An Northwest indie rock invasion in the late June desert? Yes, please.
Rogue Wave and Helio Sequence – both made up of kooky popsters with way too much talent – each put together tremendous sets Tuesday.
Both defy description a bit too, though neither is particularly groundbreaking. But sometimes indie excellence lies more in making a stew of various influences than stepping out on your own.
For the Rogue Wave, think a bit of the Shins, but more straightforward rock most times.
For Helio Sequence? Well, the Modest Mouse sound is definitely there a bit, but the harmonica wailing and feedback guitar brings in some Neil Young elements.
Regardless, both bands should be doing a lot better than a 100-person draw, even in the middle-of-the-week, middle-of-the-summer Tucson. Oh, and they will. Just thank me when you go check them out.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
2005.5
Six months down, six to go. How’s 2005 shaping up? Well, decent, I ‘spose.
Why are half years never subjected to the same sort of reflection reserved for the full year? Or even half as much?
Screw it. Catfish Vegas presents… presents 2005.5, the best of the year so far, a collection of movies, music, personal experiences and nonsense that has kicked ass.
Okkervil River has far and away put out the best album so far this year. “Black Sheep Boy,” is all sorts of crazy awesome. It rocks harder and swoops slower than any of their previous efforts. And in the concert category, their March show is also among the best.
Shows in general have been a high point for the half year: Okkervil, Luna, Crooked Fingers, Clem Snide, Steve Earle, Wilco, Calexico, Neko Case, Social Distortion and more.
Other albums that are sure to be on the end of the year bests: Bruce Springsteen, Crooked Fingers, Clem Snide, Beck, Mike Doughty and Bright Eyes (also, I’m sure, the Decemberists, White Stripes and Spoon, though I’ll have to hear ‘em first).
I can only recommend outright three movies so far this year: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Sin City and Crash. I’ll throw in Star Wars for the nostalgia. Still on the list to see are Batman and Land of the Dead.
And in the Catfish arena, how ‘bout camping, trips North and Midwest, time at the ballpark, promotion and refuge. And then there’s all the mess: SKC and time wasting for the most part.
And nonsense? Nothing else has quite so nearly defined this half year. DJJ alone has stretched absurdity farther than I’d have guessed.
Props to the Ponderosa pine tree.
And in closing, here’s a New Half Year’s Resolution (in the immortal words of Freaktown): Henceforth, I will kick ass.
Why are half years never subjected to the same sort of reflection reserved for the full year? Or even half as much?
Screw it. Catfish Vegas presents… presents 2005.5, the best of the year so far, a collection of movies, music, personal experiences and nonsense that has kicked ass.
Okkervil River has far and away put out the best album so far this year. “Black Sheep Boy,” is all sorts of crazy awesome. It rocks harder and swoops slower than any of their previous efforts. And in the concert category, their March show is also among the best.
Shows in general have been a high point for the half year: Okkervil, Luna, Crooked Fingers, Clem Snide, Steve Earle, Wilco, Calexico, Neko Case, Social Distortion and more.
Other albums that are sure to be on the end of the year bests: Bruce Springsteen, Crooked Fingers, Clem Snide, Beck, Mike Doughty and Bright Eyes (also, I’m sure, the Decemberists, White Stripes and Spoon, though I’ll have to hear ‘em first).
I can only recommend outright three movies so far this year: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Sin City and Crash. I’ll throw in Star Wars for the nostalgia. Still on the list to see are Batman and Land of the Dead.
And in the Catfish arena, how ‘bout camping, trips North and Midwest, time at the ballpark, promotion and refuge. And then there’s all the mess: SKC and time wasting for the most part.
And nonsense? Nothing else has quite so nearly defined this half year. DJJ alone has stretched absurdity farther than I’d have guessed.
Props to the Ponderosa pine tree.
And in closing, here’s a New Half Year’s Resolution (in the immortal words of Freaktown): Henceforth, I will kick ass.
Monday, June 27, 2005
June
June’s gots its ups and its downs.
I had a stint in the Midwest and a stint up North, re-embracing roots I know and exploring ones I’d only just met.
I’ve seen the Doctor; he’s pretty much the same as ever. But the General and Chair are at crossroads so large there are double left turn lanes each way and buttons to signal the flashing cross signs.
June is a time when eras start and stop, trading the baton like sprinters in a 4X100.
It’s a full month, stuffed with moments of reflection, each coming just a bit too late to really matter.
It’s watching those around you prepare for their own transitions – the drives, the jobs, the semesters, the loves.
June is more acute than its twin July – more immediate, harder around the edges.
It’s strange that June follows May; no other successor varies so wildly from its predecessor.
June contains not only the year’s longest day, but the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, etc. But the revelations occur at night, in those short hours when Today means the absolute most, suspended in perfect balance between Yesterday and Tomorrow.
June so wants to be eternal.
June has given moments of the most pure relaxation I’ve had in ages and June has extracted high hopes in exchange.
June’s the total package, the one-stop shop.
It’s a yin embedded with its own yang, a bit rough for those who prefer their shampoo and their conditioner to come from separate bottles.
June never needed warming up and it certainly doesn’t plan on slowing down. In the winter days vanish, sneakily waltzing out the door while you’ve got your nose in a book, But in June the days whiz by, completely in the open but blurred as highway stripes.
If you have to ask, you don’t understand June. And if you’ve come to understand June, too damn bad because you can bet it’s already July.
I had a stint in the Midwest and a stint up North, re-embracing roots I know and exploring ones I’d only just met.
I’ve seen the Doctor; he’s pretty much the same as ever. But the General and Chair are at crossroads so large there are double left turn lanes each way and buttons to signal the flashing cross signs.
June is a time when eras start and stop, trading the baton like sprinters in a 4X100.
It’s a full month, stuffed with moments of reflection, each coming just a bit too late to really matter.
It’s watching those around you prepare for their own transitions – the drives, the jobs, the semesters, the loves.
June is more acute than its twin July – more immediate, harder around the edges.
It’s strange that June follows May; no other successor varies so wildly from its predecessor.
June contains not only the year’s longest day, but the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, etc. But the revelations occur at night, in those short hours when Today means the absolute most, suspended in perfect balance between Yesterday and Tomorrow.
June so wants to be eternal.
June has given moments of the most pure relaxation I’ve had in ages and June has extracted high hopes in exchange.
June’s the total package, the one-stop shop.
