Get On the Bus

Got writer's block? Need some inspiration? I have a solution for you: Get on the fucking bus.

The city bus is mostly a peaceful place here in Hawai'i. There are times when it can suck the life out of you, but for the most part, it's always an unexpected adventure.

For fans of people-watching, riding the bus is essential. I think it should be mandatory that every writer ride the bus at least once or twice before they die. There is something to think, talk or write about upon virtually every visit. I would write about bus hijinks more often, but I can't really take notes while riding because I get really intense motion sickness whenever I try to write in a moving vehicle, which also unfortunately keeps me from reading, one of the few consistently entertaining things you can do while riding The Bus.

There was a time when I was jaded and spoiled and couldn't be bothered to ride the bus, but these days, I'm equipped with more maturity and perspective and I am able to enjoy the simple pleasures a bus ride can bring. I see all the elements with more of a clarity now. Besides, with gas prices the way they are right now, it's a smart move. People actually respect you if you ride the bus these days and, in turn, many respectable people are passengers themselves.

I'm not talking about going Greyhound here. I've done that, once or twice and while it made for stellar blog fodder, I also feared for my life at every turn and the stench was beyond unbearable at times.

The wackiest passengers on the city bus pale in comparison to the majority of riders on any given Greyhound. If I've ever feared for my life on a city bus, it was either in Las Vegas, late at night, or it was just a really bad or psychotic bus driver here in Hawaii. I had one such driver today who missed a crucial turn (I've never seen a bus miss this turn and I've been on this same bus on this very same route hundreds of times) and had to make a very uncomfortable u-turn in the middle of rush hour traffic and herked and jerked me sporadically on the entire 45 minute trek to Ala Moana (the largest open-air shopping center in the world).

I could relay to you a few different things that have happened to and around me while riding the bus, but I'll stick with the one that's freshest in my mind:

At approximately 8:25p, a gentleman resembling Sonny Bono stepped onto the bus and walked around in circles while looking for a seat. After that, he looked relatively normal until a seat finally opened up, right across from me, of course. He drove me nuts with his hyper movements, but I fought the nausea and decided this character needed to be examined nonetheless. (This is when wearing sunglasses at night becomes extra handy)

On the last few runs of every evening, the bus holds about as many crystal meth addicts as I see on an average graveyard shift at the (in)convenience store and Mr. Bono's doppleganger was the latest to get on board.

Mr. Moustache put one earphone from his mp3 player in each year and within seconds, his left leg was trembling like Michael J. Fox* on Jolt Cola. If he was a fan of Ministry, his favorite album from them would surely be Twitch.

He began moving his head around like he was at a Grateful Dead concert. He also looked like the kind of guy who may have frequented one or seven of those.

From the style of his dress, which is pretty standard for a meth head--stained, holey t-shirt (most likely an old gift or prize) and filthy jeans--I figured he was listening to shitty, top 40 music, but he was acting like Captain Beefheart resided in his brain. His leg shook so fast it was as if he was listening to the Minutemen, but it's more than likely he was listening to Boyz II Men. That's probably the best thing about being addicted to crystal methamphetamine: Every album must sound as stunningly gorgeous and trippy as the Flaming Lips' the Soft Bulletin.

I tried to look away as Monsieur Meth's leg bounced like a virgin at a strip club for the first time. A handicapped fellow slowly made his way onto the bus, so I yielded my seat to him and moved towards the rear of the compartment, leaving Sir Geek Stink Breath in the dust.

I stopped about halfway to the back and found a new favorite passenger: A 50-something gal with pink spiked hair (and undoubtedly a few emotional issues) who would not move her bag from the walkway, even though she had an empty seat to the left of her. When I took my original seat back later in the ride, I noticed she had a pink stripe smeared--intentionally, I presume--across her right cheek as she dozed off into her own personal dreamland, which I'm sure is called "Insaneville" or something like that. Unfortunately, while I was still standing next to her, I also noticed that she smelled like she farted on a pile of dirty laundry, which is always fantastic.

The rest of the voyage was rather uneventful, but this is just a quick little glimpse into what I experience on a regular basis while hitching a ride on this zany mystery machine. As awful as it sounds, it is also quite awesome.

