Thank you for your e-mail! I appreciate your prompt reply.
To be fair, I don’t know if your reply was prompt or not. You see, the e-mail you sent… well, I think it speaks for itself:
I’m sorry, did I apply to “E-mail that isn’t spam but certainly looks like it” Inc.? It’s so ambiguous I don’t even know which application this is supposed to be referencing. So you can imagine my confusion upon receiving your correspondence.
That aside, please pass along my compliments to your boss, Gary Cole circa Office Space. I am impressed your employer was able to nail down the very in-demand website, Company.com. They must have exhausted their resources in the hot bidding war for the most searchable name on the internet. The web presence is incredible — I searched and found literally millions of articles, research, and websites for you, Company!
Please pass along my highest compliments to your parents as well, Human, for appropriating the scope and nature of your generic-ness to your birth name. In very rare instances does someone’s moniker also describe their full-time position.
But with all due respect Mr./Ms./Mrs./Sire Resources, I don’t think I would fit well into your company culture. I have come to learn through many comments from friends and 26 years of personal experience that my “take” on things is unique. A teacher once said I “look at the world sideways,” and I’ve always prided myself on that fact. I believe that unique is special, a gift to be cherished. And I don’t think my plum blazer would go with your taupe walls.
So thanks anyway, Generic Industries USA! Good luck making your sprockets.
It’s a typical Thursday night problem. Don’t judge.
Rectifying the situation, I set out to the local grocer and proceeded to spend an ungodly amount of time gently squeezing each one for the desired ripeness.
My mind was still lost in avocado clouds as I strolled down Santa Monica Boulevard. That is, until I ran into this gentleman:
Yup, that’s right. A full-on urban cowboy. And we’re not talking a cowboy that’s fourteen-too-many shades of hipster. He had the look, the walk, the attitude, and I couldn’t turn away (before snapping a photo).
The guy was rocking the Jon Voigt-in-Midnight Cowboy so much, I almost asked him where Dustin Hoffman had gone.
It got me thinking: If you ever find yourself lost in Los Angeles, you can figure out exactly where you are by the type of cowboy walking the streets.
Upon arriving home, I let the avocados go bad as I created this handy guide for your reference:
Feel free to print out this reference for all of your urban excursions. Also good for urban excursions:
Friends, fashionistas, and fans of the sauce, you probably already know that I’m a big baseball fan. So much so, I love to follow my Tribe even as they fall on their own proverbial sword by the All-Star Break each and every season.
In “Just A Bit Outside,” we’re bringing you a slightly different take on the baseball season. We’re covering news that’s off the beaten path, predictions you might not have considered, and answers to the pressing questions like “What kind of product would Ozzie Guillen endorse?”
In our first installment, we cover spring training, injury reports, season predictions, strange memorabilia, and tell you who might be headed to Broadway.
As the Supreme Court gathers to discuss marriage equality, one cannot help but hear the opposition of Bible-thumping traditionalists who say Jesus wouldn’t approve. To those folks who don’t believe Jesus loves gays, let me offer the following:
There’s a great cash-only Mexican restaurant near my apartment. Every time I walk down and wait for my late-night fix, I can’t help but be transfixed by this interpretation of the Last Supper.
Señors Monte and Carlo on the right are already getting a bit handsy.
You know that Last Siesta is going to be sexxxxy.
If this is how things went down, I really need to be walking in the path of the Lord. Or strutting, as the case may be.
When it comes to marriage equality, you know Jesus loves the gays. Jesus is love. And let’s face it, Jesus is the sassiest bitch we know. But, uh, Jesus? You might want to pull up your shirt.
Hey wait a second… is the Mexican Jesus just Cha-Cha DiGregorio?
I imagine this is what was sent out after Hitler joined the Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. When you say fair-minded, did you really mean to say fair-skinned? And those two actions wouldn’t be burning books and branding Jews, right? RIGHT?
I do not remember much about 1997, but I can still recall the big moments of the year.