It’s a yin embedded with its own yang, a bit rough for those who prefer their shampoo and their conditioner to come from separate bottles.
June never needed warming up and it certainly doesn’t plan on slowing down. In the winter days vanish, sneakily waltzing out the door while you’ve got your nose in a book, But in June the days whiz by, completely in the open but blurred as highway stripes.
If you have to ask, you don’t understand June. And if you’ve come to understand June, too damn bad because you can bet it’s already July.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Looking for Harry Belafonte
These are crazy days. The Nest is occupied. One of the Filthies has lost his mind, while the other one is pushing full steam ahead on destroying what’s left of his.
I’ve endured several hair interventions lately, as well as a couple dealing with problems of a more existential nature.
I had a dream the other night that I finally submitted to a haircut, only to have the friend who offered styling help leave halfway through the job to write a paper for school. It’s alright, I told everybody at the bar, I’m getting the haircut finished tomorrow.
I’m testing my research skills out with the King County Superior Court, re-emergences are everywhere and tomorrow it’ll be 100 degrees in the Ol’ Pueblo.
The other night, Mr. Chair told me about how it was funny we couldn’t find Harry Belafonte the previous evening. What? I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. We both knew we were talking about a cd, but the General was far more confused, wondering why we had been searching the house for an elderly black man.
But I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. Turns out Chair dreamed it. Just ponder for a moment what that dream really means.
I’ve endured several hair interventions lately, as well as a couple dealing with problems of a more existential nature.
I had a dream the other night that I finally submitted to a haircut, only to have the friend who offered styling help leave halfway through the job to write a paper for school. It’s alright, I told everybody at the bar, I’m getting the haircut finished tomorrow.
I’m testing my research skills out with the King County Superior Court, re-emergences are everywhere and tomorrow it’ll be 100 degrees in the Ol’ Pueblo.
The other night, Mr. Chair told me about how it was funny we couldn’t find Harry Belafonte the previous evening. What? I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. We both knew we were talking about a cd, but the General was far more confused, wondering why we had been searching the house for an elderly black man.
But I didn’t remember looking for Harry Belafonte. Turns out Chair dreamed it. Just ponder for a moment what that dream really means.
Whirlwind & Refuge
Here's the new mix:
Whirlwind & Refuge
Okkervil River – For Real
Clem Snide – End of Love
Crooked Fingers – Big Darkness
Mike Doughty – Long Black American Car
Wilco – Not for the Season
Bruce Springsteen – Long Time Comin’
Paul Westerberg – As Far as I Know
Drakes – Bunny
Neko Case – The Virginian
Flatlanders – Tonight I’m Gonna Go Downtown
Bob Dylan – I Shall Be Released
Richard Buckner – Straight
My Morning Jacket – Mahgeetah
Sun Kil Moon – Carry Me Ohio
Thrills – Santa Cruz
Bright Eyes – At the Bottom of Everything
Superchunk – Shallow End
Mathematicians – Subtract My Life
Whirlwind & Refuge
Okkervil River – For Real
Clem Snide – End of Love
Crooked Fingers – Big Darkness
Mike Doughty – Long Black American Car
Wilco – Not for the Season
Bruce Springsteen – Long Time Comin’
Paul Westerberg – As Far as I Know
Drakes – Bunny
Neko Case – The Virginian
Flatlanders – Tonight I’m Gonna Go Downtown
Bob Dylan – I Shall Be Released
Richard Buckner – Straight
My Morning Jacket – Mahgeetah
Sun Kil Moon – Carry Me Ohio
Thrills – Santa Cruz
Bright Eyes – At the Bottom of Everything
Superchunk – Shallow End
Mathematicians – Subtract My Life
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Refuge
Three years ago, I took in a lost soul. An old Little League buddy turned spiritual advisor walked through tragedy and turmoil back to the desert. The desert welcomed him readily, eventually giving him a gorgeous blonde and a healer’s job. And I gave him my couch. So began the 505’s endeavor to become Zion, a Refuge for the weary and heartbroken, the contrite and perhaps even the prodigal.
In the hierarchy of karma, running a Refuge must at least place a person at the lieutenant level. Comfort, ears, beers and a place to toss a suitcase are what I have to give. And not everybody will, I’m sure. But anyone who is in my vast and intricate memory of great days and notable experiences is guaranteed at least as much.
After housing Freaktown for several months, I hit the road, bunking on couches, floors and actual guest beds for more than two months. My hair grew long and my beard reached what most thought was an uncouth shagginess, what I saw as a symbol of complete freedom.
I embraced the West, as much of it as I could, sharing late nights with old friends and strong drink. Along the way I read Lord of the Rings, and began thinking of myself and my journey in Middle Earth terms. I was a traveler from the Great Southern Desert, on my way north to kin and allies, defeating peril along the way.
I had nearly entire days of open highway, on winding roads through ancient mythical forests (the Redwoods) and wide Interstates across vast wastelands (that part would be Wyoming). I slept in great cities, walked great streets through tall buildings and absorbed more of the world in a shorter time than I’d ever before or since.
And now, I’m again running a Refuge, in the same place. Tragedy and heartbreak has sent one and soon another of my best friends couch-ward. I’m grateful for the company, glad to offer the shelter and broken to pieces at its necessity.
But Refuge is part of life, sometimes a large part, sometimes as big a part as Adventure, Achievement and Love.
My guests have lives with no maps, and theirs is a perspective that is oddly compelling. In no way do they measure future in 40-hour blocks and they do not need to change out of work clothes at any point in the day. Their minds are solving problems, large great ones that despite the pain open doors all over, strange magical doors in places nobody has ever thought of as a way to go.
In the hierarchy of karma, running a Refuge must at least place a person at the lieutenant level. Comfort, ears, beers and a place to toss a suitcase are what I have to give. And not everybody will, I’m sure. But anyone who is in my vast and intricate memory of great days and notable experiences is guaranteed at least as much.
After housing Freaktown for several months, I hit the road, bunking on couches, floors and actual guest beds for more than two months. My hair grew long and my beard reached what most thought was an uncouth shagginess, what I saw as a symbol of complete freedom.
I embraced the West, as much of it as I could, sharing late nights with old friends and strong drink. Along the way I read Lord of the Rings, and began thinking of myself and my journey in Middle Earth terms. I was a traveler from the Great Southern Desert, on my way north to kin and allies, defeating peril along the way.