At work, it sucks encountering all the crazy fucks because, well, I'm at work. On the bus I'm usually off for the day and I'm taking a free ride that costs me 50 bucks a month.

I'm not buying a car anytime soon. 12-13 dollars a week is more than worth it to encounter all these beautifully bat shit crazies who make me feel better about being me. And, besides, I need to save up some money for a much more important adventure I plan on embarking on early next year. *cliffhanger*

Plus those wacky riders always give me something to write about.

Stay tuned. Hold on tight. The next stop will be coming up any minute now.

*I would have said Christopher Reeve, but I don't want to get my ass kicked by Chris Jericho.

Better (and bigger) Than Muppet Babies: ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead Concert Review

I hate to say it, but the first thing that strikes you about ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead is that they are for the most part, very, very tiny. Not since the Muppet Babies has such a massive sound come from such a small outfit.

After finding a parking spot and walking through a giant construction/destruction area that was once (and I assume will soon be again) known as Congress Street, I neared the historic Hotel Congress and got stamped just in time to enter the club and catch the last bit of Tucson's own Holy Rolling Empire, who were actually quite good, from what I could gather.

The second band, Mostly Bears, another local band, were unfortunately quite bad but their lackluster set was saved by some extreme people watching activities. (The most memorable thing about Mostly Bears was that their bassist looked like Chris Cornell in his long-haired days and the lead singer looked like the lead dude from Hot Hot Heat)

Trail of Dead's Conrad Keely (guitar, vocals, drums, keyboards) appeared out of the darkness, but he's really the only member of the group who has a distinct look. Not until the entire band took the stage were my suspicions assured. I was surrounded by them the entire time!

I did recognize Keely, but I could not bring myself to approach him. I wanted to tell him about my upcoming book, thank him for inspiring me and tell him how underrated his band's last two albums were, but the best I could come up with was a half-assed wave.

The only other member of their troupe who stood out to me was a man I discovered a few minutes later was their guitar tech. I was half-positive that the other guys lurking around the area with their tight, logoless, black t-shirts were the other members of the band, but I could not be sure. Most of them looked so normal and mellow and I only counted one who "towered" over the 5 ft. 10 inch mark.

Luckily, I'm not a very judgmental person, because if one were to judge this book by its cover, you might find a gruesome murder mystery disguised as a romantic comedy. Another thing that struck me right away is how fun loving they were. If you were to believe strictly what you read on, say, the internet, you could conclude that they're a collective of serious, scowling musicians who break their instruments at the end of every show. Period.

This couldn't be further from the truth. Only one member of the band didn't look like he was having a good time at any time during the evening. The rest of them poked fun at each other, smiled frequently and showed their sense of humor by choosing a bunch of cheesy, '80's top 40 songs (Phil Collins, Hall & Oates, Styx and Elton John among others) as their between sets playlist.

Drummer Doni Schroeder is simply a goof ball and I mean that as the highest compliment. While waiting for them to come on, I couldn't take my eyes off of him as he playfully danced and sang along only half-jokingly with the aforementioned '80's mix. His best dance performance was arguably during Styx's "Mr. Roboto", in case you were wondering.

Just in case you're still not sure what to expect, the best advice I could give you is to bring some earplugs. I didn't have any, but I would definitely recommend you don't make the same mistake. This was easily the loudest show I've ever attended. (The other three that immediately come to mind are Rocket From the Crypt, Rage Against the Machine and Pantera. If such a bill existed and any of you had the pleasure of seeing Trail of Dead and RFTC play together in the mid to late 90's, you're probably reading this because you can't hear anymore.)

There was a small turnout. I'm guessing 300 or so people, but the crowd gave a lot of energy back to the band and they seemed to appreciate it. Keely thanked the crowd very sincerely after one tune that followed a quick double take, as if he was surprised at how many people were singing (and screaming) along. It was nice to see a band put on such an inspired performance to a small audience because I've seen my share of bands putting on lame performances for crowds of thousands.

A few of the younger audience members seemed to be shocked by the gigantic wall of noise surrounding the stage, but they didn't budge. And everybody seemed to have a good time. Even those who didn't know any of the lyrics. Downtown Tucson has always sort of reminded me of a mini-Austin, Texas. Maybe that's why ...And You Will Know Us... (who just recently left major label Interscope Records) looked so comfortable here. (They formed in Austin)

Never has noise sounded so melodic. They do what other bands do better because they don't try too hard. In a way, they seem to consciously not want to alienate the audience, though they walk a fine line from time to time. Other bands seem to be more into amusing themselves, or are too snobby to care either way, but ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead never veer too far from the business at hand.