The UK handed over Hong Kong to the People’s Republic of China…
A jury sentenced Timothy McVeigh to death for his part in the Oklahoma City bombing…
…and Virgin Records re-released the Pure Moods compilation.
Pure Moods taught us to never doubt the power of running an ad for your product more times than people care to see it. The television ads for Pure Moods ran at least twice during every commercial break, every hour of the day, on every channel. In some generic boardroom, marketing executives surely sat around a large mahogany table purchased with “Enya money,” thinking, “Who needs soothing, ambient soundscapes and greatly-subdued electropop? Everyone. And they’ll be dying to pony up $15.99 for the cassette.”
I purchased the 17-track piece of history at the Westgate Mall Sam Goody. Sam Goody was the only spot in the hometown mall where you got to walk down into the basement. THE BASEMENT! IN A MALL! Little did I know having a basement was the most ‘underground’ this record store chain got; regardless, I was hooked.
Many things have changed since those Goody ol’ days of ’97. The Goody died before Y2K hit. In its place, there became a Wide World of Brass. Then the whole mall was bulldozed. But after 15 years, the Pure Moods disc remains by my side.
So today, I’m dusting off the old gem to see how my perspective and musical tastes have changed.
The following thoughts are recorded as I listen to the Pure Moods album for the first time in 15 years.
1. Enigma – Return to Innocence
1997: This is an easy one: MAN OF THE HOUSE. That’s what this song was all about in 1997. Come on, Jonathan Taylor Thomas trying to get rid of his potential step-father Chevy Chase, only to get to the woods and be hunted by assassins trying to kill them both? That movie was great!
Two men of the house. Two ridiculous premises.
2013: I saw Man of the House again a year or two ago, and I gotta say, I still love it, but it’s so unrealistic! It’s not that men are hunting Chevy in the woods or that a group of 12-year-olds are able to bring down the assassins using the basic skills of JTT’s “Indian Guides” training… where the movie falls apart for me is in the notion that Chevy Chase would be able to get with Farah Fawcett. Total mismatch there, even if Chevy is a lawyer. My suspension of disbelief can’t handle it.
Portrait: the producer behind Enigma, playing shadow puppets in his mother’s basement.
While we’re pulling back the curtain, here’s some startling truths I’ve learned about the “band” Enigma:
The drum beats on this song were stolen from Led Zeppelin’s “When The Levee Breaks.”
The chanting was stolen from two dudes singing a drinking song while on a cultural exchange in Paris.
Enigma isn’t even a band. It’s just a producer.
That 1997 childhood innocence is gone.
2. Enya – Orinoco Flow
1997: I was aware that Enya is mom’s music, not mine. That isn’t to say I didn’t like it. Oh, the bridge arpeggios? Gold.
2013: Listening to “Orinoco Flow” now, I feel like I should be in a group art class with some retirement-age hippie instructor. The phrase “Sail Away” now lives in my mind as a musical phrase to be sung only by Styx or Eric Cartman. Enya is still my mother’s music and will probably always be.
Get ready for her next hit, “The Way Things Are (Exactly How I Predict Them, White Devil)”
3. Deep Forest – Sweet Lullaby
2013: I don’t remember this song. But before I press play, I imagine it’s a soothing, whisping tune with an ethereal quality about it. Let’s hear it.
HOLY TECHNOTRONIC! This song starts off with chants I would expect to hear from an evil shaman woman after I’ve already done a lethal dose of peyote.
Thank god the beat dropped! It’s much less frightening to consider you’re going to be cursed for all eternity when there’s a beat to see it through.
Maybe I blocked this out of my memory for a reason. It’s a creepy-ass song. Now that I’ve heard it again, does this mean I’ll have war flashbacks to 1997?
I think I have PTSD.
4. Jean-Michele Jarre – Oxygene Part IV
1997: I didn’t know a thing about Jean-Michele Jarre. For all I knew, this guy could have been living in his mother’s basement and was lucky to have made it on to this compilation. The track was simple but enjoyable, that’s all I remember thinking about it.