I had nearly entire days of open highway, on winding roads through ancient mythical forests (the Redwoods) and wide Interstates across vast wastelands (that part would be Wyoming). I slept in great cities, walked great streets through tall buildings and absorbed more of the world in a shorter time than I’d ever before or since.
And now, I’m again running a Refuge, in the same place. Tragedy and heartbreak has sent one and soon another of my best friends couch-ward. I’m grateful for the company, glad to offer the shelter and broken to pieces at its necessity.
But Refuge is part of life, sometimes a large part, sometimes as big a part as Adventure, Achievement and Love.
My guests have lives with no maps, and theirs is a perspective that is oddly compelling. In no way do they measure future in 40-hour blocks and they do not need to change out of work clothes at any point in the day. Their minds are solving problems, large great ones that despite the pain open doors all over, strange magical doors in places nobody has ever thought of as a way to go.
Whirlwind
Out-of-town work excursions should always be so damn awesome. Last Tuesday I jetted to the Unholy Valley of the Sun, met up with the Factor and jetted for the scuzziest nightlife we could find in a strip mall.
Wednesday after working I hit the road for the Great North to see Wilco at Flagstaff’s Orpheum, a make up for the previous year’s rehab-based cancellation. (It’s more than a minor sore point that another of last year’s rehab-cancelled shows at our fair Rialto was not also rescheduled.)
I met up with Stu LeBlanc and the Short People at Flag Brew for dinner and then into line, where Stu told of strange end-of-days prophesy and mentioned something about 90 percent of the universe’s matter being mission.
The show was incredible, as were the two I caught in November. For having gone more than seven years since the first time I saw Wilco, I sure as hell made up some shows in a hurry.
I’ll reiterate now the fact that Wilco is without question the best band playing these days, both in terms of studio records, live shows and general commitment to the independent spirit and power of rock ‘n’ roll. Each album is awesome, each in its own sense groundbreaking and I’m sure they’ll continue putting out quality material if for no other reason than Jeff Tweedy’s writing just keeps getting better.
The show leaned heavy on The Ghost is Born and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, but we got a treat of two Mermaid Avenue 2 songs. Tweedy seemed a bit peeved, hurling his guitar at an amp before one encore and he appeared to steal someone’s camera. It kinda upset me that people kept taking flash pictures during the show, despite firm warning against such practice at the door and somewhat diligent security. I had my digicam in my pocked by forgetfulness more than anything, but didn’t touch it. I’d never flash a band and I know the quality of low light photography anyway. But Tweedy appeared to lean forward and motion for some front row person’s camera, and I swear I saw him walk off stage with it. Anyway.
Back to the Valley and the hospitality of the Factor and one down to Tempe Thursday morn.
Afterwards, I reassembled the Factor, the Short People and threw in Mr. Chair and we crossed the River to the Marquee, to see Calexico and Neko Case. Incredible once again. Neko Case blew me away with singing and hotness and Calexico brought out the full mariachi band, which I hadn’t seen in ages. If Wilco is the best band playing these days, Calexico is an infinitely close second, again in terms of both recordings and live performances. And Calexico has the oddly additive quality of being more or less a studio backing band as well. They do make everybody better, including Neko Case.
Another brilliant night, then back to sleep, back to Tempe, then back to Tucson to finish up the week’s work.
And what did Friday hold? Only the SICK Festival (Southwestern Intergalactic Comedy Kermis). The Secret Show opened with a short but really good set, Darwin disappointed, New Kevin was super wacky, Comedy Corner had a great Hell-themed cycle of sketches that included the grossest Scooby Dooby joke I’ve ever heard, and Demitri Martin had so many damn jokes I keep remembering them one by one ever since.
Only two frustrating text messages marred the night, which continued after the festival with the usual party and eventually I concluded what had turned into a rather confusing 22-hour day.
Not to be outdone, Saturday continued rocking. Caught the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, then went Downtown for a Secret Show special, which concluded with a bit about alligators I so helpfully suggested.
Then back to the house for a great party – friends from long ago, bellies full of laughs and a groundbreaking adventure for at least one of the housemates.
On top of everything, over the last few days I’ve spoken to two long-lost friends and seem to be parting ways with other company.
And talking in vague terms. A lot.
Wednesday after working I hit the road for the Great North to see Wilco at Flagstaff’s Orpheum, a make up for the previous year’s rehab-based cancellation. (It’s more than a minor sore point that another of last year’s rehab-cancelled shows at our fair Rialto was not also rescheduled.)
I met up with Stu LeBlanc and the Short People at Flag Brew for dinner and then into line, where Stu told of strange end-of-days prophesy and mentioned something about 90 percent of the universe’s matter being mission.
The show was incredible, as were the two I caught in November. For having gone more than seven years since the first time I saw Wilco, I sure as hell made up some shows in a hurry.
I’ll reiterate now the fact that Wilco is without question the best band playing these days, both in terms of studio records, live shows and general commitment to the independent spirit and power of rock ‘n’ roll. Each album is awesome, each in its own sense groundbreaking and I’m sure they’ll continue putting out quality material if for no other reason than Jeff Tweedy’s writing just keeps getting better.
The show leaned heavy on The Ghost is Born and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, but we got a treat of two Mermaid Avenue 2 songs. Tweedy seemed a bit peeved, hurling his guitar at an amp before one encore and he appeared to steal someone’s camera. It kinda upset me that people kept taking flash pictures during the show, despite firm warning against such practice at the door and somewhat diligent security. I had my digicam in my pocked by forgetfulness more than anything, but didn’t touch it. I’d never flash a band and I know the quality of low light photography anyway. But Tweedy appeared to lean forward and motion for some front row person’s camera, and I swear I saw him walk off stage with it. Anyway.
Back to the Valley and the hospitality of the Factor and one down to Tempe Thursday morn.
Afterwards, I reassembled the Factor, the Short People and threw in Mr. Chair and we crossed the River to the Marquee, to see Calexico and Neko Case. Incredible once again. Neko Case blew me away with singing and hotness and Calexico brought out the full mariachi band, which I hadn’t seen in ages. If Wilco is the best band playing these days, Calexico is an infinitely close second, again in terms of both recordings and live performances. And Calexico has the oddly additive quality of being more or less a studio backing band as well. They do make everybody better, including Neko Case.
Another brilliant night, then back to sleep, back to Tempe, then back to Tucson to finish up the week’s work.