They have fun and it's enormously evident that they enjoy what they do, but they are also extremely passionate, driven and focused. It seemed as if they were striving to give us every ounce of their energy. They perspired for us and they perspired with us. A memorable moment was Jason Reece (vocals, guitars, drums) performing an entire song, which I confess I didn't recognize, on the floor, with the audience, "pogo" dancing nearly the entire time. It was a very magical and unifying thing. After that, we all felt like we were truly part of the show. It was something you could definitely feel.

They played a few songs from every album. They timed everything masterfully. Each song was an extended version beginning with epic intros and concluding with dynamic and mind-numbing epilogues. They played only a dozen songs or less, but they left you wanting enough to come and see them again.

Importantly, they also didn't overstay their welcome. It takes a smart band to know when the perfect time to leave is. I can say almost certainly that I would see them live again, not just because the show was that great, but because there are still so many of their songs that I have yet to hear live, which is hard to do when a band plays for an hour and a half to two hours. They did it so swiftly it seemed like less than an hour. I was shocked to see what time it was when I returned to my car. There was no encore and there was no destroying of instruments. Simply a graceful exit. Maybe that's the way it should always be, but it's not for me to say.

The guitars shredded viciously, the bass thumped rhythmically and the drums pounded full throttle, matching the heartfelt vocals to a tee. The keyboards were a bit distracting at times and perhaps out of tune, but the show was simply amazing. Nothing could have ruined the core of the show. It was intense and electrifying. Controlled madness at its best. Make sure you catch them when they come to your humble abode. Don't forget the ear plugs.

Gone Baby Gone and a Triumphant Return to the Cinema

Unfortunately, a combination of high stress levels, fucked up work schedules, lethargy, laziness, limbo and my trip to Las Vegas prevented me from visiting the local Cineplex¹ for over two weeks. It was a break I wasn't ready for and I was happy to put an end to it last night. I tearfully apologized while holding a boombox playing John Mayer songs and brought her a bouquet of various stomach discomfort medicines (all that candy and popcorn is rough on her system) before purchasing a ticket to Ben Affleck's directorial debut, Gone Baby Gone from her box office. (okay, so I actually bought the ticket online, but it didn't work for my li'l story)



I personally have been rooting for Ben Affleck for a long time. Maybe it's because I can relate to people not believing in you in spite of what you know about your own abilities. Maybe it's because I think he's been treated unfairly when compared to others in the limelight.² Or maybe it's part of my standing loyalty to the great director Kevin Smith, one of Affleck's best friends. No matter what the reason, I hope that this will be (and I am confident that it will be) the beginning of a long winning streak for Ben.



Casey Affleck (Ben's brother) is in the midst of an impressive if not shocking winning streak of his own. After his nearly film-stealing performance in Ocean's Thirteen and his turn in another film playing right now, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, the younger Affleck now has another feather in his cap. I have counted myself as a fan of Casey's for many years now, but I would have thought it was a stretch at least if you had told me at this time last year that he would be one of the candidates for Most Valuable Performer of 2007. His powerful and emotional at times; so real and understated at others performance is something to be proud of here. His Patrick Kenzie is one of those roles that you will find nearly impossible to think of any actor being able to do half as well in. It's not always an explosive performance, but it's consistently effective and impactful.



There were sections that bordered on being heavily cliched and even predictable, but it was not enough to overshadow the ebb and flow of the film and the performance of its characters. The lines that even sniffed of being cliche were never unbelievable or annoying. It's okay to meet expectations rather than exceeding them when it comes to tales that most of us can relate to. Everyone did a masterful job of making this feel more like life than a movie. It didn't hurt that many plain-looking people were casted. It gave the film more of an organic and communal look and feel. If God loves ugly, he probably dug this flick.



The best part for me was that it felt like two films in one. Where most movies have 3 small parts, this one just felt like 2 huge events and it worked like a charm. Just when you think for a moment that things may be going nowhere, the action picks up and suddenly you're glued to the screen, intensely gritting your teeth much like many of the on edge, drug-addicted characters may be known to do in their not-so free time.

