Slog - The Stranger's Blog

Line Out

The Music Blog

Archives for 01/22/2006 - 01/22/2006

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Hello, Wagon, Can I Get On?

Posted by on January 22 at 10:15 PM

Downtown is going nuts. I had dinner with friends at Le Pichet — except for a few old people, we had the place to ourselves — and the bartender kept bringing us slips of paper on which he’d written the score for us. The third time he came around, the note said: “Seattle vs. Pittsburgh, Superbowl XL.”

A young couple was leaving and just as they stepped outside the door the girl looked up into the sky and said, “I hope we lose the game” — she was one of those people — and I took the trouble to get up from my table, open the door, and lean out and say, “Actually, we just won, we’re going to the Super Bowl.” Then people starting punching their car horns and pretty much didn’t stop. A SPD car with its siren going rode past on First Avenue, breaking every couple seconds, clearly not pursuing anyone, just celebrating. A guy walked into the restaurant with his arms raised above his head. A hot, huge drunk guy walking up First Avenue said to us as we were leaving the restaurant, “Suuuuuuppperr Baaaaah-owwwwwl!.” Another came up to us and said, “Can you believe it?” and then pointed at his head and said, “Believe it!” The Sunday paper faced us from boxes on every block, with its cover story, written before the game, “Super Bowl dreaming in the City of Self-Doubt” by Stuart Eskenazi, who began with: “So here we sit, on the verge of something Super.” Outside Nordstrom, I let out a “Woo-hoo!” that was immediately echoed from several points distant. When I got to Rite Aid on Broadway, which I don’t like to go to because its employees are always surly, I confessed to the cashier that I was actually excited about Seattle going to the Super Bowl, that it made me happy that everyone was happy, that I wished we could invent more reasons for everyone in a city to be instantly, goofily happy, and she said she was happy about it too, and then she smiled, which was amazing, because historically this woman has had the personality of a garbage truck. And then I added something a friend had said (the estimable Bethany Jean Clement) earlier in the week: “I can get behind a winner.”

My Smobriety, Day Fourteen: How It Goes Down From Here

Posted by on January 22 at 10:05 PM

The FinalSmobriety Charticle

Weight: 173 pounds

Pulse: 67 beats per minute

Risk of Smoking Resumption: Don’t be fucking stupid

Song Stuck In Head: “Another Day In Paradise,” Phil Collins

Symptoms: None to speak of

I’ve been a non-smoker for two weeks now. Today I met up with “Dick,” one of the pople who quit smoking with me (a.k.a. My Fellow Smobernaut,) and he’s off The Patch. There was some rough insomnia for a couple days, when he was kicking the nicotine, but that’s about it.
Last night I attended a party that was full of Smoky McSmokestacks, smoking indoors with impunity, packs of cigarettes on tables for the picking, and I didn’t feel tempted once. Perhaps at one point, I will have cravings—I’m going to be keeping up the Slogging for the remainder of the first month, just not every day—but perhaps the twelve years of smoking was enough for me. Maybe I was ready for it. Maybe this book did hypnotize me—it certainly made the process easier, one way or another, and I recommend it unabashedly.
Speaking of baseless smug self-satisfaction:, I don’t know how football is played, I didn’t watch a single moment of the pig-flesh tossery today, but I think that even if I was a big Seagulls fan, the Colin Farrell sex tape transcript (down a little bit on the page there) would still be my day’s main entertainment. We should all have our sex talk transcribed and reported to the masses, is what I’m saying. Boo to cow-sized men walloping each other, yay to Future Sonny-Crockett-Portrayers reaming the hell out of Playboy Bunnies and yammering like senile old coots while doing it!

Scanty Secretions?