2013: I have since come to realize what a big deal Jarre actually is. This song was part of a series he recorded in the late 70s, from a record that broke his electronic prog-pop to the world. This guy must be sitting on mountains of cash from his extensive touring. I probably loved this track because I was also listening to a lot of Genesis at the time. Not the good Genesis – the “We Can’t Dance”-era Genesis. Throw some Phil Collins vocals over Jarre’s song and Oxygene could very well have been a part of that album.
You say potato, I say she seems to have an invisible touch, yeah.
5. DJ Dado – X-Files Theme (Dado Paranormal Activity Mix)
1997: Oh yeah. I was totally aware of The X-Files at the time, though never actually watched it. This track was the coolest. It’s one of the ones I put on repeat. Man, this is what they must play at the coolest clubs. And to think, I’m listening to it in my own bedroom! Come on, stuffed Tigger, let’s rave.
2013: Oh yeah. I am totally aware that I should have watched The X-Files, and I have still never watched it. I suppose I’ll hop on Netflix and find out what the buzz was all about.
This track actually does hold up. It still bumps, for sure. But then it veers off. I didn’t notice this before, but once the piano is brought in and that strange voice whispers “Do you really want to know?” over and over, the lame factor increases exponentially. If this song did play in any clubs, they were most certainly the weird European kind that you read about in the news when a tragic club fire hits. That’s not even taking into consideration that “DJ Dado” sounds like a name my father would call himself if he was trying to he “hip with the kids.” He’s not. And this isn’t helping anyone.
Mulder is not impressed.
6. Mike Oldfield – Tubular Bells Part 1
1997: This song prompted my mother to hold my Pure Moods CD hostage while she relived her glory days listening to it on repeat.
2013: I totally get why mom needed it. The bells, they make you forget.
7. Enigma – Sadeness Part 1
1997: Enigma, man. Enigma was on fire. That band must be rolling in piles of that sweet sweet new age money.
2013: Ok, as we’ve established already, Enigma is not even a band. It’s a dude who stole samples and sold them for profit. Somewhere, I can only think that the Enigma producer has Vanilla Ice on the speed dial of his pre-paid mobile phone. Seems about right.
Kids, this is what happens when you steal music.
1997: Skipped ‘em. They’re boring.
2013: Skipped ‘em. Got distracted by my iPhone.
13. Angelo Badalamenti – Fire Walk With Me (“Twin Peaks” Theme)
1997: This is the most boring song on the face of the planet. What’s Twin Peaks?
2013: Oh my god what happened to Coop… who was Bob… wasn’t that tall giant guy also in Men in Black… poor Laura Palmer!… I wonder if Twin Peaks is a real place… of course it isn’t, why did I just Google that… I can’t believe Audrey almost slept with her dad… I want to be the Log Lady for Halloween… I can’t be the Log Lady for Halloween because everyone in Silverlake already just looks like that… someone should make a purse that looks like a log… I bet Urban Outfitters would sell that… I could sell that… I’m gonna be a log purse billionaire… isn’t that right, rats crawling around my apartment?… better get to work… Ah! I just want to watch Twin Peaks again!
14. Geoffrey Oryema – Makambo
1997: It’s really boring but I don’t want to sound racist.
2013: It’s really boring.
15. Mark Isham – My Wife With The Champagne Shoulders
1997: YOU CAN’T HAVE CHAMPAGNE SHOULDERS. IMPLAUSIBLE.
2013: I get it. He’s a white supremacist. Regardless, why is this song not starting until 20 seconds in? This is so slow, I bet it plays at a snail supermarket’s salad bar. Oh my god, it’s not even a minute in. I’m gonna go take a nap.
Seriously, that was only 30 seconds? Ugh. What to talk about?
Oh my god, so Twin Peaks…
A for effort, I guess.
16. Michael Nyman – The Heart Asks
1997: This piano track was entrancing to me. I couldn’t stop repeating it, time and again.
2013: As a second-semester senior in college, I had completed all necessary coursework and had decided to take everything I didn’t have time to before. I signed up for one semester of private piano lessons, despite not having played piano since… well, 1997. I learned to play one song that semester, and let me tell you, it was better than this. Listening to this now, it is less “entrancing” as it leaves my heart asking, “why am I at this slightly-above-average piano recital?” Skip.