The performances by Morgan Freeman (who I hate to say it--seems to be losing a touch of his magic) and Ed Harris were predictably awesome at times, but in my opinion, they were overshadowed by some of the lesser known actors and even one of the newcomers. Slaine, a rapper from a supergroup named La Coka Nostra, shined as Bubba Rogowski, a drug dealer with friends in high and low places. His role was a simple ingredient, but it was so likable and without it, the recipe for success would have felt incomplete. If he doesn't parlay this into some serious work, there is something wrong in Hollywood.§

It's not the most original movie, but the fact that it is done so unapologetically, so slickly and respectfully and that it doesn't take itself so seriously gives it some extra momentum, not that it really needs any. Parts of it will move too slow for some people, but there are too many moving scenes to count that will make up for it.

Though most of the film centers around a missing child, I found myself relating more to the relationship aspects of the movie. When the main character stands up for (and butts heads with) his live-in co-worker, you can't help but feel it. There were two particular scenes where I felt it in my tear ducts. It was so awesomely and painfully real. The interaction between Casey Affleck and Michelle Monaghan was all too familiar to me. Their performances didn't just reach out and touch me. They smacked me across the face with cold reality. Thanks, Ben, I needed that.

There was nothing for me to not like about this movie. It was nearly flawless and everyone involved deserves to be commended. The only thing that holds it back from a higher rating is the fact that I don't think it has much going for it as far as a movie you watch again and again. With movies that have an absolute truth and a not-so-happy result, I find it difficult to revisit them unless it's every few years or so, and sometimes not even then. I have a feeling this will become one of those movies. That, of course, should not take away from the initial merit of Gone Baby Gone. And it doesn't. I will be impressed for a long time, whether I watch it again or not. I don't have to root for Ben anymore. Even if you can't see him, you feel his presence. He is definitely back. Not necessarily with a vengeance, but a strong statement nonetheless.

¹More like CinEmpire

²Like Geddy Lee for example?

§Something else, that is.

Alan Alda On Acid

I've always wanted to be drugged without my knowing. It's not because I want to be violated in my sleep, or anything like that. I guess I just enjoy that "what the fuck is happening to my head?" feeling. Some of my favorite days are uneventful other than the fact that I feel really messed up for no reason. Working 16 hour shifts is basically your company supplying you with free drugs. I've done 'shrooms once or twice in my life and I dabbled in pot for awhile, but I haven't done any of these, or anything else in almost ten years now, unless you count the occasional ant hill and that one time I sniffed the ashes of Keith Richards' father.

But on those days where I already feel that natural high at about the 13 or 14 hour point, if I was slipped a mickey or roofie or whatever silly fucking name people are calling these things nowdays, I'm sure my high and insanity level would be multiplied substantially.

As long as what you put into my bottle of Fiji water or Cherry Coke is not going to kill me, then go ahead and throw a tab of acid or some X in there and watch me go cuckoo while I watch a M*A*S*H* marathon.

I've always wanted to see Alan Alda on acid. No, not while I'm on drugs. I just want to see what Alda is like when he's on acid, because Flirting With Disaster was just too small of a dose for me. I would have no major problem settling for simply being on acid myself while watching a totally clean Alda, but I would prefer to take a gander at Hawkeye while he's cockeyed.

Steely Dan can't buy a thrill, but I admit I'd get a cheap one from watching Jamie Farr prancing around in women's clothing. I'd like to see if I get the same tingly feeling that Garth would get when watching Bugs Bunny in drag.

But I've seen so many episodes of M*A*S*H* over the years, I might actually prefer to see Farr in plain old guy clothes. Atten-hut, indeed, mithter. Party on, Cpl. Klinger.

My next step would be listening to "Bohemian Rhapsody". Besides, I've always been curious as to whether Flavor Flav's grand experiment of seeing whether the motion picture version of M*A*S*H* lined up perfectly with Queen's A Night at the Opera LP and what better time to find out than after being drugged? (What an abortion that last paragraph was. Something's already kicking in. I wish I knew what it was, so I could have a specific excuse for sucking.)