And what did Friday hold? Only the SICK Festival (Southwestern Intergalactic Comedy Kermis). The Secret Show opened with a short but really good set, Darwin disappointed, New Kevin was super wacky, Comedy Corner had a great Hell-themed cycle of sketches that included the grossest Scooby Dooby joke I’ve ever heard, and Demitri Martin had so many damn jokes I keep remembering them one by one ever since.
Only two frustrating text messages marred the night, which continued after the festival with the usual party and eventually I concluded what had turned into a rather confusing 22-hour day.
Not to be outdone, Saturday continued rocking. Caught the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, then went Downtown for a Secret Show special, which concluded with a bit about alligators I so helpfully suggested.
Then back to the house for a great party – friends from long ago, bellies full of laughs and a groundbreaking adventure for at least one of the housemates.
On top of everything, over the last few days I’ve spoken to two long-lost friends and seem to be parting ways with other company.
And talking in vague terms. A lot.
Blessed
Luna
Steve Earle
Okkervil River
Robyn Hitchcock
Social Distortion
Stars
M Ward
Clem Snide
Crooked Fingers
Mathematicians
Wilco
Calexico
Neko Case
And several nights of amazing local music – all since February.
Steve Earle
Okkervil River
Robyn Hitchcock
Social Distortion
Stars
M Ward
Clem Snide
Crooked Fingers
Mathematicians
Wilco
Calexico
Neko Case
And several nights of amazing local music – all since February.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
April
April is a strange month.
It's a windy bunch of nonsense, punctuated by the first real actual heat of the year. It's coated in wildflowers and promise of wildfires. April is when people change times for reasons that still escape me. April is a curious mix of things coming to a close and things just starting. April is opening day and playoff runs. April is when politics get wacky and when the dead become famous for the wrong reasons.
April is a spotlight nobody can dodge. April is a musical explosion. April as a first name makes more sense than April as a month. It's all about looking to the future, getting lost in what might actually matter.
April is a strange month, senses choked off.
It's bright mornings and empty evenings. People run, from old lives and new ones. April's just a half a cup of coffee, not enough to do anything but still rich tasting.
April. I'll mark another year soon, not that I really care to.
If January is wheel-spinning, April is bald tires and a reckless driver.
April may eventually get somewhere, but there's never any telling.
It's a windy bunch of nonsense, punctuated by the first real actual heat of the year. It's coated in wildflowers and promise of wildfires. April is when people change times for reasons that still escape me. April is a curious mix of things coming to a close and things just starting. April is opening day and playoff runs. April is when politics get wacky and when the dead become famous for the wrong reasons.
April is a spotlight nobody can dodge. April is a musical explosion. April as a first name makes more sense than April as a month. It's all about looking to the future, getting lost in what might actually matter.
April is a strange month, senses choked off.
It's bright mornings and empty evenings. People run, from old lives and new ones. April's just a half a cup of coffee, not enough to do anything but still rich tasting.
April. I'll mark another year soon, not that I really care to.
If January is wheel-spinning, April is bald tires and a reckless driver.
April may eventually get somewhere, but there's never any telling.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Firefighting ain't my game...
But it's sure fun to give it a shot.
I spent eight hours Friday in a modified firefighter academy, learning more about fire behavior and incident command than I ever have before and getting all suited up, oxygen included, and shoved in a 450 degree room. Fun stuff.
The first of the drills we went through is called the maze. You get all suited up in turnouts, boots, helmet and go "on air," ride an elevator to the third floor of the training tower, and exit into a pitch-black, debris-strewn room, filled with simulated smoke. It's such a shock to start breathing through a mask, but there wasn't any time to think about that. I had to hit the ground, crawl around (always to the right first), find a fire hose and follow it as it snaked through the room. And the hose goes two ways: to the nozzle (into the fire) and to the engine (away from the fire). Oops. I chose one way and crawled through, over and under a bunch of crap to the nozzle. Turn around. Back over the same 15 feet or so, which wasn't any easier, then into new uncharted territory. I got stuck once on my airpack, flat on my stomach, couldn't move either way for a second, nearly panicking. You have almost no sensory ability there - no sight, touch is muffled by gloves and the rest of the suit, all I could hear was my own breathing (which nearly induced panic several times). The only thing I had was thought process (which wasn't working all that well either): breathe, go slow, crawl, follow the hose, get the fuck out of there. The training captains cheated for us a bit, shining a flashlight toward the right path a couple of times and tapping my shoulder when I got stuck. Damn, what an experience.
Next was the "flash over" prop. It's basically a box-car looking metal box, one end set up about five feet above the other end. In there they light a fire, and you sit on the other side, well below "floor level," the only way anybody could surivive the damn thing, even in full firefighting gear. Then you wait, watching the fire getting bigger and hotter until the entire place is pitch black with smoke. There's a raging fire not 20 feet away, but flames aren't remotely visible. Then the fire gets hotter and hotter, until it "rolls over," the smoke gases swirling in on each other until the fire shoots back across the entire ceiling, right over your head. But you still can't see it for the smoke, only feel the heat bearing down in you. Then fire training captain doused the fire a bit to cool it down so it could built back up for another rollover. Again and again. Twenty minutes in this near dark chamber, 400 degrees, breathing oxygen through a mask wondering if there's any smoke getting in through a little crack. At the end the smoke had cleared enough that I could actually see the fire rolling over my head, thick dark fire that looked more like waves than flames. Incredible. The drill is to show firefighters what a rollover looks like, to teach them that any signs of such means to get the fuck right out of there, because next is a flashover, when the fire is so hot that anything in the room just simply combusts in a floor-to-ceiling wall of flames.
Next was the Dragon, a natural gas and diesel fire that reached 30 feet into the air. This was the only bit that was specifically different than actual firefighter training (save a modification or two). Three firefighters start walking toward the blaze, two holding fire hoses on a fog sream, a strong, misty spray spread as wide as possible. The streams basically act as a shield, letting the firefighters walk up right to the gas pipe and shut it off. We trailed in behind them, helping to carry the hoses on retreat. It's amazing, the fire is hotter for those standing around the perimeter than it is right up inside, just because of the water shield.
There's no way to describe the feeling of depending on this hose to put oxygen into a mask so I could breathe. After a while I just continually breathed because it was the only way I could be sure I was actually doing so. A long, slow breath in, then a long slow breath out, then again, no pause in between.