17. David Stewart & Candy Dulfer – Lily Was Here
1997: This is what adults must listen to.
2013: This is what adults must listen to.
All right everyone, that was fun. Who am I kidding, that was a horrible idea. I just wasted over an hour of my life remembering what horrible music taste I had 15 years ago. If you need me, I’ll be in the corner sulking to Ke$ha.
Scientists are finding heart disease in mummified remains, evidence that heart issues aren’t just based on modern diets and lifestyles. So I wrote this last night for Top Story! Weekly at the iO West Theater.
Sean Cowhig (mummy) and Brian Vestal (doc) nailed it. And to think, these guys did it with just one rehearsal a few hours prior.
Dear Manager Who Accidentally CC’d Me On An E-Mail To Tara Reid,
Shalom, sir! It was so nice to see your name pop up in my inbox again.
You remember, Kat — I’m the one whose packet you received for that sketch show last year. Man, I thought when that e-mail popped up in my inbox, that it might in fact be another job lead. Or even an invitation to submit for that show again. Boy, would that be something!
I have to admit, I was a bit confused to read the singular line: “Friday at 1PM works for her. Can we confirm?”
I don’t know, can we?
Putting on my investigative cap (a foam cowboy getup one might purchase in Venice), I scrolled down through the e-mail chain that you oh-so-delightfully left for me, surely more bread crumbs than Kate Moss consumes in a given year. Lo and behold, there are the makings of a classic Hollywood meeting.
Can we meet on Friday at 4 in Studio City?
Let’s meet on Tuesday at 12 in Burbank.
She wants to get this in before leaving town. Monday 2:30 at CBS Radford?
What about breakfast?
If I didn’t know any better, this e-mail chain could be my sketch group’s attempt at trying to schedule a last-minute rehearsal. Celebrities are just like us!
Let me tell you right now, I can confirm. I can confirm HARD.
I imagine Tara will emerge from a smoky reveal…
She’ll listen intently to the pitches…
And will like them so much, she can barely keep her top on.
She’ll consult with her entourage and we’ll have a giant orgy (it IS Hollywood after all).
And then she’ll hire us FOR A MILLION MOVIES.
You know, on second thought, don’t even worry about bringing your pitches. I have enough of my own to last the hour.
I mean, who doesn’t want to see Tara Reid in a remake of “Glengarry Glen Ross”? Tara would play Jack Lemmon’s part, and everyone else would reprise their old roles. We’d call it “Glengarry Glen Reid” or even “GlengarReid Glen Ross!”
I’m not saying she has to be naked the whole time, but Mr. Harris is very specific about what types of projects he’s working on these days. Have your people get back to my people and we’ll send over the paperwork.
And of course, Mr. Harris wants to set up his own meeting with Ms. Reid. Any availability on Wednesday?
There are two types of people in this world: those who get vanity plates, and those who take pictures of other people’s vanity plates.
I fall into the latter category.
If I was into vanity plates, I don’t even know what I would get. I have enough trouble condensing every thought and feeling to the 140-character limit on Twitter. So let’s try 7.
Yes, it’s hard to see, but this VW champ had Nevada “HOLLAH” vanity plates.
I ran into this Volkswagon of fun while driving down Santa Monica Boulevard; and what impressed me was not the fact that it said “HOLLAH,” but that it was a NEVADA plate with “HOLLAH.” That, my friends, is a party machine. Can you imagine all the long nights at Circus Circus that car must have had? It’s out all night and ready for more. It probably goes out for brunch the next day at a restaurant with no windows. Because the last night was THAT intense.
Here, it’s going to a business meeting with its Beverly Hills entertainment lawyer, “CHALLAH.”
How can you not love this? Every part of me wants this to be Chevy Chase in the flesh. Oh buddy, those crazy ‘Fletch’ residuals are in!