By the way, fuck that Wizard of Oz bullshit. The Pink Floyd thing is pure coincidence, but I do have it on high authority that Ozzy's Blizzard of Ozz was inspired by a viewing of Wizard of Oz mixed with a bad acid trip which concluded with the yellow brick road flying off the tv screen and landing smack dab in the middle of Ozzy's basement. Osbourne immediately vomited on it before screaming "Frazzle bizzle smash hammuh!" and passing out, but I probably didn't need to tell you that part.


Don't hesitate, folks. Spike my Bloody Mary to your heart's content, but just make sure I have a safe ride home. I don't want to be stuck in some smoky lounge in Vegas, listening to Styx cover songs and wanting my mommy. I'd rather be at home tripping out on Green Acres or the Big Lebowski. The dude may abide, but I won't really give a shit when I'm hopped up or drugged down. I just can't wait to see what those ferrets look like in the bathtub when I'm hanging upside down from my ceiling wearing nothing but my Starbury sneakers. You're welcome, ladies.

I'm pretty cool with any scenario that involves me being taken advantage of actually, as long as the other party has no STD's or abandonment issues. I don't want the person who deflowers me in my sleep to get all clingy afterwards. Unless it happens to be Scarlet Johansson or Christina Ricci, of course, but with my luck I'll probably get double-teamed by David Johansson and Lionel Richie. It would be great if Stephanie was to violate me as well, but I've been trying different variations on this for years, all to no avail. I even tried bathing in tofu, because she's a healthy eater, but instead I was mauled by a vegan bear. Or maybe it was just a really hairy hippy.

I would prefer the violating party to be female, but hey, let's face it, it's the 2007's and if Johnny Depp wants to set sail on my pirate ship, who am I to say no? The customer's always right. And Johnny is fucking money. I'm sure he'd make it a memorable experience.

It seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind. Oops, sorry, I was looking at the wrong piece of paper.

It seems to me that guys don't have a huge problem with stuff like this. Not the way chicks do, anyway. Men find it flattering when they're stalked because most women won't give us the time of day. Women, on the other hand, can't go anywhere without getting pestered, so they'd prefer not to be bothered while showering or having a cup of coffee, those shallow, selfish bitches. (The preceding line was a joke, for all you sensitive types. I apologize to any stalkers who I may have offended. I know it's hard work and I did not intend to demean your thankless profession) {That was another joke in the parentheses there. Now I'm using the fancy bracket things. I don't know what they're called. Sorry. And yes, stalking sucks. It is a very bad thing. Especially when the chick you are stalking will not give in, no matter how many times you hide in her closet with her underwear on your head. Sorry to break the bad news to you, fellas, but chivalry is dead.}

I guess that's where that whole men from Venus/women from Mars thing stemmed from. Everyone knows, especially those who are drugged while reading this, that in Las Venus, everything goes and that Mars Meadows is like a rotating feminist rally where things such as toga parties, boxing, Spam, infidelity, bacon grease, orgies with weird old dudes wearing creepy masks, midget pornography, kung fu movies, buffets and of course, fun, do not exist. Okay, so it's not THAT bad. I think I'd rather go to Mars Meadows than Oklahoma, for instance. (No offense, Gerald) But Las Venus is the shiznit. It's so great that you don't care when you say things that haven't been cool for years (or ever) such as transforming the word "shit" into "shiznit". But I guess the good ol' U.S.A. will have to do for now.

That's why I need your help on planning my next trip. Next time you're having a drink with me, put a little something extra in there and at least one of us will be allowing the good times to be done rolled and what not. If it's as funny watching me as I think it will be, then bring a camcorder. (Do they still make those and are they still called camcorders. I'm a little bit behind the times. I'll be right back. Someone just beeped me. I'm going to call them back on my rotary phone.)
I'd like to see the footage the next morning. I'll need to know where that strange pain in the backside came from. It could have just been the onion rings I had at the bar. Or maybe it was that sword fight I had with Mr. Depp. We can call the video 69 Hump Street.

Fin.

(The thoughts and ramblings and whatever the fuck this idiot was talking about in this blog do not necessarily--no, fuck that, they definitely do not--reflect the views of anyone with a working brain. We apologize for wasting your time with this palaver. The author has been detained and is in a padded cell being violated in ways that even former pets of Michael Vick would find to be a tad bit inhumane. Please go on with your business and forget this ever happened.)