. In the next two minutes, replicated, mutated, compounded, and prodigiously exchanged by Hatfield and Long, the word would be traded so fast that its movement would by utterly impossible to clock. It would run through their altercation like gonorrhea through the crew of a merchant vessel on liberty in the Philippines.”

Favorite thing I missed a while back but am now enjoying: A New York Times slide show of Bansky’s additions to the Brooklyn Museum and Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Favorite site of the day: Bad Design Kills.

And one of my top five, all-time favorite bands, NoMeansNo, will be playing at the Triple Rock this Monday. Come on down for that and get your rawk on!

Turf Tongues Tussle Over Trophy
A beautiful argument between bar patrons was overheard last night at the Fort Snelling Club. Three young gentleman agitators dismissed themselves from the premises after they got heated with each other and started smashing glasses on the floor to protest one another’s remarks (a punctuation technique that doesn’t get used enough in my opinion). Surprisingly, most of the regulars paid them little attention. I got the feeling that this was a common occurrence, almost a nightly ritual for these three. Like you would expect someone to say, “wup, there go the boys again. Jimmy, you’d better get that broom out from behind the bar.”

The three of them were locked into a lower order word match when I walked outside. It went something like this:

Boy 1: “Dude! You are so Fucking Dumb! I can’t believe how dumb you are! You go to a fucking two-year school and get some shitty degree, and fuck – now you just sit at home like a motherfucking pussy!”

Boy 2: “Yeah? Well at least I’m not home ALL day changing fucking diapers – cause that’s ALL you do – change god damn diapers! All. Day. Long.”

My favorite bit was just the way the one kid bellowed, “You are so fucking dumb!”. There was so much authority and passion in his voice. You could tell the kid probably wanted to say so much more to his two-year college graduatin’ friend but in his present condition of inebriation could only wrangle out that short stark stab of shame inflicting prose. It’s really too bad he mucked up the ending of his declaration with the whole “mother fucking pussy” part. I really felt that was cliche. It didn’t add anything to the power of his previous statement and seriously detracted from the overall tone and immediateness of his argument.

Anyhoo, I won’t dwell on that. Spring is here, the sun is popping and the bike is out of the garage and getting peddled all over the town. I’m currently obsessing over these carbon ADA wheels. I do have a birthday coming up. Anyone?

Also, The Hotel Fox in Copenhagen, Denmark. A beautifully restored hotel where each room is designed by a different artist. Apparently, the concept is a marketing tie-in with the new Volkswagen Fox.

And…how about a kick ass RJD2 video, or perhaps some Hinduism made easy (via Drawn)? If I owned a bar, it would have some of these trophy lamps. And in that bar I would make my patrons where these beer can bracelets so I could tell what they were drinking without having to shout over the loud music. Just hold up the bracelet people.

What Hides In The Dark
Another great color pallet spawned from a rotting vegetable. I found this delicious looking onion Saturday morning as I was rummaging through the bottom of my pantry looking for some potatoes that I could use to whip up a giant breakfast. Sadly, when I found the potatoes they didn’t look much better.

Speaking of onions, I think the headline, ‘Drummer Forced To Retrieve Sticks From Audience For Encore’, is possibly one of my favorite headlines from The Onion ever.

And speaking of vegetables rotting in the dark, I’m further down on this whole smoking ban after an incident at the Triple Rock this last Sunday evening. Having to leave the venue to smoke, a young girl wandered a bit too far from busy Cedar Avenue (aka the smokers lounge) and was mugged at gun point. Perhaps It’s a bit naive to blame the smoking ban for this incident – I don’t know. But the whole affair was a big downer for sure.

Air America

Air travel is the tall man’s nemesis. People sometimes ask, “is it a pain to be so tall?”. To which I usually retort, “only when I fly”. Which isn’t always true. I should say, “only when I fly and don’t procure bulkhead or emergency row status”. Note to the enemy: if you plan on torturing me for my countries valuable secrets, place me in a box where I can’t stretch out my legs and within minutes I will divulge the secret numerology of pyramids and draw you a map to where you can find poor man Hoffa’s body.

When flying I usually take the isle seat, stretch out my legs, and order enough booze to zonk myself out proper – waking only when the stewardess barrels her food cart into my protruding shins. I open one eye to see the smirk on the stewardesses face as she politely apologizes for not seeing my size thirteen road blocks.

If, in my flight preparations, I was smart enough to snag bulkhead, then I like to take the window. Surely there isn’t an art gallery in the world that can match the tapestry and design found whilst gazing out the window of a 747 that’s cruising thousands of feet in the air. Both the sky and the ground offer the eyeballs an ever-changing panorama of pattern and humans-meet-nature geometry. The privilege of seeing the world ‘birds-eye style’ is something that surely must border on the spiritual.

And this is why I’m addicted to Google’s satellite maps. It’s like having all the advantages of a window seat while never having to leave the comfort of your own Aeron chair. The booze is cheaper too. This morning I took an amazing trip down the Mississippi River. I started in Lake Itasca and cruised all the way down to the Louisiana Delta, all before I had finished my first cup of coffee. Along the way I saw some great scenery. Particularly around the delta things got pretty crazy. Almost like some strange and hypnotic avant garde oil-on-canvas.

Society Fox Trots and Other Springtime Rituals
The daises are blooming on the Minneapolis music season. Finally, after five cold and decidedly low decibel months, touring bands are starting to stop through town again. You can almost set your watch to it. As daylight saving pushes through it’s high time to head down to the clubs. The problem is that every band wants a gig in Minnesota during that short window of weather where they don’t have to pack their tour van with pink panther fiberglass insulation and music fans don’t have to coat check eight layers of winter shielding. During that short window you have to get pretty choosy about who will supply your nightly soundtrack. Last Saturday night, then last night, the next two nights – all steeped with possibility – each night three different national touring acts in three different location. I’m thinking someone should set up some kind of ‘Minnesota Spring Music Pass’ to accommodate the seasonal auditory overflow. A pass that would allow you to bounce between different venues. The Current should hook something like this up. Reward music fans who go out to shows frequently and give them a price break so they don’t have to choose between three different $25 door tickets. Actually doesn’t First Avenue have something like this? A preferred member pass or some such thing. I think it needs to be all city wide tho.

Speaking of all city wide…my biggest gripe with the newly imposed city smoking ban has little to do with how goddamn fresh my clothes smell the day after (washing machine it was nice to know ya), or how how much I enjoy meeting all the wonderfully insane street dwellers who saddle up and make spit bubbles while attempting to sweet talk cigarettes from my person. These are all fine and good. But I do not like that every time I remove myself from my bar stool and go outside for a smoke that I inevitably loose my bar stool. Vultures lurk and wait for you to succumb to the urge to light up a healthy stick. And when you step out, then they swarm down on your spot. It’s enough to make me want to throw down the gauntlet and demand an olde tyme duel right there. “Sir (or madam) you have stolen what is not properly yours. Can you not still feel the warmth from where my arse did once sit? You have wronged me. I request a duel. Flintlocks at 18 paces.”

Also, watch the wonderful ‘we can’t go backwards‘ video via videoblog. Very nicely done.