I imagine Chevy struts onto Stage 32 to shoot a scene in Troy & Abed’s apartment, interrupting everything as he accidentally burns himself on a light. “Screw you guys, I was Fletch! If you shoot me, you’re liable to lose a lot of those humanitarian awards.”
Hundred-dollar vanity plates? Totally worth it. We’re in the city of self-promotion after all… what should I get? PWRHAUS? SUCK001? KL AMMY? Taking suggestions now.
There are Chuck Jones 100th Anniversary screenings at the Silent Movie Theater this weekend. You should go.
Yesterday, the Cinefamily screened some of Chuck’s greatest cartoons, all 35mm film prints.
There is a certain energy about seeing these cartoons screened with a group – and a mixed one at that. Nerds, hipsters, grey-haired film lovers, and families with young children. Yet everyone got it. Everyone laughed. Not at all of the same points, but at many points.
The biggest laugh for me was during the 1952 cartoon “Feed the Kitty.” It’s a simple premise (really, most of Jones’ works were shockingly simple!) – a dog finds a kitten and falls in love. Wanting to raise the kitten as its own, the dog goes to great lengths to keep it safe – and hidden – from his owner.
Jones sets up a scene of incredible comic timing: the owner is baking cookies, and the kitten falls in the batter. As the owner reaches for the mixer, the dog freaks out, and is put out in the yard. Unaware that the kitten has escaped, albeit drenched in batter, he wails as he witnesses his owner go through every step of baking cookies. Grief-stricken, the dog believes his new friend has been baked alive. Seeing his long face, the owner gives him a cookie, shaped exactly like the kitten no less, to cheer him up.
What is particularly interesting about Chuck Jones’ works is that they were simple and smart. If mice were trying to scare a cat out of a house, they would concoct a scheme that tapped into the cat’s biggest fears and insecurities – and then drop an anvil on his head.
It’s also fascinating how so much was conveyed without the tricky wordplay. Yes, Bugs Bunny was a cunning sonofabitch, but other Jones characters relied on little more than pantomime. Take, for example, “A Froggy Evening,” another personal favorite:
A hilarious and unique premise, though still so simple. Another favorite, “The Dover Boys.”
So if Chuck Jones was able to make this entire group laugh, who was his target audience? Come to find out it was the studios. He created these cartoons for himself. Improviser and teacher Shannon O’Neill gives similar advice, to write for the people on stage, not for an audience. The audience comes and goes, each with a different feel and brand of comedy that they enjoy.
I enjoy writing things that do not land with everyone. In a culture that is becoming increasingly niche-ized (sure, let’s call that a word), you do not have to appeal to everyone. Just someone. Using some outlet. One of the broadest and most financially-successful sitcoms of the last decade was Two & A Half Men – but is it respected? Is its fan base committed and die-hard or just looking for something to throw on during dinner?
Chuck Jones challenged but did not condescend. What resulted was innovation and timelessness.
It’s that time of year again: Girl Scout Cookie Season.
Girl Scout Cookie Season has always been high in my power rankings of the various seasons, coming in below baseball season but above “Seasons of Love.” And most certainly above the current season of Community. Somewhere in LA, Dan Harmon is laughing hysterically.
Other Girl Scout tradition? Masai Spitting.
Despite my recent effort to achieve nutritional enlightenment, I couldn’t help but purchase two boxes of the appropriately-named Thin Mints. The goal is to stretch these two boxes over the course of eight weeks to stay on track for summer; as in the rankings, Swimsuit Season edges out Girl Scout Cookie Season by a hair. A hair? Better take care of that.
Too matter-of-fact to not have a delicious subtext.
16 years ago, I was a Girl Scout, peddling these same wares from house to house. My neighborhood was a gold mine, and I usually sold enough boxes of these crack cookies to warrant a small incentive reward and the temporary respect of my peers. There was only one house, the one next to the Fahrenkopf’s, that I would not approach. All I knew is that it had taupe siding and I was not going to go near it. Anywhere else was my turf and god help the scout who crossed into it. Looking back on it, there were more similarities between those years in Girl Scouts and Breaking Bad than I care to admit.