Posted by on January 22 at 9:28 PM

This morning I received an e-mail from one “Ferreira Dominic” in my Spam folder. I was about to delete it, when the title caught my eye:

Increase Cum Volume by 500%

Volume? That can’t be right. Tell me more, Ferreira Dominic! The message went on to offer the name of the product:

SPUR-M

and these fascinating bullet points:

- Rock hard erections: Erections like steel
- Ejaculate like a porn star: Stronger ejaculation (watch where your aiming)
- Sweeter tasting sperm: Studies show it improves the flavor
- Up to 500% more volume: Cover her in it if you want

Wow, really? Erections of both rock and steel? Sperm flavorful and sweet like a Coke Slurpee? Studies? 500% MORE VOLUME? Sounds awful. Now, I’m no nationally renowned sex advice columnist, but is ejaculate volume an actual issue with anyone, anywhere? And is “watch where your[sic] aiming” a warning? As though your newly-powerful ejaculations might shatter a vase or give the cat a concussion? If you’re a young dude concerned about meager, yucky-tasting emissons - or a young lady interested in volunteering for the next round of SPUR-M taste tests - you can e-mail Ferreira Dominic at beztmeeen@guidant.com. Remember, dreams do come true.

And on behalf of ladies everywhere (sorry gays - no SPUR-M for you, apparently), I did appreciate the bashful caveat, “Cover her in it…if you want.” No pressure. Thanks, SPUR-M!

Dept. of Being an Unbearable Straight Guy

Posted by on January 22 at 7:37 PM

The Seahawks are in the Super Bowl! The Seahawks are in the Super Bowl! THE GODDAMN SEAHAWKS ARE IN THE GODDAMN SUPER BOWL!!!

To quote my father: “How the hell did THAT happen?”

All righty then.

Posted by on January 22 at 7:09 PM

I was so enthralled by the victory of the Seahawks just now that I actually watched the post-game “coverage” on KOMO, which largely was entertaining because while the broadcaster talked about the police getting set up, the camera zoomed in on a woman who was so drunk (on First and Yesler) that she was lying in the entry to the crosswalk. (Actually, the camera also zoomed in on Merchants Cafe, which made me sad, since that’s the place where I first spent 4 1/2 hours interviewing August Wilson, and now he’s not around for all this.)

But the most entertaining moment of all was clearly the green giant commercial for Auburn Suzuki. Anybody? He had a German accent, for the love of god, which meant that he could not quite pronounce Suzuki.

Go Seagulls! Back For the Second Half!

Posted by on January 22 at 5:28 PM

Okay, so I caught Christine Chen during the break, which reminded me of this. Ah, Christine!

A word about riots: real cities have them every once in a while. When the Bulls in Chicago were winning the championships left and riot, my home town had a riot once a year. If the ‘Gulls win tonight, Seattle may very well have a riot. If we do, can we please, please, please not be pussies about it? Arrest some folks, sure. But no soul-searching, okay? Seattle’s a big city and all big cities have riots now and then.

Okay, the game is back on…. ouch.

UPDATE: Ah, it’s kind of hard to write now. My kid has decided he doesn’t want to watch the game, he wants to wrestle.

Oh, touchdown! Good for us, bad for them. The crowd goes wild. And… we get the extra-credit kick-point thing. It’s 27-7 now. Apparently the bad luck—mentioned in my first post, below—that I bring to playoff games only kicks in if it’s a team I give a shit about. But… I’m presuming now, too, that the ‘Gulls are going to win this thing. When I turned on that doomed Cubs game three years ago, I watched beause it looked like they had it sewn up. Eighth inning, ahead by several runs, four outs from the World Series. “We’re safe now,” I thought, “safe enough for me to watch.” Then it call came apart. So… I’m just saying… things are looking good for our suddenly beloved ‘Gulls, but it could all come crashing down.

“I bet the Seagulls are going to make it to the Superbowl,” DJ just said. We shall see.

UPDATE II: What was that tweaking nipples dance about? Number 99 tackled somebody and then walked away tweaking his nipples. Odd.

Instant Message from a Seattle Native: “Holy fucking shit.” See? Now everyone is convinced the ‘Gulls are going to win. This means, of course, that they’re going to lose.

Oh, and to my brother Bill in Chicago: These guys beat the Bears? The Panthers? Really?