That was it for an exhausting day, a series of strange experiences, robbed of sight, thrust into intense heat and forced to function without having much of a clue of what surrounded me.
I spent eight hours Friday in a modified firefighter academy, learning more about fire behavior and incident command than I ever have before and getting all suited up, oxygen included, and shoved in a 450 degree room. Fun stuff.
The first of the drills we went through is called the maze. You get all suited up in turnouts, boots, helmet and go "on air," ride an elevator to the third floor of the training tower, and exit into a pitch-black, debris-strewn room, filled with simulated smoke. It's such a shock to start breathing through a mask, but there wasn't any time to think about that. I had to hit the ground, crawl around (always to the right first), find a fire hose and follow it as it snaked through the room. And the hose goes two ways: to the nozzle (into the fire) and to the engine (away from the fire). Oops. I chose one way and crawled through, over and under a bunch of crap to the nozzle. Turn around. Back over the same 15 feet or so, which wasn't any easier, then into new uncharted territory. I got stuck once on my airpack, flat on my stomach, couldn't move either way for a second, nearly panicking. You have almost no sensory ability there - no sight, touch is muffled by gloves and the rest of the suit, all I could hear was my own breathing (which nearly induced panic several times). The only thing I had was thought process (which wasn't working all that well either): breathe, go slow, crawl, follow the hose, get the fuck out of there. The training captains cheated for us a bit, shining a flashlight toward the right path a couple of times and tapping my shoulder when I got stuck. Damn, what an experience.
Next was the "flash over" prop. It's basically a box-car looking metal box, one end set up about five feet above the other end. In there they light a fire, and you sit on the other side, well below "floor level," the only way anybody could surivive the damn thing, even in full firefighting gear. Then you wait, watching the fire getting bigger and hotter until the entire place is pitch black with smoke. There's a raging fire not 20 feet away, but flames aren't remotely visible. Then the fire gets hotter and hotter, until it "rolls over," the smoke gases swirling in on each other until the fire shoots back across the entire ceiling, right over your head. But you still can't see it for the smoke, only feel the heat bearing down in you. Then fire training captain doused the fire a bit to cool it down so it could built back up for another rollover. Again and again. Twenty minutes in this near dark chamber, 400 degrees, breathing oxygen through a mask wondering if there's any smoke getting in through a little crack. At the end the smoke had cleared enough that I could actually see the fire rolling over my head, thick dark fire that looked more like waves than flames. Incredible. The drill is to show firefighters what a rollover looks like, to teach them that any signs of such means to get the fuck right out of there, because next is a flashover, when the fire is so hot that anything in the room just simply combusts in a floor-to-ceiling wall of flames.
Next was the Dragon, a natural gas and diesel fire that reached 30 feet into the air. This was the only bit that was specifically different than actual firefighter training (save a modification or two). Three firefighters start walking toward the blaze, two holding fire hoses on a fog sream, a strong, misty spray spread as wide as possible. The streams basically act as a shield, letting the firefighters walk up right to the gas pipe and shut it off. We trailed in behind them, helping to carry the hoses on retreat. It's amazing, the fire is hotter for those standing around the perimeter than it is right up inside, just because of the water shield.
There's no way to describe the feeling of depending on this hose to put oxygen into a mask so I could breathe. After a while I just continually breathed because it was the only way I could be sure I was actually doing so. A long, slow breath in, then a long slow breath out, then again, no pause in between.
That was it for an exhausting day, a series of strange experiences, robbed of sight, thrust into intense heat and forced to function without having much of a clue of what surrounded me.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Bookend Tucson
I’m 25 and Mike Ness is 42. I’m writing my way through several phases of a quarter-life crisis, he’s rocking his way through a mid-life one. I’m standing on the fringes, a good way back of the pit, nodding my head, while he’s at the center of it all, creating a frenzy and a sing-along, providing a couple thousand folks with a hell of a good time.
And we’re both a good bit removed from our last encounter.
I’d been in Tucson just a week, an 18-year-old college freshman, clueless but eager to soak it all up. I was a week removed from the only home I’d ever known, thrust into dorm life, with beautiful girls everywhere and absolute freedom. I was in a new place, a hoard of new friends already, and on Friday night, I was headed to see Social Distortion play, the first concert I’d even seen that didn’t involve two hours of driving.
Mike Ness was riding high, having turned years of recklessness into White Light, White Heat, White Trash, a thrashing good time of an album. He was hard-core as ever, threatening to beat some guy’s ass who tried spitting on the stage.
I was on one side of the cage in the (thankfully) all-ages club. There was a big group of friends there, mostly punkers from the old hometown scene, emerging occasionally from the pit, sweat-soaked wife-beaters clinging tight. Two pals thought to get the Rebel Waltz tattooed on their right arms after the show.
One of the pals joined me at the show last week, nearly eight years after the first time I’d seen Social Distortion.
Social Distortion has long been on the periphery of my favorite bands, a punk rock outpost for an otherwise country-folk centered music fan. At the best their songs are tight, anthematic rockers, sewn with rough tales of hard living and failure. On stage Mike Ness sells it all perfectly, his persona of hardened punk godfather easily believable as he sketches out in stage talk the places where his songs can’t go. What sounds at times like nostalgia is simply background information. Talk of hard drinking in a parking lot 20 years ago isn’t bragging or proof he belongs there; it builds energy on the way to the chorus: “Story of my life.”
And so goes the shows, so goes Mike Ness, and so goes his audience.
There was Story of My Life and there was Story of My Life, and eight years in between. I think we’re both better off for it.
And we’re both a good bit removed from our last encounter.
I’d been in Tucson just a week, an 18-year-old college freshman, clueless but eager to soak it all up. I was a week removed from the only home I’d ever known, thrust into dorm life, with beautiful girls everywhere and absolute freedom. I was in a new place, a hoard of new friends already, and on Friday night, I was headed to see Social Distortion play, the first concert I’d even seen that didn’t involve two hours of driving.
Mike Ness was riding high, having turned years of recklessness into White Light, White Heat, White Trash, a thrashing good time of an album. He was hard-core as ever, threatening to beat some guy’s ass who tried spitting on the stage.
I was on one side of the cage in the (thankfully) all-ages club. There was a big group of friends there, mostly punkers from the old hometown scene, emerging occasionally from the pit, sweat-soaked wife-beaters clinging tight. Two pals thought to get the Rebel Waltz tattooed on their right arms after the show.