I am the one who knocks.
Girl Scouts was my first attempt in trying to sell anything to anyone. And although I would be pulled out of the scouts – and the public school system – during that last Cookie Season, it wouldn’t be for naught.
After three years of the inevitable hell many of us know as middle school, the folks enrolled me in high school. More specifically, an all-girls Catholic high school. Note: I am not Catholic. But it wasn’t that hard to adjust to the new digs. For one, even when I was in a co-ed environment, boys didn’t pay me any mind. Two, the uniform – which harkened back to those Girl Scout days, if not in just a different shade of skirt.
The skirt was made of wool. Steel wool.
Catholic school introduced me to a whole new season: Night In Blue Season. Night In Blue was the school’s annual fundraiser, a night of gambling masked in a sheer layer of carnival. Every year, a local auto vendor donated a car to the school – and at the end of the Night In Blue festivities, the car would be raffled off to a lucky ticketholder. Those tickets were, as you might imagine, sold for months prior to the event by the cheap labor known as the Catholic school’s student body.
Let it be known that the Jehovah’s Witnesses and Scientologists are not the only religious folks going door-to-door looking for money and converts. For four years, I embraced the Night In Blue raffle ticket sales as if it was for my own religion. There was a sense of ill-placed pride in being superior to my peers. Plus, if you sold the winning raffle ticket, you got $500. Not bad for a kid whose parents didn’t allow her to get an outside job.
Alright, I’ll just come out and say it: I got real cocky senior year (and no, that’s not a pun: boys still didn’t know I existed). The nuns instilled a sense of graduating-class warfare in us, and our seniors were going to go out on top as the big sellers in the school fundraiser. My personal sacrifice for the cause? I would go to that one taupe house I had dreaded to approach each year prior.
I knew nothing about the folks who lived inside this house. From the outside, it looked like any other four-walled complex with that infamous siding. But on the inside, that’s where rumor and legend lived. No one knew who – or what – was inside. But I was going to find out.
Surprisingly enough, the doorbell rang in a bright chime – not the giant gong or blood-curdling scream I expected. A tall man in his mid-to-late 70s opened the door. Squinting, he peered down at me through the mesh screen. I explained myself, gave him my standard pitch, and desperately hoped he didn’t have a weird sexual obsession with barely-legal Catholic School girls.
The tickets were a dollar a piece, a pack of six for five dollars. Most people bought one pack at best.
This guy bought 8 packs.
On the plus side, this was $40 in my pocket, a big win for the senior class. On the other side, this meant I would be stuck with Boo Radley for at least 20 minutes. We had to fill out every single ticket with his name and contact information in case he won and, god willing, was not present for the drawing.
As we sat on his front stoop and filled out the info, he regaled me with tales of his youth, his nieces and nephews, and how much he loved to visit famed Cleveland weatherman and resident old codger Dick Goddard’s Woolybear Festival in Vermilion, Ohio. Hey, this guy wasn’t so bad after all!
Mid-story, a giant wolfhound bolts to the door and a middle-aged man in a suit approaches us. “Jesus Christ dad, again? LET THE GIRL GO.”
What was that tone about? Had this happened before? And more pressingly, was some bitch selling tickets on my route?
Confused, I looked down to we still had five whole packs to fill out. The man picked them up and looked me straight in the eye. His jovial storytelling pitch morphed into a deep, dark tone the Green River Killer must have used before he killed all those prostitutes.
“Listen,” he growled. “I’m going to fill out the tops of these. Can you copy my information on the rest?”
He finished writing out his information on the top of the last pack and turned to me. I thought I was scared, but I was clearly not aware of the depths to which a person can truly be terrified, because just as I was getting up to go, he tugged at my arm.
“If you don’t, I will come to your house. I will kill your parents, burn your house down and — do you have a pet?”
“I will kill your cats.”
There were no words. I grabbed the tickets and the money, and bolted home to change out of my skirt and take a cold shower.