UPDATE III: A bad omen? My son’s one-eyed, deaf chocolate toy poodle just threw up. Then he left the living room—is the tension getting even to Seattle’s poodle community?

It’s fourth down for Seattle—I’m starting to get it. That’s bad, right? When it’s fourth down you have to bring in that kicker guy, if you’re close enough. Oh, time out. Time for some car commercials. Hey, Ford: maybe a little more on R&D and a little less on commercials? Wow… Zetia works in the digestive tract—their commercial just showed food bring turned into poop in the GI tract. “Ask your doctor if Zetia is right for you.” I think Zetia, from what I could gather, leaves the bad cholestoral in your digestive tract, instead of letting it be absorbed into the body. So… it’s just going to pass out of you, right? Like Olestra, that fake fat that gave people loose stools and butts that leaked santorum mixed with potato chip crums all the time? Sign me up for some of that.

Hey, the other guys have the ball again. Now one of our guys slammed into one of their guys and their guy dropped the ball. Okay, fourth down for them—and even I know they’re too far away for a field goal.

UPDATE IV: Miller Light. Coors. Budweiser. What, no commericals for Lillet, l’aperitif de Bordeaux? Am I the only man in America drinking a chilled glass of Lillet during the game?

The dog is licking the spot on the floor where he threw up—even though it was already cleaned up by the boyfriend. With 409. Dogs are icky.

UPDATE V: The game goes on and on. Wait! We caught another ball that was not intended for us to catch! This is a wonderful development! Go ‘Gulls!

UPDATE VI: I don’t understand the clock. Sometimes it’s ticking away when they’re just standing around, sometimes it’s not. When is the clock running and when isn’t it? 14, 13, 12… now we’re in the fourth quarter. My kid has lost interest in the game. He’s putting on his Heelies—shoes with wheels in the heels—and moving the carpets so he can scoot around the house. The dog is nowhere to be seen.

UPDATE VII: You know what it means if the Gulls win? The straight guys at work tomorrow are going to be unbearable—particularly the ones who were born and raised here. I never heard them mention the Gulls before last month, now they act like devoted, life-long fans. Frauds!

While you were watching the game…

NBC cancelled the West Wing

Passengers on the Queen Mary 2 are power-pissed about something

Oh, and he Israelis are preparing to bomb the shit out of Iran

UPDATE VIII: Gomez, a reader who knows something about this game, writes…

One thing about the Cubs collapse (which I did in fact see on TV as well): baseball is time insensitive. There is no clock: progression of the game is based on the occurence of outs. So all Florida had to do to win that game was get hit after hit after hit. There was no clock to run out on them.

Meanwhile, Carolina is down three touchdowns or so, only has 11 minutes left, and unlike in baseball, where you remain on offense until the other team puts you out, in football you have to kick the ball away after every score. So Carolina would either have to kick short onside kicks and hope they can get it back… twice, after scoring… twice, then score a third time. All in under 11 minutes.

In other words, the Seahawks have this in the bag unless angels come down from the heavens and take over the bodies of the Carolina Panthers.

Then we should all brace ourselves for a riot in Pioneer Square then, I guess. But no pussing out about it, Seattle.

UPDATE IX: Touchdown! Okay, so we’re going to win—despite my best efforst to jinx the game. Congrats, Seagulls. You can break our hearts in Detroit.

UPDATE X: Okay, gotta go have dinner—people coming over, people who don’t care about the Gulls. Over and—wait! Touchdown for the Panthers! The talking heads all but said the game was over—so did Gomez. Can a team score 20 points in five minutes? I dunno, I’ve never watched a football game before. But I was about to turn off the TV, and now I’m going to sit here and watch the rest of the game. Hell, I may throw up now.

Steve Largent, former Seagull, is on the field—he’s a bigot. Voted “yes” on banning adoptions by gays and lesbians while he was in the U.S. Congress. On behalf of my adopted son, I’d like to say fuck you, Steve.