One of the pals joined me at the show last week, nearly eight years after the first time I’d seen Social Distortion.
Social Distortion has long been on the periphery of my favorite bands, a punk rock outpost for an otherwise country-folk centered music fan. At the best their songs are tight, anthematic rockers, sewn with rough tales of hard living and failure. On stage Mike Ness sells it all perfectly, his persona of hardened punk godfather easily believable as he sketches out in stage talk the places where his songs can’t go. What sounds at times like nostalgia is simply background information. Talk of hard drinking in a parking lot 20 years ago isn’t bragging or proof he belongs there; it builds energy on the way to the chorus: “Story of my life.”
And so goes the shows, so goes Mike Ness, and so goes his audience.
There was Story of My Life and there was Story of My Life, and eight years in between. I think we’re both better off for it.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Lo Siento
Five weeks is far too long a hiatus for the faithful readers of Catfish Vegas presents... and the staff deeply apologizes. We'll return with regularity and spare the readership from having to modify old folk songs in calling for posting.
That said, there's still the problem of not having a topic, but rambling has never stopped us before.
Ah, the television has relinquished a topic, and right in time.
It's selection Sunday, with teams looked up and down and slapped with a label predicting their likelihood of succeeding in a tournament. Our favorite sons are deemed to be the third best in their particular field of 16. And I don't want to talk about the game yesterday that stuck the 'Cats with such a "low" seed.
All I can say is I'm damn ready for some frantic hoops action.
That, and I'm going to sit on bleachers (or grass) in the sun Thursday, with a beer and a bratwurst and watch Major League baseball players tune up for the coming summer-long battle for a World Series.
This is the best time of the year for sports, with basketball coming to a close and baseball starting. I love the convergence of a new season's hope for one sport and the exciting playoff atmosphere of another. It's the inverse of October/November, when the Series heats up about the same time Midnight Madness kicks off the NCAA season.
Whether it's the first pitch coinciding with triumphant hoopsters hoisting a trophy or the first warm-up dunk colliding with a late-inning homer, the excitement draws me in. Watching one group of athletes open a season full of promise while another group closes out a season is incredible.
That said, there's still the problem of not having a topic, but rambling has never stopped us before.
Ah, the television has relinquished a topic, and right in time.
It's selection Sunday, with teams looked up and down and slapped with a label predicting their likelihood of succeeding in a tournament. Our favorite sons are deemed to be the third best in their particular field of 16. And I don't want to talk about the game yesterday that stuck the 'Cats with such a "low" seed.
All I can say is I'm damn ready for some frantic hoops action.
That, and I'm going to sit on bleachers (or grass) in the sun Thursday, with a beer and a bratwurst and watch Major League baseball players tune up for the coming summer-long battle for a World Series.
This is the best time of the year for sports, with basketball coming to a close and baseball starting. I love the convergence of a new season's hope for one sport and the exciting playoff atmosphere of another. It's the inverse of October/November, when the Series heats up about the same time Midnight Madness kicks off the NCAA season.
Whether it's the first pitch coinciding with triumphant hoopsters hoisting a trophy or the first warm-up dunk colliding with a late-inning homer, the excitement draws me in. Watching one group of athletes open a season full of promise while another group closes out a season is incredible.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Catchin’ up
Blogging very little as of late, but hey, I’ve been busy.
The big news is a promotion. I’m enormously excited and perhaps the only down side is the realization that with work-induced elation, I’ve taken another scary step toward full and complete adultness.
Wednesday night was a Luna show at Congress. Phenomenal. I know very little of the band, save one song somebody threw onto a mix tape for me years ago. But the urgency of a farewell tour and the lack of other good touring shows lately drew me in. Once again, damn.
Luna is in many ways indescribable - simple descriptions like mellow to mid-tempo indie rock just don’t come close. The two guitarists and the bass player all trade off with leads and the tunes are these ever-shifting collaborations that really hit home. Early off I hung toward the back, but toward probably the latter third of the show, the floor opened up enough to mosey through and I joined Freaktown right up at the stage. Glad I did, ‘cause only then did I get to really see the blend of energy and precision the band played with.
The songs were all great, and especially in the encore (both encores!), the band was wild, loose and passionate. You could just tell they’re putting all they have into every show, knowing that it’s all coming to an end and wanting that end to be the band’s highest peak.
Dean Wareham is a unique songwriter, merging bittersweet, mysterious lyrics with music that brings soaring guitar leads.
And Britta Phillips is abolutely gorgeous.
I urgently need to get more Luna albums. I’ve thrown Bewitched on a half dozen times since the show.
It’s a strange bittersweet feeling to finally catch onto a band at the end of their run. I felt the same way getting into Warren Zevon when he was already diagnosed with terminal cancer. I never caught a Zevon show (but did see Dylan play Accidentally Like a Martyr and Lawyers, Guns and Money), and I’m damn glad I did get to see Luna. That, and I’m damn glad they’re not all dying.
Regardless, never have I been so impressed with seeing a band I knew so little about. That’s probably a top-10 all-time show.
Rocked out with a few folks on the porch last night and then woke up early (yes, 11 a.m. is in fact early) to watch the Wildcats pound the shit out of Stanford. There’s nothing like an absolute, thorough demolishing to set the tone for a day. I’ll go right out and say it: Salim and Channing are the best senior duo in the country, the perfect inside-out combination and fiery, hungry competitors. Even after some terrible missteps, there’s reason to feel real strong about this team heading into March. And I’ll get one more chance to see them, having just picked up tickets for the Tempe game, me and Stu’s Christmas gift to Gramps.
And in the ever-lasting saga of Truth being quite Stranger than Fiction, here are some of today’s headlines:
Linguist unearths a new language
Police hit pay dirt: 3.6 million nickels
Woman sues after girls try to deliver cookies to her door
The big news is a promotion. I’m enormously excited and perhaps the only down side is the realization that with work-induced elation, I’ve taken another scary step toward full and complete adultness.
Wednesday night was a Luna show at Congress. Phenomenal. I know very little of the band, save one song somebody threw onto a mix tape for me years ago. But the urgency of a farewell tour and the lack of other good touring shows lately drew me in. Once again, damn.
Luna is in many ways indescribable - simple descriptions like mellow to mid-tempo indie rock just don’t come close. The two guitarists and the bass player all trade off with leads and the tunes are these ever-shifting collaborations that really hit home. Early off I hung toward the back, but toward probably the latter third of the show, the floor opened up enough to mosey through and I joined Freaktown right up at the stage. Glad I did, ‘cause only then did I get to really see the blend of energy and precision the band played with.