That was the last day I sold anything door-to-door. Yet every Girl Scout Cookie Season, I can’t help but think about those girls who face the Boo Radleys to bring me a whole season’s worth of chocolate, minty goodness.
“Amps To 11″ is about jamz. That’s right – jamz with a ‘z.’ All music is featured in the Streampad below. Be sure to keep the page open to hear the tracks in full, and then immediately purchase said songs from a legit retailer.
Streaming is rad. Stealing is wack. Don’t be wack.
Ahoy hoy, commodores of new wave(s)! Today, I’m featuring a current staple on the workout playlist, Cayucas.
What, Wes Anderson? You’re in? Bring Bill Murray.
Cayucas – “High School Lover”
This Santa Monica-based outfit is exactly what you would expect from four guys raised on Grizzly Bear and Instagram. They’re riding-and-dying in the name of Hipsterdom, and I kind of love them for it. I mean, come on, their old name was “Oregon Bike Trails.” Now, I’m ‘in’ on both Oregon and bike trails, but can you imagine trying to Google-search that? Hashtag, nightmare!
(Come on, “Oregon Bike Trails” – As far as making hipster jokes go, I can get into the Baseball Hall of Fame with softballs like that!)
The band recently changed its name, which they explain as:
Cayucas: Pronounced “ky-yook-us”, is the monikered homage to a sleepy little seaside town in San Luis Obispo County, California. That town, Cayucos, has hardly changed in the last 50 years, a far cry from the gentrified tourist traps parading showily down the nearby coastline. In the early 1960s, the surfing craze hit. There was one bar around which local kids congregated back then, the site of helpless crushes and fights and games of pool, a place whose jukebox soundtracked innumerable teenage years as breezy summers rolled into mild winters and back around again. The bar has since disappeared, but as Zach Yudin, the man behind the name, will tell you, the place still holds on tight to its propensity for dreamy, lazy, bonfire-lit nights worth getting moony-eyed about.
Cayucas is currently opening for Ra Ra Riot on their west coast tour and is poised to break it big in 2013. They’re releasing their debut album Bigfoot on April 30 –
Guys, I just can’t. THEY’RE SO HIPSTER! So much so that they made their album synonymous with the same questionably-fictional being that has leant his (her?) likeness to the thick-rimmed glasses convention/desert-situated music fest outside of Seattle.
If you need any further proof that they bleed hipster, Cayucas’ debut album was produced by Richard Swift, who you may know from The Shins. Need I say more?
I joke, but I still can’t get enough of their song “High School Lover,” written about a girl who sends creepy letters. It’s got a solid, steady beat — an essential for any urban track champion like yours truly. And hey, it’s better to be distracted by hipsters than get paranoid about the bum who’s decided to join you in your negative-split repeats.
Is your workout playlist in shape? Any new picks I should be adding in?
Message me in the comments below, and be sure to check out a few more songs I’ve added to the Streampad bar at the bottom of the page (hint: you’re welcome).
A teacher once wrote in my grade school yearbook, “You see the world sideways.” For a second, don’t judge why I had a teacher, Public School Enemy #1, sign my book. Everyone was doing it, and that teacher was particularly rad. Rad enough to leave a note so memorable that it stuck with me longer than any Tamagotchi pet I cared for for at least 2-3 hours a day during that era.
I’ve always taken pride in the idea of seeing the world sideways. But there are those few moments that even I have to do a double-take and think where in the hell did that thought come from?
Being on one of Hollywood’s main streets, my office has its fair share of visits from local food trucks. One of our more common visitors is the Lobsta truck, serving up minuscule shreds of what was once a lobster, now a vehicle for slabs of butter that will inevitably clog each and every ventricle by the time I’m 30. Needless to say, it’s a favorite.
You KNOW I’m going to take some red sharpies to my car’s grill when I get home.
Every time I walk past this truck, my brain immediately makes a connection that baffles me every time. Once I see it, I think of Sean Connery in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. There is no reason for this, other than that my Sean Connery impression is limited to conversations about lobsters. Or I should say, LOBSCHTAS, JOONYAH.
Cahn you put some bisque in mah grail, sonnie?