UPDATE XI: Our dinner guests have arrived. They’re straight—and while they do care about the Gulls, they weren’t watching the game, so I got to break the news to them. It turns out that his father had season tickets for ever, and stopped buying them two years ago because they never won. Now his dad is feeling pretty bad…

Oh, insult to injury: We got the ball in a stumble or something. Less than two minutes left and there’s no way the Panthers can even score another face-saving, lose-by-less touchdown. They’re toast.

Wait: They don’t even play the last forty seconds of the game? They just stroll out there and hug?

UPDATE XII: A Slog reader says…

come out of the closet and admit that you’re a really bit of a football fan. the first step is revealing that you actually know the team’s name.

Not a football fan, but what the hell: Congrats, Seahawks.

Believe It Or Not: I’m Watching the ‘Gulls

Posted by on January 22 at 3:59 PM

I’m watching the Seagulls game with my son. This is the straightest I’ve ever been.

I’m not good luck—I turned on the Cubs game when they almost went to the World Series a couple of years ago just in time to watch them fall apart. I hope my gaze doesn’t have the same effect on the Seattle’s suddenly beloved Seagulls.

If anything interesting happens, I’ll Slog about it. I suspect it’s going to be a while before I post anything again.

UPDATE: Something just happened—a catch or something. It appears that number 15 caught the ball near our scoring area—wait! Now it’s a touchdown for the Seagulls. Things are going well—but remember, I’m watching. And I’m bad, bad luck. Okay, now we’re going to I’m guessing either a beer or a car commercial…

UPDATE 2: Now the other team is—what is it called? Up? At bat? In possession of the ball? Ah, an interception! One of the ‘Gulls caught a ball that was not thrown to him! This is rude, yes? But the crowd is loving it. The other team is very, very sad.

UPDATE 3: Wait. My son tells me that the Seagulls now have ten points. How’d that happen? I know that our sudddenly beloved ‘Gulls can get six for a touchdown, and one for a field goal, and there’s some other thing you can do for three points. But when did they do it? I’m paying attention—or I thought I was. How’d that slip past me? I haven’t even had a drink yet—maybe I should go get one?

UPDATE 4: I can see the artistry and athleticism in, say, baseball or basketball. But this game just looks like two bunchs of fat guys slamming into each other—oh! These two guys just slammed into each other head first!

“Did one of them lose a tooth or something?” my son asks. “I saw something fly out of his mouth when they hit each other.”

Oh, more bad news for the other team—hey, I don’t even know the name of the other team. Let’s call ‘em the Gerbils. We grabbed another ball not intended for us. More rudeness, more sadness. We are “down inside the two… Seattle knocking on the door again.” And now another car commercial. Or, if you prefer, a classic George Carlin routine from 1975. He compares football to baseball. Baseball comes off sounding nicer.

UPDATE 5: I am hungry. But this game happens so fast—another touchdown for the Gulls!—that I can’t leave the couch to go get some chow. My boyfriend just brough me a drink, but he told me to fuck myself when I said “get me something to eat, bitch.” I’m drinking Lillet. It’s very nice on ice. We got that extra little point—now it’s 17 to nothing, and the Gerbils are very, very sad. But there’s still three more halfs to go and I’m watching, which is bad, bad luck.

OH! More bad luck! My son just said, “The Seagulls are definately going to make it to the Superbowl.” Presuming upon victory will anger God and the ‘Gulls will lose, I warn him. We must expect the worse.

I just got an email from a co-worker asking me if he can go to Miami and cover the Superbowl. But it’s in Detroit. What a dumb fag my co-worker is.

UPDATE VI: I’m switching to Roman numerals. A reader writes…

I assume football to be one of the least gay-friendly spectator sports. You can’t even admire nice bodies under those ugly uniforms and padding. At least you can spot a nice ass on baseball players.

There has been only one attractive football player ever: Jason Sehorn. He’s married to Angie Harmon, and I believe he’s a Republican. Which is too bad.

But, yeah, baseball players are generally better looking—and fewer are obese.