The songs were all great, and especially in the encore (both encores!), the band was wild, loose and passionate. You could just tell they’re putting all they have into every show, knowing that it’s all coming to an end and wanting that end to be the band’s highest peak.
Dean Wareham is a unique songwriter, merging bittersweet, mysterious lyrics with music that brings soaring guitar leads.
And Britta Phillips is abolutely gorgeous.
I urgently need to get more Luna albums. I’ve thrown Bewitched on a half dozen times since the show.
It’s a strange bittersweet feeling to finally catch onto a band at the end of their run. I felt the same way getting into Warren Zevon when he was already diagnosed with terminal cancer. I never caught a Zevon show (but did see Dylan play Accidentally Like a Martyr and Lawyers, Guns and Money), and I’m damn glad I did get to see Luna. That, and I’m damn glad they’re not all dying.
Regardless, never have I been so impressed with seeing a band I knew so little about. That’s probably a top-10 all-time show.
Rocked out with a few folks on the porch last night and then woke up early (yes, 11 a.m. is in fact early) to watch the Wildcats pound the shit out of Stanford. There’s nothing like an absolute, thorough demolishing to set the tone for a day. I’ll go right out and say it: Salim and Channing are the best senior duo in the country, the perfect inside-out combination and fiery, hungry competitors. Even after some terrible missteps, there’s reason to feel real strong about this team heading into March. And I’ll get one more chance to see them, having just picked up tickets for the Tempe game, me and Stu’s Christmas gift to Gramps.
And in the ever-lasting saga of Truth being quite Stranger than Fiction, here are some of today’s headlines:
Linguist unearths a new language
Police hit pay dirt: 3.6 million nickels
Woman sues after girls try to deliver cookies to her door
Friday, January 28, 2005
January
January is a long month.
The winter slows everything and whether it’s sniffles or something severe, everybody’s health stumbles a bit.
I can’t hide in books and movies, as much as I’ve tried. There needs to be friends; there needs to be the General and Freaktown.
There’s basketball, and football playoffs, but they’re frantic, fleeting matches. There’s not the steady march of summer’s sentinel, the great blue-sky game of baseball.
Even in the great desert Southwest, it’s hard to barbeque.
I’ve been writing, and dreaming. I’ve been drinking more tea than coffee, more whiskey than beer.
December’s flow of out-of-state pals has dried up. And what’s more, since I’ve seen ‘em all so recently, I ain’t got much to say, so there’s little phone or email communication.
January is a long month, with little redemption.
I’ve been playing basketball, driving and throwing creative and wildly imaginative passes that sail out of bounds, or coming off a pick for a three-pointer. Then, after my legs die, I got nothing.
It’s a month of distraction and wheel-spinning. But none of it unpleasant. There’s no rush. Cabin fever is still a month off and here it’s short and unbelievably mild.
I’ll be relaxing under a beautiful blue sky with a bratwurst and monster beer soon, sunburned probably by the seventh inning, sometime the first week of March.
January is a long month, with little redemption, but also little pressure and few worries. It’s an even-keel month, mostly, but maybe leaning just a bit to stir-crazy.
I went to the mountain last week and walked my old favorite trail. I missed a crucial turn - it was either buried by snow or destroyed by fire. So I just turned back, really on a slow saunter more than a hike. The air was cold but full of life. The snow was old, but still six or eight inches deep in places and had turned crunchy. I tried walking like I did as a kid, careful not to break through that top crust, as if tip-toe turned me weightless. There was a girl and a dog, neither one mine.
January is a long month, with little redemption but even keel, a pause as much as a start.
The winter slows everything and whether it’s sniffles or something severe, everybody’s health stumbles a bit.
I can’t hide in books and movies, as much as I’ve tried. There needs to be friends; there needs to be the General and Freaktown.
There’s basketball, and football playoffs, but they’re frantic, fleeting matches. There’s not the steady march of summer’s sentinel, the great blue-sky game of baseball.
Even in the great desert Southwest, it’s hard to barbeque.
I’ve been writing, and dreaming. I’ve been drinking more tea than coffee, more whiskey than beer.
December’s flow of out-of-state pals has dried up. And what’s more, since I’ve seen ‘em all so recently, I ain’t got much to say, so there’s little phone or email communication.
January is a long month, with little redemption.
I’ve been playing basketball, driving and throwing creative and wildly imaginative passes that sail out of bounds, or coming off a pick for a three-pointer. Then, after my legs die, I got nothing.
It’s a month of distraction and wheel-spinning. But none of it unpleasant. There’s no rush. Cabin fever is still a month off and here it’s short and unbelievably mild.
I’ll be relaxing under a beautiful blue sky with a bratwurst and monster beer soon, sunburned probably by the seventh inning, sometime the first week of March.
January is a long month, with little redemption, but also little pressure and few worries. It’s an even-keel month, mostly, but maybe leaning just a bit to stir-crazy.
I went to the mountain last week and walked my old favorite trail. I missed a crucial turn - it was either buried by snow or destroyed by fire. So I just turned back, really on a slow saunter more than a hike. The air was cold but full of life. The snow was old, but still six or eight inches deep in places and had turned crunchy. I tried walking like I did as a kid, careful not to break through that top crust, as if tip-toe turned me weightless. There was a girl and a dog, neither one mine.
January is a long month, with little redemption but even keel, a pause as much as a start.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
National Arlo Day
I forgot to post this the other day, but what the hell:
It's the 10th of January, and I still ain't had no sleep...
It's the 10th of January, and I still ain't had no sleep...