There is neither rhyme nor reason for this, except to think that perhaps this is one of those moments that one teacher was talking about. Or maybe I just really want to see Last Crusade again.
Part of me wants to think I’m not just pulling this from the ether, that there is a logical reason behind The Connery-Lobster Affair. I’ve whittled away a fair list of potential ways in which the connection between these two things is rightfully justified:
Connery was named Sexiest Man of the Century at age 69. Before sex, men woo women with LOBSTER.
Annual trawl surveys by NOAA Fisheries made from the mid-Atlantic bight to downeast Maine show a much increased population of lobsters in the 1960s, lasting until the early 1970s. Hey, isn’t that the same time Connery was James Bond, a man who probably fancied LOBSTER?
Kat here. You know, the one who asked you weeks ago about parking my bike in the building. It’s easy enough to do it without your blessing, but I thought it would be courteous to arrange it with you first.
There are a few questions I’ve been meaning to bring up for quite some time.
Why does the air conditioning shut off at 6 PM, despite the fact we work until 7 or later, and with an Auschwitz-esque hiss to boot?
Why do you constantly whore out our building (and its parking) to films and TV shows?
Why do you pump never-ending blues music through the halls? When I’m having a great day, I can be rest assured it will be accented by a solemn man and steel guitar track, “I Hope The Lord Loves Me Enough To Let Me Die In My Sleep.”
Despite all this, I have to give you props. Every few weeks, you give us a little sliver of the past by putting old photographs in the elevator cases. I know this is to hide the fact that they have not been properly checked in over four years, but it’s worth it to see gems like this.
I hope the Lord loves me enough to not let me die in this elevator.
Thank you for letting me start my day with Bowie.
I’m still waiting for an answer about that bike parking.
It’s time for the “Big Game.” You know, the “Super Event.” YOU KNOW, “Going to Mom’s Quilt Shop, which happens to be located in New Orleans this year.”
Aw, screw it. Let’s just call it what it is: The Super Bowl.
I’ve always been a big sports fan. I grew up with the mid/late-90s Cleveland Indians, the Lebron-era Cavs, and the… well, the nonexistent Cleveland Browns. Remember when Art Modell sold our team? That was pretty sweet. Turns out the only thing that plays worse than the Cleveland Browns is a team that doesn’t even take the field.
If your team isn’t in it and you don’t enjoy the idea of celebrating commercials which may or may not have underlying subtext and subversive messages, the Super Bowl might not be your cup of tea — and that’s ok! If you’re a straight dude who doesn’t like sports, you’ve got the Lingerie Bowl. If you’re a girl, there’s the Puppy Bowl. And if you’re a gay guy, you’ve got a three-hour window during which you can bone someone while your roommate’s distracted. Go to town!
If you aren’t into any of these options, there are some other standouts that might fit your fancy and perk up your tight end:
You might want to go get that spare change of pants now.
So you say you’re into Beyonce, but don’t want to watch that awful opening act many of us call football? That’s alright, Palladia has you covered. They’re showing her full …I Am Yours concert.
Speaking of single ladies, why not tune in to the Hallmark Channel, where they’re running a marathon of one of the best lady-shows to ever air. WHO DO YOU THINK THE KILLER IS?!
In her younger years, Jessica Fletcher held things down on the offensive line.
Not into lady-dramas? That’s OK. The History Channel has turned to their strengths, combining them into one show that is piquing everyone’s interest:
From the same folks who brought you “Dog President.”
Some channels are even making up history to gain your viewership!
Indy takes on his most generic adventure yet.
And then there’s this, a marathon of shows called “Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.” It seems appropriate, sure, but take a look at the network.
“My coming out party did NOT include this!”
Even the gays are getting into football! If this isn’t enough to question Logo’s programming choices, I don’t know what to say. All I know is, there must be at least one guy in West Hollywood who’s watching this and thinking about staging a “coming back in” party — with an ice-cream cake already on hold.
With all of these options, what am I watching?
I’m watching a fantasy/comedy film about a team from Cleveland that actually wins.