Now that I’m unsupervised, I can post things like this:

Dudes, check out this time-waster from the greatest band of all times. It’s almost as much fun as fantasy baseball. I put “Live Forever” in the three-hole, I put “Wonderwall” in the greatest hits clean-up position, spot seven, and I closed with “Don’t Look Back in Anger.” So I strayed from the chronological temptation. And I wanted to include “I Can See a Liar,” if only for the memories of Liam’s full length Burberry-print raincoat that he rocked on Letterman when the band inexplicably chose that song to promote Standing on the Shoulder of Giants in 2000, but I just couldn’t in good conscience. Here’s a good rule of thumb: you’re not spending enough time on this if you include more than three Definitely, Maybe songs.


Deesenuts are Lonely

So tomorrow is the last business day of my favorite lunch spot downtown, the Lone Doughnut Cafe. They’ve been making doughnuts fresh every morning in their skyway spot above Kiernan’s Irish Pub in the Towle building for the last 26 years. Evidently, they owe backrent and their lease renewal negotiations broke down, so the landlord evicted them. Their doughnuts get all the reviews, but their soups (homemade borcht, great chilli, good chicken noodle, all from scratch), sandwiches (great egg salad), and daily hotdish (on Monday, at about 1:15, I bought the last side of lone doughnut tater tot ‘dish ever) all dominate. They’re downhomey with just a touch of tree hugger pretension. Their specials today were turkey sloppy joes, deep dish chicken pot pie and vegan coconut milk vegetables. It’s mom-meets-your-pro-choice-gfriend. Anyway, it’s on the corner of 2nd and 4th–go show them some love. Show up before 8 am if you want to get the doughnuts–they’re way gone by lunchtime.

Locked Out

Went to the Target-sponsored Circle Event in the new Target Wing of the MIA on Saturday night. The Circle is the MIA new gambit to get “the young people” to come in and check the place out. (Target also sponsors most of the Walker’s “young people” events–the bullseye knows how to play both sides.)

They were going for a South Beach thing, with a Brazilian band on stage, tents and candles and pink lights out in the courtyard. Inside, there was a DJ and bronzed girls in ruffled-bottom hot pants on pedestals. I think the MIA may throw a better party than the Walker: The space was more conducive to a party than the Walker’s new addition–outside of the galleries, (only one gallery of early modern furniture was open) there are these rotunda spaces where people would mill around talking and dosing cocktails. The ticket was $45, which may have scared some hipsters away, but $45 for all the shrimp shish kabobs and rail gin you could put in your face isn’t a bad deal, and there was rarely a wait to get a drink. And there just wasn’t the general level of pretension that you can come across at a Walker After Hours. Maybe because they kept the galleries closed. I think I liked partying in a museum without any art–that way, you get the Truman Capote Black and White Ball buzz, without all the guilt over your personal ignorance. Ingenious, Target.
Afterwards, went to an after-party in Kenwood. Turned out to be only myself, an Irishman and one girl. A bad joke, literally. But at 3:00, we were having a cigarette on the patio, and the girl locked us out of her house. Which turned out to be a relative’s house, so she was scurred to break any windows. She did ask, “Steve, do you know anybody that can break in?” Evidently, you can cut the classism with a knife in Kenwood, but you just can’t cut any screens. I called about a million 24-hour locksmith places, and finally got The Lock Doctor to send over a surly 40-something Israeli locksmith (sweet blonde ‘tache though) at 3 AM. He ended up drilling through the deadbolt in the backdoor and charging this poor girl $140. $80 for the house call and $60 for the “unlocking” fee. Did she get ripped off? I mean, was there another option?

The Scavenger





Overheard in the men’s room during the Flaming Lips set: [dude on cell phone] “Yeah, it’s alright. I mean, they put on a great show…but their music is fucking terrible.

The Fair was full of hipsters last night–it must have dropped the obesity index of theimg_6811_2.jpg entire place by several points. The smugness was palpable. Wayne Coyne repeatedly made self-satisfied this-isn’t-your-daddy’s-state-fair references. “Can you believe this is the same stage Rascall Flatts will be playing on?” he asked. “I wish bands like this played the fair when I was growing up.”



The entire crowd was toasted. I’m sure a good third were on psychedelics. I’ve never seen the Lips before, but I’ve heard about the their crazy stage show. There were Santa Clauses with flashlights on one side of the stage and aliens in cocktail dresses on the other side. There were confetti cannons and Coyne had his own personal streamer rifleimg_6855_6.jpg that he kept shooting out into the crowd and during a few songs he had a personal strobe light strapped to his chest. During another song he swung this big neon lasso. During another song he had this power-balloon-inflater thing that kept pumping this gigantic balloon full of air until it exploded. There was a trippy video presentation behind him the entire time. The show was tailor made for psilocybin–they were not fucking around up there. I get it. Songs like, “Do You Realize?” and “All We Have is Now” are about peace and love, but with a little bit of a smirk. The Flaming Lips are the post-Japanese anime Grateful Dead.



Unfortch, as it turns out, the nu-hippies are just as overrated as the old ones. My buddy Frankie got into a tug-of-war with some 25-year-old in the middle of the show. Both of them were pulling on the same glass pipe. It was a retarded situation. Neither of us had shown up with anything but cash to buy beer and pronto pups, and we both kept smelling weed wafting over the crowd; Frank was jonesing hard. It was driving him crazy. He started scanning the crowd with his eyes, and he noticed this dude and his buddies crouching down and getting high a couple of feet from us, so he wandered over looking for a handout. Frank has never been bashful about exploiting the peace, love, good vibes crowd for their pot. But this guy wasn’t having it. Right away, he called him a “scavenger” and he refused to help him. Frank came back and told me that this 25 year old floppy-haired blond in white cargo pants and a strap-on messenger bag looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Well, it’s real and you’re not getting any. I don’t know why you’re making a big deal about it.” Frank told him he was the uncoolest dude he’s ever met. I convinced Frank to walk away and come buy another beer. We watched a few more songs and then Frank said, “I’m going to throw this cup at that guy.” So he did. Hit him right in the head, smiled at him and made the “wasn’t me” gesture with upturned palms.



The blonde tweaker was with a cute little girlfriend, and after everything had settled down, I innocently asked her if my buddy could get a hit. She smiled and handed me the pipe and then I handed it to Frank. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier. The tweaker immediately sussed out the situation; he was going from person to person, raving, looking for his pipe, and he came over and grabbed it from his hand, but Frank wouldn’t let go.



“Dude, walk away or I’m going to smash your pipe,” Frank said.



“I don’t care–I SELL glass, man,” the tweaker shot back.



But there was something in Frank’s eyes that must have conveyed the Darwinian order of things, because the tweaker finally let go. Frank took a few hits right in front of him. “This is great,” Frank squeaked. The tweaker responded, very sarcastically, “Are you finished?” Then he went back and yelled at his cute little girlfriend for giving his weed to the dude that threw a cup at his head. It was a retarded episode. Nobody acted with any dignity, least of all Frankie, but with all the confetti and smug hipsters, I could see why he needed to take drastic measures.



Frank and I had backstage passes, but we lent them to my friends Paul and Allison. They worked their way behind some of the aliens in cocktail dresses and took some great digital photos of the show. Check ‘em.