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Catfish at the record shop
I started off blogging last year with an impulse to make my own statement on the music of 2003. And so you're stuck with me. To continue, here's what struck me in 2004, simply the best:
1. Modest Mouse - Good News For People Who Love Bad News
2. Wilco - A Ghost is Born
3. Green Day - American Idiot
4. Elliott Smith - From A Basement On The Hill
5. Arcade Fire - Funeral
6. Social Distortion - Sex, Love and Rock ‘n’ Roll
7. Steve Earle - The Revolution Starts Now
8. Walkmen - Bows + Arrows
9. Ted Leo/Pharmacists - Shaking the Sheets
10. Killers - Hot Fuss
11. Rilo Kiley - More Adventurous
12. Old 97s - Drag it Up
13. Giant Sand - Is All Over the Map
14. Loretta Lynn - Van Lear Rose
15. Interpol - Antics
16. U2- How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb
17. Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers - Americano!
and a tribute, EP and live collection:
18. Por Vida - A Tribute To The Songs Of Alejandro Escovedo
19. Calexico - Convict Pool
20. Bob Dylan - Live 1964, Bootleg Series 6: Concert at Philharmonic Hall
Not being rich or a professional music critic, it’s hard to get to some albums in good time even when there’s tremendous reason to do so. And so the honorable mentions, the would-probably-be-on-the-list-but-I-haven’t-heard-them set:
Drive-by Truckers - Dirty South, Neko Case - The Tigers Have Spoken, Iron & Wine - Our Endless Numbered Days, Fiery Furnaces - Blueberry Boat, A.C. Newman - The Slow Wonder, Brian Wilson - Smile, Streets - A Grand Don't Come For Free, Tom Waits - Real Gone, Flatlanders - Wheels of Fortune, TV on the Radio - Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes, Pinback - Summer in Abaddon, Mason Jennings - Use Your Voice, Marah -20,000 Streets Under the Sk, Dave Alvin - Ashgrove, Richard Buckner - Dents and Shells
Research help: The Onion and Rolling Stone.
Check out Catfish Vegas presents... review of 2003
1. Modest Mouse - Good News For People Who Love Bad News
2. Wilco - A Ghost is Born
3. Green Day - American Idiot
4. Elliott Smith - From A Basement On The Hill
5. Arcade Fire - Funeral
6. Social Distortion - Sex, Love and Rock ‘n’ Roll
7. Steve Earle - The Revolution Starts Now
8. Walkmen - Bows + Arrows
9. Ted Leo/Pharmacists - Shaking the Sheets
10. Killers - Hot Fuss
11. Rilo Kiley - More Adventurous
12. Old 97s - Drag it Up
13. Giant Sand - Is All Over the Map
14. Loretta Lynn - Van Lear Rose
15. Interpol - Antics
16. U2- How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb
17. Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers - Americano!
and a tribute, EP and live collection:
18. Por Vida - A Tribute To The Songs Of Alejandro Escovedo
19. Calexico - Convict Pool
20. Bob Dylan - Live 1964, Bootleg Series 6: Concert at Philharmonic Hall
Not being rich or a professional music critic, it’s hard to get to some albums in good time even when there’s tremendous reason to do so. And so the honorable mentions, the would-probably-be-on-the-list-but-I-haven’t-heard-them set:
Drive-by Truckers - Dirty South, Neko Case - The Tigers Have Spoken, Iron & Wine - Our Endless Numbered Days, Fiery Furnaces - Blueberry Boat, A.C. Newman - The Slow Wonder, Brian Wilson - Smile, Streets - A Grand Don't Come For Free, Tom Waits - Real Gone, Flatlanders - Wheels of Fortune, TV on the Radio - Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes, Pinback - Summer in Abaddon, Mason Jennings - Use Your Voice, Marah -20,000 Streets Under the Sk, Dave Alvin - Ashgrove, Richard Buckner - Dents and Shells
Research help: The Onion and Rolling Stone.
Check out Catfish Vegas presents... review of 2003
Catfish at the cinema
As promised, here's the my list for the top flicks I caught this year:
1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
2. Fahrenheit 9/11
3. Hero
4. Kill Bill 2
5. Shaun of the Dead
6. Incredibles
7. Dodgeball
8. Garden State
9. Door in the Floor
10. (tie) Spider-Man 2 and Shrek 2
Then I ‘spose there are the “honorable mentions,” or more precisely movies I didn’t catch but probably should (or should have). They could make a whole new list: Sideways, I Heart Huckabees, The Life Aquatic, Before Sunset, House of Flying Daggers, Closer, Ray, Dig, Aviator and Finding Neverland.
1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
2. Fahrenheit 9/11
3. Hero
4. Kill Bill 2
5. Shaun of the Dead
6. Incredibles
7. Dodgeball
8. Garden State
9. Door in the Floor
10. (tie) Spider-Man 2 and Shrek 2
Then I ‘spose there are the “honorable mentions,” or more precisely movies I didn’t catch but probably should (or should have). They could make a whole new list: Sideways, I Heart Huckabees, The Life Aquatic, Before Sunset, House of Flying Daggers, Closer, Ray, Dig, Aviator and Finding Neverland.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
The year in politics
I'm sick of what goes on behind the curtains of this here democratic process, but for a fun take on the previous year, check out The Carpetbagger Report's year in review.
Monday, January 03, 2005
One Year...
It was one year ago today that Sgt. Pepper taught the Catfish Vegas to blog.
And what a remarkable year it has been.
For starters, I have to say my detective fiction serial was pretty
impressive.
And remember November, when I blogged in nothing but haiku, execpt for
Sundays, when blogging was done in only sonnets?
And once I finally got a keyboard with the proper capabilities, I reproduced
my very first writings - kindergarten letters to Santa Claus - in sanscrit.
That screenplay collaboration with Charlie Kaufman was pretty cool too.
And who could forget that wicked back and forth with that son-of-a-bitch
Paul Wolfowitz? Oh, the things comment threads can do.
If only I'd have thought of that million-dollar trivia sweepstakes
earlier...
And weren't the Cambodian leaders nice to let me post the new constitution I
wrote for them, even before it was submitted to Parliament?
Gosh golly what a year...
Stay tuned all week as the staff here at Catfish Vegas presents... rolls out our picks for the best of 2004.
And what a remarkable year it has been.
For starters, I have to say my detective fiction serial was pretty
impressive.
And remember November, when I blogged in nothing but haiku, execpt for
Sundays, when blogging was done in only sonnets?
And once I finally got a keyboard with the proper capabilities, I reproduced
my very first writings - kindergarten letters to Santa Claus - in sanscrit.
That screenplay collaboration with Charlie Kaufman was pretty cool too.
And who could forget that wicked back and forth with that son-of-a-bitch
Paul Wolfowitz? Oh, the things comment threads can do.
If only I'd have thought of that million-dollar trivia sweepstakes
earlier...
And weren't the Cambodian leaders nice to let me post the new constitution I
wrote for them, even before it was submitted to Parliament?
Gosh golly what a year...
Stay tuned all week as the staff here at Catfish Vegas presents... rolls out our picks for the best of 2004.
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