UPDATE VII: We have the ball again? I was too busy doing a Google image search on Jason Sehorn to pay attention to the game. It’s third down and twelve—don’t know what that means, but it’s not so good. Gull Number 8 looks like he might be cute. “A hole hurt Seattle and in the end it’s three and out.” What does that mean?

Oh, no! One of the Gerbils is running toward our special spot—oh, they’re called the Panthers. The Panther coach looks upset about their touchdown not really being a touchdown. “There is no foul on the play.” So they got a “59 yard punt return on the touchdown.” Or something. But now the Panthers are in the game. I blame my son: If he hadn’t said that thing about the ‘Gulls going to the Superbowl for sure, the other team wouldn’t have scored. Damn kid.

UPDATE VIII: We was robbed, apparently. The Panthers got the touchdown even though someone was actually doing something unbecoming of a footballer.

Look at this. Don’t those stars make it look like MLK is getting his head blown off? Weird.

More car commercials. “Dad, what’s a sticker price?” my son asks.

We have the ball. We are still winning. But I am still watching. A hole has been created on the inside, I hear. This is good. Oh, we got a penalty. Too bad.

UPDATE IX: We looking at a field goal attempt. Can we do this whenever we want? He kicks, he scores three points. It’s now 20 to 7. Good for us.

The TV talking head says: “The world is seeing how good and how dangerous the Seatle offense can be.” Particularly to their wives.

UPDATE X: Random thoughts…

The ‘Gulls coach looks like all of my uncles.

I hope they show that commercial where the woman says, “Nothing’s going to stop us now—not even frequent heartburn!” I love that commercial.

We have no snacks in the house—no chips, no salsa, no nothin’. No, wait. Found some pretzels. Whew.

“The tight end’s been busy in this first round.” He. He.

“What does that mean? ‘Third down and seven’?” asks the boyfriend. I have no idea, so I just shrug. DJ says, “I don’t think it’s good, dad, huh?”

Okay, we’re going for another field goal. Didn’t make it. Too bad, so sad.

UPDATE XI: The half is over. I’m going to go find some chips—even if I have to cross the street to find them. I’m not going to comment during the half-time show—I’ll leave that to Schmader. Oh, wait. This isn’t the Superbowl, there is no half-time show. Just a half-time “report.” Whoops. DJ was all excited about seeing the Rolling Stones. More later.

It’s Not All Heroin’s Fault

Posted by on January 22 at 3:06 PM

As Slog readers as aware, Stranger editor Dan Savage has launched a one-man awareness-raising campaign about the horrors of heroin, as documented by before-and-after pictures of such famous heroin-wracked child stars as Leif Garrett and Brad Renfro.

I agree with Dan: Heroin is bad for former child stars and everyone else. But I’d like to point out that terrible things can happen to celebrity’s heads even without heroin. Look what happened to Melanie Griffith, before and after.

And don’t get me started on the heroin-free horrors that turned cute little Mickey Rooney into this

Speaking of Horrors Wrought By Brokeback Mountain

Posted by on January 22 at 2:31 PM

Speaking of horrors wrought by Brokeback Mountain: Put on your suffering pants and click over to the wonderful “blog with homosexual tendencies” Towleroad, for Brokeback Mountain: The Dance Remix.

Now I must go bash myself.

(Hat tip and gushy love to Hot Tipper Jake.)

Slogdance 7 — Friends With Money

Posted by on January 22 at 12:41 PM

Jennifer Aniston was in town, showing her brave face to support the opening night film, Friends With Money, directed by Sundance alum Nicole Holofcener. In it she plays a former private school teacher now working as a maid, who remains friends with three rich L.A. housewives (Frances McDormand, Catherine Keener, and Joan Cusack).

Holofcener takes the difficult task of trying to make us like these typically unlikable stock characters, and the performances by the ladies go a long way in helping us along that path. Ultimately, though, the characters are thin, the story goes nowhere, and the ending is a huge cheat. On the flipside, it’s interesting to see a movie where the message is that money does buy happiness.

-Andy Spletzer slogging from Sundance in Park City, Utah